My Speedo

by T. B. Meek

         The text came in at 12:22 in the morning. “I have ur cat. The $$ is now $200.”

         Miriam had been unable to sleep that evening, it had been three days since Speedo scampered out the door of their third-floor walk-up and hadn’t returned. It wasn’t the first time the black cat with a white blaze across its face and one white paw went on a “walkabout” as Miriam and Charles affectionately called it. The first time he disappeared Miriam was riddled with angst and emailed the neighborhood listserv at 4:30 in the morning, “Our cat Speedo has gone missing. Have you seen him? We are worried sick. If you see him, please call.” She included her cellphone number and attached her favorite picture of the pet, which was the embodiment of kitty cuteness, though the creature’s piercing green eyes probed the viewer as if the cat knew the beholder’s deepest, darkest secret. Later that day, the McFadden’s son, home from college on a laundry run, found Speedo batting around a balled-up paper bag in the basement. To thank the boy, Miriam and Charles invited the young McFadden up for a brunch of vegetarian black bean chili crowned with poached eggs and hollandaise along with Miriam’s personal pride, home cured lox on bagel crisps with whipped cream cheese and chive. As Miriam arduously whisked the thick yellow sauce, the scene of Charles assembling a bagel as he listened to the boy talk excitedly about his future plans—something outdoors, urban planning, land conservation or maybe renewables—tweaked memories of the weekends that Leah would come home from veterinary school for comfort food and quiet. She laughed inwardly for a second because Charles always overloaded his bagel with a triple spread and a double heaping of onions with capers rolling off a teetering crown of sprouts, and then there was the two layers of her meaty, thick lox, and as usual, a good portion of it ended up in his bushy beard. She was about to do a subtle chin point behind the boy’s back but paused in mid motion as a hot tear welled up and made its way down her cheek and into the hollandaise.

         More overnight “Where’s Speedo?” disappearances happened, but the cat always returned the next day for his mid-morning feeding, and seemed to be eerily cognizant that Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, were sardine days as he’d always be there waiting in the kitchen for Miriam, excitedly purring and crashing into her legs, nearly tripping her as she tried to fork a pungent headless filet into the cat’s bowl. As Speedo escape days became more and more, the mode of which, the stealthily trailing of a pant leg of an unwary resident, delivery person or anyone else operating the heavy wooden door that closed with creaking, achey slowness, Miriam and Charles began to fret less, often sharing a glass of crisp kosher white wine and laughing about, “Speedo being Speedo.” “He’s out saving the world,” Charles said one night as he sipped wine and noshed on crackers crowned with a diced mixture of Miriam’s lox, capers and pickles. To Miriam’s non-reaction he reiterated, “I’m serious, I think he morphs into a giant crime-fighting kitty.”

         Miriam took a long sip of wine, savored the buttery oak sweetness for a contemplative beat, and then nodded in reluctant agreement.

         “See?” Charles said, perching forward in his chair, “I’m telling you, it’s a thing. What do you think his superpower is?”

         Again, Miriam regarded the question with pause and said, “Laser beam eyes and saber claws, or maybe, he can command other cats as allies like the rat girl in ‘The Suicide Squad’?”

         “A giant starfish and Jim Ignatowski with Christmas tree lights popping out of his head? That movie was utter poop!” Charles bellowed. “Superhero films are ruining cinema.”

         “So says the grown-up man who collects kewpie dolls.”

         “They are trolls! Trolls are not ruining film!”

         ***

         Normally Miriam slept with her iPhone in sleep mode but that night she left it on in the hope that the ding of an incoming email from the listserv would bear good news. When the text came in, Miriam immediately poked Charles in the back and turned on the light.    

         Charles ripped off his eyeshades, put on his glasses and sat up, “What’s going on?”b

         “It’s about Speedo,” she said holding the phone up to his face.

         “Did you post your number on the flyer?”

         “And the listserv and Nextdoor. Call them.”

         “Now? It’s 12:30 in the morning.”

         “They just texted, call them,” she implored and dropped the phone on her husband’s chest.

         “Alright,” he sighed wearily and dialed the number.

         After three rings the phone picked up. “Hello, hello, hello,” a thick Eastern Bloc accent said with a flourish of maniacal merriment.

         “Do you have our cat?” Charles asked flatly.

         “But of course. I give tomorrow. You send two hundred now and then I text you where to meet.”

         “How do we know you have our cat? How did you get this number?”

         “My friend, I show you, you don’t worry.”

         “The reward posted is one hundred dollars.”

         “I show, you send two hundred, I tell you where, you send two hundred more, then you get your ket.”

         “But that’s four hundred dollars!”

         “That is the deal. You take, you leave. Up to you,” and with that, the phone clicked off.

         “Probably a scam,” Charles said tossing the phone into the puffy in between of the white duvet.

         “How do you know?” Miriam protested.

         “I mean c’mon, that accent, the way he says ‘ket,’ he might not even be in the country.”

         Miriam started to open her mouth when the phone vibrated and emitted a muffled hum. On the screen, underneath a grainy picture of a black cat, taken top down from the backside, was a single word, “Proof!”

         “Do you think that’s him?” Miriam asked as Charles enlarged the picture and rotated the phone.

         “Hard to tell, could be any black ‘ket,’or some rando picture off the internet. I don’t see his white paw, but I’m not sure that I don’t either.”

         “Let’s just pay him.”

         “And we’ll be out two hundred dollars?”

         “It’s Speedo,” Miriam said, and then more softly, “and Leah.”

         Charles sighed. It was a bitter cold day in February when the call came in. Miriam heard Charles’s phone ring in the other room as she carefully extracted the potato kugel from the oven amid the moist wafting juices of roasting chicken on the rack below. It was Leah’s favorite meal. As she pulled the foil snugly across the Pyrex pan, she tried to pull the words from Charles’s soft murmurs, but to no avail, so she quieted herself. In the still of the kitchen there were nothing but the soft whine of the oven fan and the drip of the faucet she had asked Charles to fix numerous times. Then, from the other room there was a sudden, muffled pop and the sound of glass skittering across the floor. Miriam stiffened. Heavy, lumbering footfalls made their way across the apartment. In the doorway, Charles, a portrait of clash in his his flannel robe, baggy sweatpants and plaid button down, appeared looking drunk, unsteady and holding onto the door jamb in an effort to remain upright.

         “What?” Miriam asked as she registered the tight, tremulous contortion on his face.

         Six months after the accident, Miriam became insistent that they get a pet. “We’ve already created a sizable adoption fund in her name,” Charles said. “We’ve never been pet people, that was Leah.”

         “But I want to do something, something I can put my hands on, something I can feel everyday.”

         “You could volunteer at the shelter.”  

         Miriam shot him a sideways glance. “I could, but that’s not what I am talking about, and you know it.”

         “Well, our options are limited in that the condo docs restrict dogs, birds, reptiles and other animals deemed ‘exotic,’ which oddly includes Guinea pigs and other rodents.”

         “But Leah had Charlie and Mickey and then that cute albino rat that I was dead set against.”

         “Fergie. I knew back then, but some rules are meant to be bent, plus when Leah kept asking for a dog, I spoke to Burt about it. He said he and Rach would be cool with it, but before we moved in, Jimmy Mac had wanted a puppy, and Rosemary was a hard no.”

         “Well she’s gone,” Miriam said of the former first-floor resident who Burt often described as, “NIMBY entitlement gone off the rails.”

         “All I’m saying is we should think about the time commitment and care requirements. As you recall, those piggies were a real chore to clean.” His wife seemed not to hear him. “What I am trying to say,” he said in a louder tone, “is that we should work within some boundaries if this is something you really want to do.”

         At the MSPCA-Angell Center, the Levys were warmly welcomed by a wiry blonde-haired woman who introduced herself as “Shel,” and again as “just Shel,” when Charles asked what it was short for. “Your funding has allowed us to expand our food, and spay and neuter assistance programs,” she said as she led them to a sterile conference room with a coffee urn and a stack of sugar-coated crullers at the center of the table. “Last week we were able to supply a farmer out in Fitchburg with hay and grain relief for his starving livestock.”

         “Doesn’t the farm sustain itself?”

          “In theory, yes, but this is a sad situation, tainted runoff from a development killed the grass, there’s back taxes and no new generation to pass the farm onto. The animals will likely need to be moved, though we remain somewhat hopeful as the GoFundMe campaign we launched has money trickling in and our social media team is cranking up the dial.” She clicked the top of her pen and placed a clipboard on the table. “As I understand it, you’re interested in adopting an indoor pet, is that correct?”

         “Yes,” Miriam said extricating a cruller from the Jenga heap.

         Shel sat patiently and took notes as Miriam expressed her desire to not have anything that could get out of a cage and disappear into the walls. Low-maintenance and self-sufficiency were essential. “Sounds like a rabbit or a cat,” Shel said double checking the clipboard. 

         “But a rabbit just sits in a cage, right?” Charles asked.

         “No, they can come out and hop around your living room or sit in your lap as you watch TV or read, but you have to rabbit-proof the room.”

         “Rabbit-proof?”

         “Make sure they can’t get to electrical wires—we don’t want an electrified bunny—and if you have a thick ply rug, they may gnaw on it thinking it’s grass or hay. Let’s take a walk, sometimes you see an animal and it sees you, and you just know.”

         Charles shrugged, “Sure.”

         In the rabbit room, Miriam peered through the thin metal bars of a cage. There appeared to be nothing inside, so she leaned in. Something stirred amid a large mound of hay. Ears shot up. It was a large grey buck that looked at Miriam with modicum of curiosity before thunder-hopping across the hay-lined floor and crashing into the bars. Mouth agape, Miriam let out a short, inarticulate yelp and staggered backwards, one hand instinctively pressing against her clavicle.

         “That’s Mr. Peanut,” Shel said.

         “Salted or unsalted?” Charles asked adding a sheepish laugh.

         “You don’t feed rabbits peanuts,” Shel said matter of factly, “just greens and veggies.”

         Once the color returned to her face, Miriam peered into a few more cages. There were plenty of brown and white rabbits, and some near albino, with pronounced pink ears and noses. Despite their varying colors, all the rabbits shared the same big, black, soulless eyes, which unsettled Miriam. One plump, fluffy rabbit lounged at the front of its cage, its soft fur tempting her to imagine running her hand through it as it sat calmly in her lap. But overall, they all seemed to share the same inert, aloof demeanor. The ones lingering at the back of their cages appeared to be in a state of perpetual fear, their midsections pulsing rapidly as their tiny hearts raced.     

         “They certainly poop a lot,” Charles observed.

         “It’s not so bad, it’s mostly green matter, and they can become quite tidy, choosing one corner of the cage to use as a loo once acclimated and settled in. Would you like to hold one?” Shel said gesturing Miriam toward a cage.

         “Oh,” Miriam said, “I don’t know, perhaps on the way back?”

         As they left the rabbit room, a black cat shot past them in the hallway with a young, boyish woman in blue MSPCA scrubs chasing after it. The cat raced down the hallway and into the main reception area with the woman’s sneakers making squishy squeaking noises as they ran after the animal that seemed to intentionally taunt its pursuer, pausing, allowing them to close the distance and then suddenly darting off again.

         “All part of the care giving process,” Shel commented nonplussed with an outstretched arm.

         Shortly thereafter, as they continued down the endless hall, Miriam heard the faint squishy squeak of those sneakers and then felt something suddenly brush between her legs.  She froze. What ever it was, brushed her leg again. Glancing down, the wayward cat was doing figure eights around her calves.

         The young woman’s athletic shoes made a high-pitched screech as they skidded to a sudden halt. “There you are Joe,” they said as they reached for the cat which scooted to the back side of Miriam’s legs to avoid capture.

         “It’s Ok Alex,” Shel said, “I’ll get him.”

         “He’s got a will of his own,” the younger woman said handing Shel an open tin of cat food and a spoon with an oily brown lump on it.

         When the younger woman left, the cat relaxed and rested its haunches on Miriam’s well-worn flats. She looked at Shel and shrugged.

         “He seems to like you,” Shel said handing Miriam the spoon, handle first.

         “Pheromones?” Charles asked.

         “Who knows,” Shel said, “Cats are very emotionally intelligent animals.”

         The cat sat there expectantly like a curbside passenger looking for their late arriving Uber. Miriam gingerly presented the spoon to the cat, who regarded it cautiously at first, sniffing it and then taking a tentative lick the before taking a sizable bite of the brown mushy lump. When the last greasy smear from the spoon was licked clean, the cat affectionately crashed into Miriam’s leg and began to purr audibly.

         “What’s its name?” Charles asked.

         “We’ve been calling him, ‘I Dunno, Joe,’ because that’s what the intake person called him when asked his name by a fellow staffer filling out the paperwork.”

         Charles arched his eyes and held out his hands.

         “He was found in the back seat of a cab,” She continued. “The cabbie had no idea how it got there and said he didn’t recall anyone getting in with an animal, so the thought is that when someone got out, the cat snuck in. The point is, he doesn’t have a name he responds to so you could call him anything you want.”

         Back home, Miriam scrolled through her iPad looking at digitized pictures of the family in happier times. “I want to name him something that reminds me of Leah,” she said when Charles suggested they simply call him Joe.  Miriam sniffled and daubed at the corner of her eye as she swiped and poked. “Oh,” she said tilting the iPad towards Charles, “remember our summer getaways at Sunapee?” Filling the entirety of the eleven-inch screen was a picture of the three of them in a canoe with Miriam awkwardly perched in the middle. She swiped again and the three were on a dinner cruise, and then atop a rock outcropping of one of New Hampshire’s Presidential Mountains with a vast green forest in the background. She slid again and they were lounging and reading in the living room of a rustic cabin dominated by a stone masoned fireplace framed by a roughly hewn wooden mantle, and then sunset dinning on the back deck. Then there were the shots of Charles and Leah making goofy faces as they jumped off the dock and into the lake’s dark waters. Miriam laughed uncontrollably at the next picture of Charles on the dock in a red Speedo, hips thrust towards the camera, expressive hands by his sides showcasing the tight garment, his slightly furry belly hanging over the waistband with an own-it, “Boo-yah!” expression on his face.

         “My Speedo was a great and glorious annual tradition,” Charles said of the infamous swimming garment he had initially purchased with serious intent.

         “You wanted to be like Mulder,” Miriam smirked making reference to the paranormal FBI investigator on the sci-if series they religiously watched together on Sunday nights while slurping Miriam’s beloved matzo ball soup, “but you looked more like a young, cutely chubby Seth Rogan, though I did love your appropriation of that poem.”      

         “An appropriation of an appropriation,” Charles clarified, “Duchovny ripped off William Carlos Williams’s ‘My Red Wheelbarrow’ which was both funny and shameless at the same time.” He paused and then launched in,

                  “My Speedo

                  So much depends upon a red Speedo

                  Covered with rain…

He paused again. “Now I can’t remember if there was more or not, I’d have to ask Lord Google.”

         “But you added something about vanity and Duchovny‘s sex addiction claim.”

         “Right, a goof of a silly spoof,” Charles cleared his throat,

                  “My Speedo

                  Look at me so pretty in my red Speedo

                  So much depends upon me and my flaming libido

                  Washed in rain, don’t call me vain

                  That’s just your hating ego.”

         In the wee hours of the morning Charles performed a reverse Google search on the image of the cat with Miriam hovering anxiously nearby. “Im not sending the money if this is some stock image from the internet or Granny Nana’s cat Paws from Ames, Iowa,” he said.

          When no real hits came back, he said, “Ok, let’s do it. We’ll give it a shot. It’s a fool’s errand but…”

         Charles texted the number asking where and how to send the money, and where and when they would get Speedo.

         “8AM tomorrow. Send the 1st 200 apple pay to this number, then I tell where.”

         Charles hesitated but did as requested. The next three minutes felt like an eternity as Charles and Miriam stared at the phone trying to will a response. Finally, text capsule popped up with the numbers “42.3539, 71.1373–go here.”      

         “What’s that?” Miriam asked.

         “I think they’re geolocation coordinates.”

         “What?”

         “It’s like a street address.” Charles pounded away on his laptop. “Looks like it’s a shopping mall over on Everett Street in Allston.” He showed Miriam the map. “We’ve driven by it a bunch of times, it’s a rundown stretch of urban wasteland waiting to be paved over and built up.”

         “So, we go to a shopping mall and…?”

         “Hope.”

         “I don’t think I can sleep.”

         “Me either, this all feels so invasive, like you know you’re being taken advantage of and you’re just letting it happen.”

         Miriam did eventually find sleep with the aide of a Xanax. Charles meanwhile stayed up and posted to Facebook the “The Ballad of Speedo,” which was a witty bit of acerbic humor that outlined the whole ordeal and concluded with, “If you don’t see a post here from us by 10AM, call John Wick.” He included the picture of Speedo with his probing eyes as well as the grainy image of the cat sent by their tauntingly aloof texter.

         Charles brewed a pot of coffee as the sun came up. Miriam entered the kitchen bleary-eyed, glasses askew and her thick curly hair kinked and frizzy. “Anything new?”

         Charles handed her a mug of coffee with Papa Smurf on it. “Nope.”

          “Let’s get there early just to be safe.”

         “Right. I think I’ll mount Leah’s old GoPro on the dashboard and let’s have our phones on record.”

         “Aye, aye captain,” Miriam said and issued a sleepy salute. “Phasers set to stun.”

         Checking his laptop, Charles noticed he had three Facebook notifications. One was from a former publishing colleague who triumphantly claimed they had just completed the first draft of their memoir about living in a West Bank settlement. The other two were responses to “The Ballad of Speedo.” The first from Frank Kashner, Charles’s foodie friend who was forever searching for the best fried chicken and St. Louis ribs in town, and always overjoyed to discover new joints serving such desired victuals. “Don’t do it,” Frank wrote, “call the cops.” The other was from Liz Rush, a college friend of Miriam’s who lived in Columbus, Ohio and was one of Miriam’s bridesmaids. “This is just terrible, hopefully all is well for Speedo and you two.”

         Liz had also texted Miriam, “You guys, Ok? Anything I can do?” Miriam didn’t know how to respond so she didn’t.  

         With weary trepidation Charles and Miriam loaded into the aging metallic silver Honda CRV pockmarked with bumper rubs from aggressive drivers trying to cram into too small parking spaces on their narrow, cluttered street. Charles used a suction cup apparatus to mount the GoPro between two of the many mounted kewpie doll trolls that adorned the dashboard of the car they affectionately referred to as “Old Betsy” and punched the coordinates into his iPhone. “Head south on Vassal Park Lane for 200 yards and then turn right onto Wright Street,” the cheerful GPS AI voice chirped. The AI sent them down Mass Ave and through Harvard Square, which normally it would avoid, but It was early enough on a Sunday morning that the somnambulant throng of coeds that would soon bring all moving traffic to a grinding halt as they foraged for bagels and eggy hangover relief, were still in bed sleeping off their weekend revelry.  They turned onto JFK Street and then began the slow rise over the Anderson Memorial Bridge, a point in many a journey that Charles usually pointed out that the bridge connecting Cambridge to Boston was the point of no return for Quentin Compson III in William Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury,” a fact, he claimed few knew, even if they had been forced to read the shape shifting southern gothic as part of their educational evolution. “People don’t care or are just too lazy make the connection. I bet half the people who see the plaque think it’s real,” he said of the gravestone like epitaph affixed to the bridge memorializing the fictional Compson III (1891-1910). The ringtone of Spinal Tap’s “Big Bottom” came from Charles’s phone as the countenance of Frank Kashner, reddish, greying beard and piercing turquoise eyes, flashed on screen. Charles put the phone on speaker. “Frank, what’s the good word?”

         “Good word, are you crazy?”

         “Probably.”

         “Are you in your car going to meet this creep?”

         “That’s the plan.”

         “Stop and call the police now.”

         “Nah, we go, we hope.”

         “You think that’s wise? Where you heading? I’ll meet you there.”

         “You don’t have to, this’ll be over in 30 minutes or less.”

         “Will it? You don’t know who this guy is or what he wants. I’m getting in my car now. What’s the address?”

         “Allston, the shopping mall on Everett Street.”

         Charles heard a car door slam and an engine turn over.

         “Ok, I’ve got you on speaker and am going to stay on with you, just in case.”

         “Thanks,” Charles said as he reached over and squeezed Miriam’s leg gently.

         “That area’s a real shit hole.”

         The Honda jerked and bucked as it hit a pothole. “Yup, the old New York Bus Stop Diner is all fenced off and looks ready for razing. The whole place is pothole minefield, and it doesn’t help that old Betsy has shit for suspension.”

         “Your destination is 1,000 yards ahead on the left,” the GPS ‘bot announced.

         “Looks like we’re here,” Charles said as they pulled into a litter-strewn parking lot surrounded by construction fencing cordoning off adjacent properties in various stages of razing.

         “I’ll be there in 10.”

         “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS ‘bot added as Charles paused the car in the middle of the mostly vacant parking lot. At the far end loomed a Star Market grocery store. To their left was a drive thru McDonald’s and a boarded-up Mr. Sushi restaurant that stood alone from the rest of the connected mall front like two shipping containers randomly dropped in a vast sea of tar and concrete.

         “I’m thinking over there,” Charles said pointing to the derelict sushi bar.

         “Ok,” Miriam said hesitantly, “what are we looking for?”

         “That’s a good question.”

         Nestled aside the eatery adorned with a lime green seaweed motif and boarded up windows, Miriam and Charles sat in silence scanning the parking lot for any sign of movement. Besides some distant activity in front of the supermarket or the occasional squeaky rattle of cart wheels as an employee tracked down an abandoned shopping conveyance, all was quiet.

         “Just about there,” Frank said from the phone now wedged between Charles’s thighs.

         “We should do something,” Miriam said.

         “Right,” Charles said as he extracted the phone and texted their tormentor, “We are here.”

         It took a few minutes that felt like hours, but finally a reply came, “Send other 200.”

         Charles looked at the phone, mouth agape with incredulousness. “That’s not the deal,” he wrote, “Give us the cat and I’ll send the $$.”

         “What’s he saying?” Miriam asked.

         “Wants the money first,” he said and tossed the phone onto the dashboard, the iDevice lodging between the legs of a pink and a blue haired kewpie.  “Total BS.”

         “What just happened?” Frank asked over the speaker.

         Charles quickly retrieved the phone, “Sorry. Frank, I’m going to put you on hold.”

         “Ok, be there in two.”

         Charles dialed the number and waited for what seemed too long of a period of time.  There was no ring, just dead digital silence and then, as Charles had feared, came the aurally chaotic crescendo of a disconnected tone.  He sighed and collapsed back into his seat. “Totally played.”

         “Here’s Frank,” Miriam said sitting up and pointing at the approaching gold Acura coupe dipping and bouncing across the uneven tarmac, the kewpie troll Charles had given him visible in glints as it dangled and bobbed from the rearview mirror. 

         Standing in the crisp cold between the two vehicles, Charles shrugged sheepishly. Frank closed the distance between the two and gave his friend a firm, one-armed, lean-in hug. “Zip?”

         “Total scam.”

         “Probably doesn’t have the cat. You put up fliers, posts?”

         “Around the neighborhood, on the local listserv and Nextdoor,” Miriam said as she zipped up her jacket and joined the two thick bearded men.

         Frank gave Miriam a hug, “Sorry this isn’t under better circumstances.”

         Through the billowy windbreaker Miriam could fee lean ribs and a musculature she was not formerly aware of. “You’re quite the fit one these days,” she said as they released.

         “Training for the Pan Mass challenge. It’s amazing how much weight falls away when you ride over 150 miles a week. But hey, that’s the life of a bored, retired bachelor with nothing else to do. Definitely not for the faint of heart.”

         The three shared a laugh.

         “Zaftig’s?” Charles asked.

         “Let’s.”

         At the popular Coolidge Corner deli dour in decor and adorned with what Miriam always described as tchotchke art, the three sat in a cramped booth, Miriam and Charles arm to arm on one side with Frank looking relatively adrift in his own sea of green pleather across the way. Wafts of onions and griddle grease commingled with the pervasive scent of dark roasted coffee as busy servers flew in and out of the kitchen. Before them lay a spread of knishes, potato pancakes, berry drizzled blintzes, toasted bagel halves, a plate of lox, onions, and capers and a mound of chopped, pickled whitefish at the center of it all with Mise cups nestled in between, brimming with various whipped schemers.

         “You really should consider calling the cops,” Frank said.

         “It’s just two hundred bucks, besides what would they do? Give us lip service about priorities and manpower? Speedo’s prolly still out on one of his famous walkabouts and will come home to us when he’s damn ready. That cat has always had a mind of his own and we bend to it.”

         “Charles,” Miriam said pointing to her chin.

         Charles dabbed a napkin to his beard and examined the result. “Didn’t you know, I was saving that berry sauce for dessert tonight?”

         Taking note, Frank executed a similar precautionary wipe. “It’s amazing what you sometimes find nested in there.”

         “The brotherhood of the beard, a true labor of love,” Miriam said raising her mimosa glass. Charles hoisted his splatter-stained mug of coffee and Frank followed with a garishly gigantic Bloody Mary made even more ridiculous by the towering pompadour of celery. As the drinking vessels converged the soft clink of their brief consummation was barely audible above the cacophonous din of garbled voices, clanking silverware and the continuous thwapping of the heavy kitchen door.

         “To Speedo and a safe return,” Frank said.   

         They all clinked again.

         “I know we joke,” Miriam said, “but I still have that nervous feeling.”

         “Same,” Charles said and gave his wife a soft kiss on her brow, his beard leaving her glasses askew in the aftermath.

         “That thing,” she said with a half tremulous laugh as she straightened her opticals.

         A faint mellifluous ding rolled up from under the table. Charles straightened up and extracted the cellphone from his pocket.

         “Is it him?” Frank asked.

         “Yeah, now wants three hundred. Says, ‘Your lack trust now cost more. Send and I tell.’”

         “Well, there you have it. Stop dicking around and call the cops.”

         “Funny thing is the text identifies the sender as Gracie Alves.”

         “Yeah, and?”

         “She,” Miriam interjected, “was a former house cleaner of ours.”

         “Maybe she’s in on the scam?”

         “I don’t think so, she moved back to Brazil before the pandemic. Had sick parents, though she did turn her business over to one of her workers, but we don’t use them anymore.”

         “Give the number a call,” Frank said holding his hands palm up by his shoulders. “I mean, why not?”

         Charles tapped the phone, listened for a while and then put it on speaker for the others to hear the acrimonious disconnected tone.

         “Likely masking,” Frank said. “Wonder if they hacked you or someone else. In these dark days of dirty laundry and personal information strewn all over the internet, it’s like Pac-Man chomping out there.”

***

         As Charles and Miriam were about to turn onto Vassal Park Lane, an oncoming cab made a curt, preemptive left.   

         Charles tapped the horn. “And no signal either! Don’t people signal anymore?”

         Miriam looked at her husband with a steely eye. “Just let it go.”

         But he didn’t. His agitation mounted as they rolled down the narrow side street, the cab slowing and braking every ten yards as the driver’s head craned right before moving on. “And the guy doesn’t even know where he’s going.” Charles said as threw his hands up. “Ask Siri! She knows!”

         Due to its tight narrowness, two cars could not pass each other on Vassal Park Lane. If two cars met in the middle, one would have to pull into an empty parking space or one of the few driveways to let an oncoming traveler pass, and if no option was available, one would have to back up, which often led to honking and shouting, especially when other cars added to the impasse.  Often Miriam and Charles would peer out their window with knowing bemusement, but when these uncivil moments played out in the middle of the night, they put in earplugs and grumbled about a letter to the city requesting that their cozy side street be turned into a one-way.

         In the moment however, a one-way passage would not abate Charle’s impatience as the procession jerkily made its way past the smattering of stately Victorians, the tight row of brownstones and small sitting park formerly named after a colonialist who made his vast fortune off the backs of slaves. It was now called Mind’s Eye Park, the name suggested by the biotech entrepreneur who, when he and his family moved into one of those grand Victorians, paid for the Stonehenge-like art and rustic benches hewn from tree stumps. The street name however, long a topic of city council debate as part of the ongoing mandate to remove the names of those who perpetuated slavery from city landmarks and commemorate those who were subjugated and endured, retained the name Vassal, not because it commemorated John Vassal, but because, as one council member articulated, “it elevated the inspirational spirit and persevering will of Darby Vassal,” one of John Vassal’s slaves who became a freeman, activist and religious leader. “Had they called it Darby Lane or Darby Vassal Lane, that would have made sense,” Charles had said at the time taking exception to Jeet Shiva’s preemptive, money-pushed agenda that shut others out. “He’s a godsend for the neighborhood,” a neighbor had posted on the listserv when he had his gardener install planters full of picturesque flora around the neighborhood, but that communal affection ebbed after the park’s controversial renaming. When the city had first announced the rebranding and long overdue renovation, Charles had wanted to make a little fairy and troll house out of the old tree trunk that had remained a ghostly spectacle decades after a lightening strike robbed it of its carbon cleansing ability. “Children can come and play and have a sense of wonderment,” Charles beamed at the prospect when budgets, artists and designers were being discussed by the council, but then Jeet stepped in and opened his checkbook.

         The park faded from view as they drove into the neighborhood of triple-deckers where the Levys lived. This part of Vassal Park Lane, in particular, faced significant parking challenges due to its proximity to Massachusetts Avenue. That stretch was home to two contentious marijuana shops and a hub of eclectic eateries attracting visitors from the suburbs. People flocked to Jin’s Fine Asian for its house-made soup dumplings and La Mediterranean for its green crab-infused seafood dishes. The main attraction, however, was Giuseppe’s Table, a Michelin-rated restaurant where the line for haute nouvelle Italian cuisine formed around the block an hour before opening. Another notable spot was Big Paul’s Southern, known for its gas station cuisine, which gained popularity after Paul’s two-episode stint on “Top Chef.”

         The strip also boasted essential Indian cuisine, two homemade ice cream shops, and a vegan café that had become a mecca for yoga enthusiasts seeking healthy meals after their sessions. A recent addition to the area was a pricey, “proudly woman-owned” wine bar and art gallery serving tinned fish and imported French cheese. As always, Paddy’s remained a classic college hangout and sports bar, also hosting live music and poetry slams. It had been a fixture on the strip long before the subway line extended to the area and had weathered the rising real estate prices brought by gentrification.

         Parking became even more complicated on Sundays, when the city allowed all spaces on Vassal Park Lane—normally reserved for permit holders—to be open to anyone. This policy meant that Charles and Miriam had to carefully secure a parking spot for Betsy on Saturday before sundown, leaving her parked there until Monday morning.

         To Miriam’s eye, the shadowy passenger in the backseat seemed to be a woman by the updo hairstyle adorned with hat had to be chopsticks or pencils sticking out. “Oh here,” she said pointing to her right.

         “Nah, I see a better one right up in front. Now if this guy would just get along.”

         But he didn’t, the flashers came on and the cab stopped adjacent to the empty parking space.

         “Great,” Charles said, and palm smacked the steering wheel.

         “Just back up and get the one back there.”

         Charles put Betsy in reverse and began rolling backwards until a loud honk brought him to a stop. His foot hard on the brake, a large black SUV loomed in the rearview.  They were boxed in. “Nothing but those knishes is going to go right today,” Charles muttered to himself and gave a little double tap on Betsy’s horn. 

         “It’ll be just a minute, let’s just let it be,” Miriam offered sympathetically.

         “I’ll see your two-hundred and raise you fifty.”

         “What?”

         “Never mind.”

         There was movement in the back seat of the cab as the passenger began to duck and bob. The rear trunk popped, and the large SUV gave another long leaning horn blast.

         Charles threw his hands in the air. “Wonderful, just forking wonderful!”

         The rear passenger door flew open and out stepped a tall dark-haired woman in a long flowing floral dress and sporty, waist-cropped black leather jacket. To Miriam, she looked like a model, angular, aloof, and instantly captivating. With quick efficiency the woman adjusted dark sunglasses that framed her porcelain face, swung a large black purse over her shoulder and then rounded the back of the cab, but before she got there, the driver, a short bearded man, head wrapped in a turban, shot out of the driver’s side and was there before her, digging down into the cab’s abyss and extracted a sleek silver toned piece of luggage. The horn from the SUV blared again.

         “Bloody hell,” Charles said, “I’ve got half a mind to…”

         The cabbie turned toward the SUV and made a slow, exaggerated hand wave. Then, with the calm precision of a BBC broadcaster, he said, “My friend, it is only time. Time we can share. Time you can afford. Be kind to all and kindness will come to you.”

         The SUV, its windshield as dark as its paint job, revved and lurched and then flew up Vassal Park Lane in reverse. Charles watched with daunted amazement at the driver’s seamless skill but then his appreciation turned to horror as the SUV didn’t even pause when it dumped out onto Oxford Street, cutting off another car. More horns sounded, engines growled, and then there was silence.

         Trying to find calm and refocus, Charles noticed the woman was nowhere to be seen and the cab was now at the end of Vassal Park Lane where it made a languorous left and disappeared.

         “So much drama,” Miriam mused. “Who do you think she was? I’ve never seen her before.”

         “Who knows. Maybe a visiting professor? People come, people go.” Charles put his index finger in the corner his mouth and flicked it out, making a loud pop. “Ok,” he said, “Back to our regularly scheduled program,” and with that, he slowly but adroitly pulled Betsy tight to the curb, her bumper just inches the McFadden’s prized Tesla.

         As Charles joined Miriam on the sidewalk, he noticed his wife was frozen, staring down between the navy-blue Tesla and a city worn Toyota Corolla with a tattered “Co-Exist” sticker on its rear bumper. Her finger was pointing, and her lips quivered, but no words came out. Charles followed the path of her finger and there, emerging from the front of the Tesla and onto the sidewalk was Speedo. Neither of them moved as the cat nonchalantly sauntered between them and up the stairs of their building.

         “Well, well, well,” Charles said with a soft chuckle that made his belly jiggle. “All’s well that ends well.”

         Slowly, Miriam followed after the animal, her eyes burning and heavy and moist, her gait unsteady.

Taking stock of Miriam’s state, Charles hurried after her. Halfway up the stairs a foot missed a riser, and she stumbled backwards. A hand shot out for the railing but missed, and she began to fall until firm arms secured her around her waited and righted her. They stood awkwardly on the stairs facing each other, each with a foot on a higher and lower riser.  She looked at her husband long but said nothing as the tears continued to well. When she became overwhelmed she crashed her face into his soft chest, as he gently put his arms around her, his beard enmeshing with her frizzy free ringlets.

         “Where have you been boy?” Charles whispered aside to the cat who sat nonplussed by the door licking the one white paw. Convulsing waves of grief poured into him in rhythmic intervals.

         Finally, Miriam pulled back, eyes red. She placed a soft hand on his cheek and then with one arm firmly around her, they slowly ascended.

         “Were you out saving the world with your laser beam eyes?” Charles asked the feline who regarded him indifferently, its piercing eyes shooting right through him. “You had mama and me so worried.”

         “It’s like he doesn’t even know us,” Charles said softly into his wife’s ear.

         “But he’s back,” she said blankly.  

         Charles opened the door and held it ajar. “Nothing sardines won’t change.” The invitation did not move the cat, its eyes were now fixed on Miriam.

         “Shall we all go in?” Charles said with an arm wave gesture of and usher.

         The cat gazed over its shoulder at the man for a brief second and then suddenly lurched forward and into Miriam’s legs rubbing against her and purring like the way he did when their souls first fused.

BIO

Tom Meek is a writer living in Cambridge. His reviews, essays, short stories and articles have appeared in The Boston Phoenix, The Boston Globe, The Rumpus, Cambridge Day, The Charleston City Paper and SLAB literary journal. Tom is also a member of the Boston Society of Film Critics and rides his bike everywhere.