Our cat hurtled himself off the window ledge yesterday. He took a nose-dive into the empty air and crash landed in the ally, three flights below. Giles, the furry comet.
Typically, the ally is home to a ’round-the-clock soiree, where Dominican gentlemen congregate to smoke pot, drink El Presidente, and listen the same mariachi song over and over. Had it been warmer, the ally revelers would’ve had some spice added to their party routine, something new to tell to the wives back at home:
A howling cat falling headlong from the heavens. A white boy leaning from a window ledge above, eyes wide with despair, his voice a shot in the dark: “Giles!”
Had it been warmer, our cat’s limp body would’ve been encircled by the ally revelers once it hit the pavement. The mariachi song would draw to a close; no one would dare hit repeat. Quiet, sensitive Manuel would be the first to crouch down and run calloused hand over furry flank. Never to be outdone, Victor would mournfully remove his Mets cap, turn his face to the sky and cry: “¡Pobrecito!”
Seconds later, Shaun would pound the ally gate with both fists. Jose would break from the group to let him in. Smelling the familiar scent of his owner, life would stir back into the cat’s body. His eyelids would flutter, a pathetic meow would issue from his mouth. The cat would move himself to all fours, slow but steady, resurrected.
The ally revelers would cheer and offer Shaun a beer, a hit, a mariachi song. “No,” he’d say, “thank you. I’d better get this little guy home.”
But it was unseasonably cold yesterday. A dirty clamminess clung to the air like a strand of greasy hair. There were no ally revelers. There was no soiree. There was only a cat sprawled on pavement, a locked ally door, and a frantic Shaun banging on it, unable to get in.
Shaun called the super, who did not answer. He called the building owner, who promised he might swing by to help, but not until Monday. In pigeon-Spanish, Shaun asked neighbors if they knew anyone in the building with a key. After all, someone must have one, seeing as how our ally is party-central. But as white people, as non-Dominican people, as non-Orthodox Jews, as people for whom English is their first language, whose parents were born in this country: we are not to be trusted.
We don’t know what happens here, how things work. We don’t know why there are at least two plains-clothes arrests every night on our block. We don’t know why every corner has a candle-lit memorial site to a slain teenager, where friends leave poetry and bags of the victims favorite snacks. We don’t know the characters in the murals. We only know that mail trucks and city services won’t come above 148th street, where most maps of Manhattan inexplicably end. We live on 186th.
We are outsiders here. We are constantly aware of our skin, our language, our dress, our walk, our music, our shows, our water bottles, our hair, our inability to access the ally where our cat’s injured body is sprawled: this is how the Dominicans and the Orthodox Jews in this neighborhood must feel if they go anywhere outside of it. We can only ever be observers in this place. We are lingering guests, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
After running around the building like mad, someone must have taken pity on Shaun and unlocked the ally door for him. There, he found our cat, face bloodied and swollen. But alive. The vet office took him in early this morning for cat x-rays and mending.
I was away, working yet another double-job, 14-hour Friday when this all happened. I came home to find an unravelled husband, a cat sipping shallow breaths, and a feeling that I was missing my life, letting down everyone I loved, and selling small chunks of myself just to keep living in a city I’ve grown to hate.
Many people say that pets and their owners mirror each-other. While neither Shaun nor I are as cute as Giles, we do share personality traits with him. Giles is one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever met. He rushes, indiscriminately, to anyone who enters our home—-family, friends, repairmen—-for cuddles, conversation, and play. Giles is also a gusty, brave cat. He loves racing out the door, tearing into the unknown, blindly trusting that it will be nothing more than a fun lark. And last night, rushing headlong onto the street, Giles hadn’t the faintest idea that NYC would knock the wind out of him and leave him wondering why he ever thought it wise to do such a foolish, painful thing.
