A short story complete with poem and music...for you.

I'm not sure what inspired this poem/short story. It was originally about eating cheezits in my pajamas and watching the Price is Right, but changed and it became a slightly autobiographical character piece but not. I guess it's what could've happened if my life hadn't unfolded the way it has. It's like one of those What If? comics Marvel used to do... By the way at the end of the post I linked some of the songs I mention in the poem, cause I like them.



The Cat Purred

1. Joe spent his midmorning
with his hand buried deep
in a box of stale crackers.
There was a special on Victorian Dishware
that lacked any steam punk allure
on PBS in the background while he
searched for the perfect song that would
improve his mood, station in life,
and personal hygiene.
Joe was out of coffee and only had
old herbal tea swiped from the
Jiffy Lube waiting room the last time
his car had been running well enough
to bother with an oil change.
The fridge was near empty after
a month of unemployment, three weeks
of being single, and two weeks after
begging his dad 2000 miles away for
a few bucks which promptly spent on ramen
which he ate dry and a box of red wine,
that the cat had rapidly knocked off the
counter.
2. Joe liked the aesthetic of the
red wine drying on the 1976 cream colored linoleum,
it made him sing that one NOFX song,
so he salvaged what he could,
and poured it into an pasta sauce jar, he had
cleaned out to use as a pint glass.
Joe pound the dregs of the wine while watching grunge
slacker comedies from the mid nineties.
He hadn’t been in his bedroom for days
and his bed for even longer.
Joe needed to purge and cleanse.
He needed to be saved.
He knew his life needed an enema,
a clean shave and a mopped floor.
3. The Victorian Special gave way to
something about bears in the Red Woods.
Joe switched the idiot box to the Price is Right.
He never remembered seeing it on TV when life
was good. It only came on when life was shit.
As a child, when he was sick.
In college on days when he began
to doubt the liberal arts.
Now, every day for a month.
There was something sickly tortuous
to seeing undeserving assholes,
excitedly yell, “1 dollar!” to win
a trip to Mexico and a patio set,
all brought to you by the anti-depressant
of the moment, that each contestant was
hopped up on. Joe began to slip away,
under a knit blanket his mom had sent him
years ago, in a better time.
4. The Cat had seen enough and was sick of eating the stockpiles
of free sample treats stashed in the cabinet,
so it swatted the keyboard off of the coffee table and jumped,
claws out on Joe’s beer padded belly.
“What the fuck?” yelled Joe, more to a God
that wasn’t there than to the Cat which sat
four feet away innocently cleaning itself.
At least the Cat was his.
It never went near Her except
to occasionally bite her stupid Birkenstock toes.
Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign,
but She had liked his short stories, poetry,
and facial hair. She had introduced him to
her friends. He was new in town and
a beautiful woman with a flower tattoo
buying him a beer ended four years later.
His friends were hers, but the Cat and the
apartment were his.
5. Joe’s stomach trickled blood where the Cat
had landed. It now sat eyeing him from
its empty bowl.
He never found the motivating song
and couldn’t give a shit about his own diet,
but would never let the Cat suffer.
Joe dressed himself from the floor –
old jeans and a Bosstones hoodie he got in high school-
He picked up his knock-off ipod, headphones,
and a huge box of crap she had convinced him he needed.
He figured that he could turn the box into beer money.
Joe grabbed his keys and hoped Jean, his Gold Toranado,
named after the hero of Victor Hugo’s Les Mis,
would start.
6. Joe had always said he named his skeezy old man
car Jean because he could swear at and kick a guy named Jean.
He couldn’t bring himself to unload as efficiently at a car
with a female persona.
The old, badly maintained engine started on the third try.
The front end of the car had been MacGuyvered in high school
by a friend’s dad. Joe didn’t know everything that was holding
up the bumper but knew it involved duct tape and part of
a screen door.
An old mix tape started up immediately at full blast,
where he had last left the volume,
where he always left the volume. Eleven.
Joe had made the tape in his “Old Soul”
phase in college. He was reading too much
Russian Lit and Springsteen, Cash, Woody Guthrie,
Neil Young, and Tom Waits made the perfect soundtrack
These artist led to the discovery of whiskey and cigars, and
Joe had never looked back. As Joe pulled out of his parking spot,
Bruce drowned out, Jean’s creeks and moans, speaking directly to Joe.
“Everything dies, baby, and that’s a fact.”
7. “Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.”
Joe’s first stop was the pawn shop.
He had unemployment but could use the cash to blow.
The box he hefted from the trunk contained the half of his wardrobe
that featured buttons, a bunch of DVDs, old records,
hard cover books, stupid souvenirs She had made him buy
on their road trips, and her dumb statue of St. Francis.
“Fuck St. Francis.” What had Harry Potter, Steven King,
or his dad’s old records done for him lately. She
had been the pack rat who insisted on the dvd collection
and dress shirts.
“$250 for the lot,” said the intense bearded man behind the counter.
Joe had been looking for twenty but it turned out
two of the records were rare, and there was a market
for shitty knickknacks.
Joe took the cash with no intention of buying
any of it back. Jean started up immediately,
and Joe sped away with a lighter heart and heavier wallet.
8. At the shopping center down the street from the
pawn shop was capitalism’s perfect line up:
a smoke shop, a grocery store, a liquor store, a comic book store,
and a tattoo parlor.
Joe parked and went into them in order.
First, he bought the most Clint Eastwood cigar he could find,
then some fancy organic cat food and some real Irish whiskey.
In the comic book store he bought Frank Miller’s
Wolverine and Classic Cable. Nothing deep, just badassery
and nostalgia. Joe contemplated for a bit before going into
the tattoo parlor. His last tattoo was a start
on the back of his neck. Underneath it were written the words,
“Burn Forever”
She had gotten the same tattoo to celebrate their engagement,
a year ago nearly to the day. Joe had proposed on the summer solstice
because She had loved astrology.
Now it was early May, and Joe didn’t like the stars any more.
9. Joe asked the Artist about his neck,
almost having to yell to be heard over the Social Distortion
which was cranked drowning out the needles.
The Artist was a huge man, covered in ink,
pushing 60 years old to Joe’s best guess with a face
that betrayed not having slept in four decades.
“Nothing burns forever. Don’t worry about it.
About half my body represents a regret, so keep
building on them. I’m a portrait of a timeline
of shit. Woodstock to nearly collecting Social Security.
I ain’t here to cover your goddamn heartache.
That’s what time and whiskey are for.”
10. Joe didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what he had
wanted coming in but with the Artist’s words, the neck
tattoo went from mistake to a story. It became one of life’s
battle scars.
11. After ten minutes of pretending to look at the flash on the wall,
Joe knew what he wanted,
“Inspiration. I want something I can’t deny, I can’t turn away from.
I gotta fucking do something with these.” Joe waved his hands in
the air franticly. “I want Wolverine’s claw slots on my knuckles and ink
cartridges in the middle.” The Artist chuckled at Joe’s sudden
recently-uncharacteristic outburst and began to sketch out a design.
12. Somewhere, Joe had read, or seen, or heard, that you can tell a lot about a man
by his hands. His hands would be a message,
He would be a superhero and a story teller. Superman and Shakespeare.
There was time to be manicured and wear fancy clothes later.
After an hour, the Artist had finished his work, wrapped Joe’s hands, and took his
credit card payment.
The Artist wished Joe luck and gave him some advice he had been given
years before, maybe on a train somewhere, or maybe at a bar.
“Never turn down a drink or a story.”
The words were written in forty year old ink across the Artist’s broad
collar bone.
13. Joe walked back to Jean, but he wouldn’t start.
Turns out this had been Jean’s last ride.
That old tape would be forever stuck on Neil Young,
Better to Burn out than to fade away…
Joe kicked the door shut hard enough to leave dent.
He’d donate it the Women’s Shelter tomorrow. For now,
Joe lit a cigar, grabbed his backpack and hoisted the cat food
and started the three mile hike home cranking Someday I Suppose.
14. Joe spent his mid-evening sitting
in front of his apartment with a bottle,
a note book, and a comic enjoying
the fading twilight.
The Cat was stretch out on his lap.
He thought nothing could beat his solitude
until his newest neighbor walked by in scrubs,
with her head phones blasting the Toasters.
“Want a drink?” he shouted impulsively.
She awkwardly and abruptly stopped,
“Yes, yes I fucking do, you wouldn’t believe
the shit that happened today.”
Joe hand her the bottle and she tilted it back
like it was something she’d done before.
“New ink?” she asked as she reached out to
pet the Cat…
15. The Cat purred.

End?

If anybody read the whole thing thanks and maybe I'm sorry...

Music:
NOFX:


Bruce Springsteen:


Neil Young:


Bosstones:


Toasters: