Cat 2.5
Bugs began to visit me in the store. As if the universe had heard my plea, we were assigned to be scene partners for our next exercise. My apartment lacked the privacy necessary to dive into our work with any concentration, and Bugs, I discovered, lived on Staten Island, so Central Park became our rehearsal studio. Bugs would meet me on days when my shift ended early, and we would walk the quick avenue over to the park entrance on 85th street. There we had discovered a grassy patch not too far in, where we would drop our things and begin hurling insults at each other, trying to find the right layers of love and grief infused in the lines of Landford Wilson’s Burn This.
For all her odd idiosyncrasies and harsh demeanor, Bugs was surprisingly level-headed and warm when removed from the group dynamic. I looked forward to her hot pink backpack passing by the store windows as she waited for me, pacing back and forth with a tea and pastry she would bring me without fail, and found her to be a suitable confidant for my own anxieties and insecurities.
It was our fifth meeting, my defenses lulled into an unexpected stupor, when I told her. We had been discussing a classmate we both disliked, an annoying blond who had booked a guest spot on Law and Order:SVU and talked about nothing else, when I blurted it out.
“I left my cat behind a dumpster,” I said without thinking.
“Excuse me?”
“I had to get rid of him and I couldn’t find anyone and I didn’t try that hard but I also only had a week and my roommates were so pissed and I didn’t know what to do and I’m behind on my rent so I couldn’t…” My voice trailed off as I realized my mistake, turning to hide my embarrassment.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she replied, shaking her head. “Why the fuck would you tell me that? I was starting to like you.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” I said, peering down at my shoes.
“If you think that’s some kind of honor for me, it isn’t. I mean, I’ve known people who have done some shitty things but Jesus Christ.”
“I know. I know. Trust me. I’m such a piece of shit.”
“I won’t disagree with that,” she chuckled in response. “Really, really shitty. But so is everyone in one way or another.”
“Yeah?” I said, turning back to find her forehead crinkled in concern.
“Shitty AND sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I answered, raising my voice louder than I had intended.
“Dude, it seeps off of you. First day of class, I said, well, there’s the sad white guy. There’s always one of them.”
“Fuck you,” I spit back.
“Yeah, yeah, calm down. It’s not an attack. Just an observation. Do you know what my mom used to say, every time we met someone like you?” She paused, holding my gaze softly, challenging me to respond, but I remained silent, trying to decide if I should walk away and quit the class immediately or hear her out.
“No?” she finally said quietly, grabbing my hands and holding them tightly in hers. “Sad people do sad things to keep them sad. But they don’t have to.”
I pulled my hands away and grabbed my things, tears filling my eyes. I sprinted to exit the park, stumbling over my own feet, as she called my name over and over again.