Chapter 8

8

Jamie moved in on September 21st, 1982. For some asinine reason she brought her cat along with her. Squat, fat and black, it went by its given name, Pinetree, but I always referred to it as Meatball. He, she, it, not that I ever noticed, would wake me each morning by scratching and mercilessly crying at my bedroom door. If Jamie had already left for the day I'd hurl the nearest bedside object at it, hoping to shut the beast up for good. If Jamie was still lying next to me I'd simply ask:

"Would you mind too terribly if I murdered Meatball?"

She'd look at me with those gorgeous brown eyes of hers and reply, "Richard, if you're referring to Pinetree then yes, I would mind."

Cats are an unfortunate waste of time. Much like a soon to be aborted relationship, they take and they take, but do they ever give back? Feed me, water me, and when you get a minute, clean up my shit from that plastic box of neon colored sand. But will I come when you call? No. Go fuck yourself. Can you take me on walks? No. Go fuck yourself. Will I cry at your door at 8:00 A.M. for no reason at all? Yes. Now go fuck yourself. So it went, month after month, my hate-hate relationship with Meatball. I fantasized about its death; wondering when my patience would snap and I'd place my rifle against its fat little skull.

My days were spent hating Meatball while my nights were spent growing bored with Jamie. She was great in small doses, but after prolonged use, like a bag of shitty coke, she began to give me migraines.

I don't want to blame it on her age. I've been with women younger than her who didn't stale like a box of doughnuts. I believe the problem stems from one of life's true constants: Never sleep with someone who is more enamored with you than you are with them.

We began, over time, to bruise like a basket of fruit. Yet, in comparing our relationship to apples and oranges, we must assume that at one point, Jamie and I were perfectly ripened.

The day she moved in was a breath of fresh air. Suddenly my mountain hideaway was penetrated, the breech of personal space well received. Windows were suddenly opened, the breeze blowing through the house, lifting my spirits immensely. I had been so consumed by work, tinkering, plotting and devising my written word that I had let the place delve into shambles. I was rarely leaving my typewriter, stepping from my dump of an office once or twice a day to piss, shit and eat. Bottles of vodka, packs of cigarettes and half written pages not worthy of completion lay scattered on the floor, reminding me constantly of characters and story ideas lost among my sea of addiction.

Jamie showed up, her meager belongings in hand, close to the end of that 21st day. Sedated by drink and completed ambition, I opened my door and invited her to stay. She explained her circumstance. Mike, finding a poem I had written for her, finally connected the dots as to why he was spending so many nights alone.

"He hit me," she explained, although it was a lie brought upon by desperation. A fear that I would reject her intrusion without hesitation.

"I need a place to stay, Richard. I need a place where the wind won't blow it all away."

As she took off her clothes and readied for bed, she opened the windows and let the breeze blow through her hair.