The Benjamin Report

Although the day wasn’t an amusing one–besides the rain–it was anything anyone could’ve ever wanted a day to be. So inconspicuous I couldn’t be bothered to describe it, I can’t even remember it. I do remember that evening though, a peculiar Friday perhaps for the dullest reasons. Every Friday evening I eat microwaved fish sticks with tartar sauce and kettle chips in my living room. Dinner I would spread out on a TV tray with a glass of wine–my delicacy–and I’d watch a movie (Friday’s I’d watch a comedy). This particular evening’s event was unsettling; the film wasn’t all that funny and the fish tasted substandard (an impressive feat considering the culturally specified standard for microwave fish is notoriously low). I think it was this rather drab ending to the whole affair of the day that allows it to stick with peculiarity to my memory.

There was also a Tuesday, and I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem with Tuesdays–at least not to which I could recall. Tuesday evenings I go to Panera Bread. (If curiosity demands it: Saturday was an evening at home with pizza–ordered from Domino’s by phone–and an action-adventure film; Sunday was an early evening out to a reasonably priced restaurant randomly selected from a pool of five possibilities, then to a theater flick; Monday was macaroni and cheese, Dr. Pepper, and either science fiction or one of five television shows I happened to be interested in.) But Tuesday, Tuesday evenings I go to Panera Bread.

I don’t really like Panera Bread. I don’t mind it, though. Panera Bread is the choice for Tuesday evenings because it is the only restaurant nearby that is arguably healthy and within my pay-range. So it is the restaurant I go to on Tuesday evenings. I don’t often go out, so this is a nice rest for me from the typical day-to-day of living as any other young man in a semi-populous American city.

It wasn’t raining and the air wasn’t too cold nor too aggressive; in the dawning dusk of the evening the clouds became sparse enough to allow a pleasant pinkish hue to cozy up–providing a lovely canopy to my walk through town. I remember this for reasons I can’t really explain, perhaps it was due to a contrast for what would become the night’s most lasting impression.

The booth I usually occupy on these Tuesday evenings was taken by a young couple who seemed to be enjoying themselves. As I am not one to bothers, I sat in another booth an appropriate distance away. Unfortunately this would become the closest occupied booth by the entryway; now I would play audience to all the entrants and on more than one occasion could I expect some awkward eye-contact to ensue (and by habit I’d look away, and by habit I’d think they’d think I was a lonely creep cleaving them out in my mind and piecing them back up in tactless ways; I always always always worry over this). An old and smelly man approached me at this booth shortly after I began to dine on my sandwich and soup. He asked that I buy him some food. I didn’t want to, I didn’t have any money, I don’t think I should have to explain this. I chose not to acknowledge him and to go on eating as if he wasn’t there; a common strategy that had yet to fail in securing me comfort. In this situation though, it was not easy for me to do as the man did smell very bad. The smell of him was so potent it soured my sandwich the longer he stood before me repeating his request. And he wouldn’t leave. He’d stay, he’d stare, he’d ask and ask.

Eventually he shouted a profanity and was escorted out of the restaurant. Eyes gathered onto me and I found myself as an object for others. My food’s once generally decent flavor would not return, but I was determined to eat it to avoid the scorn of my newfound audience. And so, after piteously shoving it in my mouth and down my throat, I left the establishment with eyes cast down looking for nothing but cooled pavement until I reached my door. Another day lost. Another night spoiled.

The Wednesday after was a little better, though it did start with a hitch. My brother called. I do not talk with family. My brother usually respects this preference of mine. Unfortunately our mother passed away, a situation that forced his hand to break our separation. She was 97 with at least 6 years of shrivel brain, and now my brother and I are the only reaches of her left–us and her cat. And seeing how my brother had used his money keeping her alive the past 9 years, he argued that adopting her cat was the “least” I could do. To which I squeamishly agreed, as I could not find any counter-argument that would suffice.

His name was Leonard, originally it was Kafka but my mother changed it to Leonard after my step-father died. Leonard was my step-father’s name, and I suppose my mother wasn’t so easy to console. I didn’t like Leonard, so I again changed his name. Animals shouldn’t have human names. If an animal had a human name and you mentioned them in the company of others, the assumption would meander first to another human being before reaching the appropriate beast. So I named him Ashtray, after his most prominent smell. Though I do admit that Ashtray could also lead to confusion in the company of others (“Feeding Ashtray” might betray the thought that I am a smoker–I am not).

I inherited a cat tree, a litter box, and some kibble from my mother. Every morning I set out a bowl of food and a bowl of water for him. To say he liked it would be a guess. It’d be more apt to say he didn’t mind it. My apartment wasn’t big, but it also most certainly wasn’t small. And yet little Ashtray preferred to sit in only one place: the living room window sill. He would climb the cat tree only to access the window, and then he would sit there nearly the entire day.

I don’t understand that cat. He is always there, totally amused. I would leave for work in the morning and return in the afternoon and I would swear that he hadn’t moved an inch. I twice presented him with the opportunity to go outside, to even run away if he liked. He would stand before the doorway, look back to me like a confused imp, then turn around and mosey back to my apartment, back to his window. I have since recognized it as his window sill. His. His sill, his window.

I don’t talk to many people. I don’t really want to. I suppose one might describe me as introverted. Ashtray is the same way. We don’t talk much, though we get along just fine. He has his window, and I have my couch. He has his birds, passersby, his sun and rain; I have my television. We sit together while apart in mutual contentment. I would not describe him as my pet, rather, he is my roommate. A perfect roommate if there ever was such a thing.

Then, a somewhat interesting change occurred in our perfect dynamic. It was a Friday evening–a good one as I recall–I finished my fish sticks (they were perfectly delectable, I should add) and set away my dining accoutrements. Upon my return to the couch, Ashtray leapt to the floor from his window and contorted his body into a yawning stretch, then hopped onto my lap, curled into a ball of fluff, and proceeded to sleep. This was the first time in years that someone had touched me.

I was astounded, but I didn’t think too much of it. I didn’t want to, though I did appreciate this singular newfound intimacy. After the movie came to a close, I cleaned my dishes and prepared for bed. Ashtray would join me later: on the bed–also a first. He curled up as he did before and slept at my knees. I began to feel a shade of something unfamiliar. Something new, perhaps. And I began to worry.

The days would pass now with minor alterations, deviating from the perfect schedule I used to maintain. In the morning, I’d cook my eggs scrambled and eat them with a drizzle of ketchup and a glass of cranberry juice. I’d fill Ashtray’s bowl with his preferred kibble and check his water fountain. He’d come along soon enough, innocent as a pastor, and eat his meal, scratch at his post, then depart for his window. Though in the time since, he has grown into a more ambitious scoundrel. Now I can expect an audience with my breakfast. I never worried before that he would make an attempt at human food, but that was a before I am beginning to lose.

Eventually Ashtray’s naturalization into the apartment would settle along with my own comfortable drudgery. My anxiety over his arrival and his own seemingly peculiar ways would settle as well. And I could return to my laconic days of not expecting much more than nothing every morning and falling asleep perfectly content every night.

To say things were just as simple as they were before might be correct. Though there was a new presence in my life that so delicately rose my standards to a new, buzzing equilibrium of happiness. And day-in and day-out I forgot about most boredoms, most sadnesses, illnesses, human foibles, death, and even embarrassment. I do not know if Ashtray had anything to do with this. This being a revelation one can only understand when looking back. Emotions–such silly things–tend to retreat once revealed.

Then a day arrived I somehow could not expect. When Ashtray wasn’t in bed with me in the morning. When he wasn’t at his window, nor napping on my couch. When there wasn’t any fur to shake off my pajamas, or the plucking sound of claw on carpet I’d become so comfortable with. And when I tried to reassure myself, I’d be ambushed by my nerves when I ate my breakfast in silence and isolation. I had my first uncomfortable thought. I do not know where he went.

The next day, his cat tree disappeared. The day after his litter box, and so on and so on, day after day, toy after bowl after treats and all manner of kitty things. And every memory of my humble companion solidified as a weight in my brain.

I would imagine soon my own food to disappear along with my bed and all other manner of personal comfort. But no. They would not go. My things would not leave me, even as I’d mortgage my world for my cat’s return. What comfort could I find in these dull things anyway? Being alive and alone.

Alive, I suppose.

Yeah, alive.

I tried to make a “Missing Cat” flyer. I drew Ashtray as best as my memory could allow, but after I’d complete a drawing the whole thing would disappear just like all the other pictures I had of him. The fossil of my heart cracking to bits with each attempt.

I’d call local shelters, only for my mouth to refuse in uttering his name. Some ghost hidden inside of me was snatching it away. I wanted to scream it, make it known as loud and clear as I could, but my lungs would always collapse. On the other end of the line I could hear a sigh, I could hear their disappointment in me, their frustration and anger, their hatred of me. I apologized as much as I could, but no apology could return to them their time lost to my ranting sadness, no matter how sincere.

Sinking deeper, I decided to do what I promised myself I would never do, and I called my brother. I needed help, I realized most desperately, and there was simply no one I knew that had any more worth to offer except perhaps him.

He agreed to meet me at an IHOP Friday morning. It was a 33 minute bus ride from my apartment. The rain had stopped for the morning, but anchored the clouds to the street so heavy that anywhere I’d go I’d be wrapped by an invasive mist. My brother was unbothered, he always delighted in the rain (delighted in too many things, some might say, but the springtime allure most especially). I sat in the booth he had prepared and offered a short greeting.

“Nice to see you as well. Been far too long.”

“A few weeks isn’t much of a time.”

“Any time is too long a wait is what I meant. You said you had an issue?”

“I do.”

“What’s it about?”

I wanted to answer him, but even here I couldn’t make the name appear. “I can’t. Well. Um. It’s–you see, I’m having trouble articulating the problem.”

“Articulating the problem?”

“Every time I try.”

“I need you to know that whatever coldness you feel from your family isn’t real. I need you to know that even when it seems we are angry or frustrated with you, we are not. We are you family and we care about you and we love you.”

“Yeah, yes of course, yeah. Um, though, uh. So it’s–well, it’s every time I try to say what it is that I need to say, something stops me from saying it. And I don’t know what that something is, but it is there. I just. I want so much to say it. I don’t know how though. I don’t know.”

“I feel like it’s been ten years since I’ve sat and talked with you like this. Dad’s been gone, yeah, but you know mom still hopes that one day you’ll at least give her a call.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to tell you. Trying to tell anyone. Just can’t”

“Please, you’ll give her a call?”

“I love you, I do. I love her too, of course. Okay. But I love you like family. Thank you, truly. But I love you like family.”

My waffles came, then his pancakes. It was a lovely breakfast to ease the soreness of my heart. We joined in light conversation for the rest of the morning meal. When it was done, with the plates taken and the bill paid, we shook hands and left each other and I still felt no closer to satisfaction. I walked the distance home, alone but for the embrace of the fog, struggling to remember the name of who it was that had caused this most recent despair.

Am I that same person who went out to chain restaurants for meals? Who huddled by his TV set eating macaroni and cheese? Fish sticks and bags of chips and thawed green beans? Drinking cheap wine like a lazy romantic? Watching silly movies only to forget them the next day, whiling away the hours until I can see these same and not-so-same movies again that following afternoon?

I tend to sink into myself with each passing pattern of thought, fumbling off the path I wandered from the surface. And as depression would mount, I’d do absolutely anything to blank my mind to get out of it. When I was young, my mother would offer me a sip of her old fashioned and tell me a funny little story of her salad days, and so easily I could smile again. My father, always the sporting intellectual, would challenge me to a chess match and let me win; but oh was it a battle every time. And I’d watch cartoons with my brother, and we’d create our own characters and comic strips that never made any sense but we loved them just for being out of our heads. These memories now though, from this perspective of years passed on, only serve to make me sadder. A time no longer with me, no longer possible, and only alive in the caverns of my head while I walk in the solitude of the Earth’s misted tears. By the time I arrived at my door, I had yet to recognize another face beyond my brother’s receding to the back of my mind. The day was dreary, I had lost something important but that I could no longer recall, but I at least also forgot the sadness of it. Whenever I’m home, I at least have that. I have the forgetting of things easier. Sadness, discomfort, boredom, maybe happiness yes, but definitely anger and all its ugly ilk; and I am at home again.

Yes the walls are plain, my countertops a blasé vinyl, and all my utilities and entertainment are cheap mockeries. But home is home, and it is this home where I am at last able to be myself. I cooked a lovely loaf of meat and buttery potato mash from a thin cardboard set in my freezer. I put up my tray in my living room and enjoyed a years-old comedy film whose title just escapes me at the moment. I could go to sleep with a slight smirk remembering a silly line and chuckle until I yawn and moan in the dark. Then the morning will come and my days will go on as days often do: dull or delightful, but never so bad. And in the rain I can still manage a modest smile, because at least the snow has gone away.