He stands at the entrance to his apartment as I walk up the stairs. His face is between the door and the post, as if it is stuck in a picture frame. He says hi and pulls the door open to greet me. The knob is missing. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a cut-up Jack Daniel's T-shirt with a red bandanna tied on his head. I remember his publicist telling me he is bald underneath.
I follow him across the room. His apartment is just one room. A long one. The bed is at the other end, underneath the window, which faces south but is too coated in white dirt to let much sunlight in. All over the walls are Playboy centerfolds and pictures of motorcycles and of various heavy metal acts even a poster of his band. To the side of the bed are a TV and VCR, and the tape in the player says "Sex Kitten." On the other side of the bed are a stereo and some records and tapes, mostly groups I haven't heard of. He falls on the bed as soon as he approaches it, which is understandable since there is no other furniture in the whole place. I'm so tired, he says. I guess that is an explanation. He clings to his pillow and squeezes the covers between his legs like a little baby. I keep wondering if he ever takes the do-rag off.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I am wearing a long, straight blue cotton skirt, a sleeveless black shirt and black suede boots. I rarely look so conservative. All I can think to do is sit there and say, Great place. I notice a Polaroid of a little white cat on the mantle over the bed.
I ask, How is your cat? And he says, Bad question. He's still in the hospital.
I ask, How is your bike? Another bad question, he tells me. It's still in the shop. It needs $700 worth of repairs.
Oh, I say.
Listen, I volunteer, I can see you're tired, so I can just leave. We can do this some other time.
No, he says. His voice is muffled. Please stay. His hand clasps onto the empty side of the bed beside him. He pats it the way I pat my futon when I want the cat to come curl up with me.
Lie down, he commands.
A few days before, we are on the phone making plans. I suggest we have a drink sometime, and he says maybe Monday or Tuesday, and then we are talking about our cats. He tells me that Alby is in the Animal Medical Center because while he was on the road in Asia, the cat ate some telephone wire and got dehydrated. Alby was alone in the apartment, although people came by to feed him, but the cat ate the phone cord in protest. It would cost Alex $600 to get Alby out of the hospital, and he didn't have the money to do it. So he misses the cat.
He's just like me, Alex says of Alby. He gets self-destructive when he's angry.
Yes, I say, it sounds that way.
I feel sorry for Alex. It seems like he really loves the little animal, and I think a person like him should not be deprived of the one thing he might really care about. I feel bad for Alby because he is being deprived of the person who loves him. And then I think, if the cat got into such bad condition living with Alex, maybe he is better off at the hospital.
Don't you find it strange that almost all we've been talking about for the last half-hour are our cats? I ask.
No. Alex doesn't think so at all. He says, Compared to most people I know, my cat is really cool.
Playboy centerfolds and pictures of motorcycles and of various heavy metal acts even a poster of his band. To the side of the bed are a TV and VCR, and the tape in the player says "Sex Kitten." On the other side of the bed are a stereo and some records and tapes, mostly groups I haven't heard of. He falls on the bed as soon as he approaches it, which is understandable since there is no other furniture in the whole place. I'm so tired, he says. I guess that is an explanation. He clings to his pillow and squeezes the covers between his legs like a little baby. I keep wondering if he ever takes the do-rag off.
the hospital, and he didn't have the money to do it. So he misses the cat.
