II

  I’m looking for a new gig.

It’s not so much that I care about making money, I mean really, who the hell am I trying to impress anyway? But money is necessity. Cell phones, pay per view cable soft core porn, rolls of quarters for laundry and let’s face it, baloney doesn’t just appear magically out of nowhere. Not like History. Who as I believe I mentioned previously, is not exactly cheap to feed?  Did I mention what History’s diet consists of? We’ll get back to that. I’m not sure I can trust you yet.

    The woman on the phone tells me she is impressed with my resume which I know is a lie. The kid selling lemonade down the street for a buck a dixie cup wouldn’t be impressed with the crinkled sheet of paper baring the sorted and mostly made up misspelled words of my academic and professional career. However, she’s a liar too…so I’ve got that going for me. She tells me her name is Vivian and I immediacy want to call her Scarlet. She asks me if it’s convenient for me to come down this afternoon and meet with her.

I could tell her that in the afternoon History and I usually watch ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch.’ I could tell her that in the afternoon History and I usually take naps, me curled up on the bed, History curled up on whatever I happened to be wearing the day before and left heaped in a pile next to the bed. I should tell her that History hasn’t eaten in two days and that I really need to spend the afternoon preparing myself for this evening’s expedition. I probably should mention the fact that the only items of clothing left hanging in my closet that are even remotely clean are a scarf given to me by a complete stranger who I suspected for years I was in love with, an oversized white doctors coat that I used to wear with pride and now only on those rare Halloween occasions when I get invited to a party, ( Incidentally a super x-girlfriend of mine sewed a Doogie Howser patch onto it for effect), and a once grey t-shirt now immaculately stained with brownish red hair dye marks; one in particular that bears a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ. But then again, what stain nowadays doesn’t.

I could tell her all these things and I should tell her all these things, emphasizing the point that, ‘NO, it is in fact tremendously inconvenient for me to come down and meet with you this afternoon,’ however as the words juggle between my brain, tongue, lips and mouth I catch a fleeting glimpse of History out of the corner of my eye.

The things I can learn from History. History teaches me meaning. History teaches me evolution. History teaches me the ramifications of an arid and desolate checking and savings account.

‘Of course Vivian, it’s not an inconvenience at all. What time would you like me to be there?’

History doesn’t own a gun, or a sword. Or even a sling shot. He doesn’t bark or bite or claw or hiss or lecture me on how someone with my intellectual capabilities has the responsibility to share their wealth of gifts with the world. Like Einstein. Like Beethoven. Like Parker and Stone. All History needs do to remind me of my place in this world relationship is tunnel in and out of reality. Okay, there I said it. Now you know one of our little secrets. History’s somehow developed the capability to tunnel. Like some delightful little quantum nanoparticle.

Only he’s a cat.

And where he tunnels to is impossible for me to tell you. Sometimes, he’s strutting toward the refrigerator and he just up and vanishes, only to reappear moments, sometimes minutes later, as far away as the garden out back. I used to stress and then drink and then in an intoxicated stupor question my own ability to recognize what does and does not constitute reality. Then I would hear History’s sweet mesmerizing meow penetrating my haze from just outside the bedroom window. I used to ponder why he wouldn’t simple tunnel back in. I don’t ponder such things anymore. Truth be told, I don’t really believe History has any control over himself. I believe History’s fate may rest solely in the warm embrace of my own destiny.

 I hang up the phone and History rubs against my leg letting out a lioness purr. He’s hungry.

Tonight we hunt.