There’s a long pause, and finally, my neighbor joins me.
5
Abbott
Nothing happened when I told him my last name.
I wait for more of a reaction, but it never comes.
Admittedly, I may be hypersensitive to it. Or maybe you’re sheltered, living in a bubble, and only think everyone knows you—or cares—because that’s who you surround yourself with.
I watch as my neighbor readjusts himself on the couch before shoving more food into his face, resting his ass on my soft cushions, and spreading his legs comfortably.
Brooks.
Bennett.
What a doozy of a name—and here I thought mine was hoity-toity.
He’s dressed casually in mesh basketball pants and a hoodie, looking cozy and relaxed in my apartment. Looking like he belongs in my living room.
Not long after that firm ass of his hits the couch and he raises his plate, forking the breakfast I’ve served him, Desdemona pounces like the food enthusiast she is, like I knew the dang cat would. She has no manners and even less patience.
My cat loves food, eggs in particular. And while she might not be keen on strangers or new people, she’s a slut for snacks.
I watch, entertained, as my neighbor reacts to the cat, the entire scene playing out in slow motion, more beautifully than I could have scripted it.
Brooks’ display is an Oscar-winning performance.
“Holy shit! Holy fuck! I’m under attack, I’m under attack!” Brooks screeches from the depths of his soul. “Get it off!”
It literally sounds like he’s getting attacked in a pool of sharks and can’t climb out of the water.
Wow.
I’ve never heard a man scream like a girl before. Well, once, my twin brother Stuart saw a mouse run through the living room of our lake cottage when we were young. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and had an asthma attack, but we were twelve, hadn’t hit puberty yet, and had never seen a live mouse in person before.
The scream emitting from Brooks’ throat is one of sheer terror, and I’m shocked a puddle of urine isn’t soaking the cushions of my brand-new couch. He needs to take a chill pill.
“Help!”
I yawn. “You’re fine.”
He squeals, “How can you say that?” and that’s when I begin to laugh. “How?!”
He’s serious.
Tears stream from the corners of my eyes, streak down my cheeks, and Lord, I know I shouldn’t be laughing—because he’s freaking out—but there’s no stopping it now. “Shhh, calm down. Calm down.” I’m sputtering with a snort, tears, and also some spit, doing my best to soothe him. “You’re scaring her.”
My poor little boo-baby is crouched next to Brooks, torn between her want of a treat and the urge to escape into her kitty house.
“I’m scaring her? I. Scared her. She scared me! What the fuck, Abbott—whose side are you on?”
My eyes fly back to the cat.
Yup, Desi definitely looks terrified—not enough to jump down from his lap, but enough that her ears are pulled back into a defensive position.
I keep laughing at him. He’s ludicrous. “Sides? What are you, five? It’s a cat, not a person trying to compete with you. Dear Lord, get a grip.”
Desdemona’s ears slowly slide back into their normal position as I sweet-talk her, waving a little piece of egg in her direction.
Her nose twitches curiously. One tiny paw goes back onto Brooks’ forearm and he bristles. Glares.
“This cat isn’t normal!”
“Neither is your yelling about it. Let her love you.”
Voice having risen four octaves, Brooks has his arms and plate extended over his head like a convict waiting for a pat down from the police, his eyes glued to the animal creeping back onto his lap, her pink nose sniffing toward the plate he’s holding hostage.
“No. Bad pussy.” He holds it higher until Desdemona is forced to retreat from her looting. The savage, greedy little thing. “Bad.”
My kitty gives him a pitiful little mew. Pats at his abs with her petite white paw, beseeching.
“No,” Brooks tells her again.
“You know, cats aren’t like dogs. She doesn’t know any commands.”
Trust me, I tried teaching her how to roll over and play dead the first few months I got her, but she wasn’t having it. Occasionally she’ll come running when I call out her name, but mostly she gives me the big green weenie.
Desi puts her face on his lap, deciding to wait him out.
She’s no fool, probably knows he’s afraid and isn’t going to budge from that spot.
Animals can smell fear.
“Awww, look at her—she likes you.”
Brooks, too petrified to move even an inch, is stiff as stone.