Storymania - Joe And His Cat by Mark Herner

Joe And His Cat
Mark Herner

None of his friends can believe he has this job. None of them would ever do it, wouldn't even try. The clock radio clicks on to the station that always wakes Joe up, the one he never listens to any other time. It's still dark outside, and the DJ is the most obnoxious human being alive, or at least the most obnoxious one awake at this hour. It's a rock and roll oldies station and the middle-of-the-night guy, who's still on at four in the morning, always says something that makes Joe mad, mad enough to get out of bed and punch the Off button. This morning it was: "Far out, chickydoos!" just before he played "What's New, Pussycat?" by Tom Jones.

"Aaaaghhh," Joe groaned in exasperation, "you asshole," and lunged for the clock radio. He stopped just short of slamming it with the side of his fist, thinking of how much the last one had cost to replace. Joe had hauled-off and hit the radio so hard that the display stuck on 3:58 forever and that know-it-all voice was replaced by the sound of splintering plastic. His barked knuckles hurt like hell for three days. This time he pressed the reset button with a twisting, jabbing index finger.

But he yawned as he did it. Joe didn't really hate the DJ. He didn't even know what the guy looked like, not really.

"He probably looks like one of my dad's friends," Joe thought and felt guilty, fantasizing that maybe the DJ was in a wheelchair and the only radio job he could get was in the middle of the night for practically no money. Joe just wanted to go back to bed.

But he was awake now. He shuffled to the bathroom and pissed for what seemed like 10 minutes. He'd had a few beers with his friends last night but had to leave before everyone started to pair off for the real fun. Amanda had been giving him some good looks too, from across the stand-up bar table.

As he brushed his teeth his thoughts went back to Amanda, last night, and how she'd stuck up for him. Everyone else made fun of him for his stupid early morning job, calling him "Fruitboy" and "Melonhead". Not just the guys, who you'd expect that kind of shit from, but the girls too.

Amanda had said, "Shut up! I think Joe's cool for doing that job. None of you could do it. He's going to school and he's getting rich! You turds can barely get out of bed for a nine o'clock class."

They'd all looked down, embarrassed, and Joe looked down too but loved it and twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to grin. Then she'd said, "And you know the best part?" As she said this she spread her arms apart, palms down like she was an umpire calling a runner safe and, scrunching down on the bar stool so her nice ass hung off the back, she screeched, "He takes his cat with him!"

All the guys, who'd been looking at Amanda's butt on the barstool, shifted their gaze to Joe and asked, "Cat? What cat?"

Joe's friend John, quiet until now, asked, "You mean Deke?"

"Deke?" everyone asked, "What kind of a name is DEKE?"

So Joe had to explain to his friends about his early morning job and why he always seemed to have plenty of spending money and how he got to be the only guy any of them knew who lived by himself and had his own cat:

"I got Deke when I was in seventh grade. Deke's mother had been killed by a car but Deke and his brothers and sisters were born anyway; born prematurely after their mother was already dead at the emergency veterinary clinic where a neighbor worked. I took Deke, the stupid looking orange one and fed him thinned baby formula from an eyedropper.

When I left home to go to college I got an apartment downtown and I took Deke with me. He was seven years old and still stupid-looking. Maybe he was retarded from his mother being dead when he was born, I don't know.

Anyway, for six weeks I looked for a job and there were plenty of them--fry cooks and hamburger helpers and drive-up window geeks for four bucks an hour. I was ready to give up and take a job at McDonald's when I talked to my friend Ciro, this vicious little Italian fucker whose father runs the wholesale produce business that supplies a good part of the city's fresh fruit and vegetables.

‘Listen, I can set you up,’ he promised, pointing at my chest, 'cause you and me's friends. Here's whatcha do.’

Well, the plan required that I borrow start-up money from my ‘friend’ Ciro, and only from Ciro, at 50% interest. What he meant was that I could borrow ‘credit’ to buy fruit wholesale from Ciro's father and deliver it to restaurants and small groceries. I could charge whatever I could get and deliver anywhere I wanted, unless another guy already had the ‘account’ and then I could either move on or fight. I fought for a few but moved on from most. After a few months, I had several good restaurants, quickly paid off my loan to Ciro and, after gas and repairs to the van that my father had given me, I was probably making fifteen dollars an hour, a lot better than McDonald's.

But that's not where I make the good money. That's where Deke comes in.

"Wait a minute! Fifty percent interest? What is this guy, a Mafia loan shark?" asked Drew, a new guy that Joe didn't know.

Joe looked at him, not smiling, and said, "Yeah. That's exactly what he is. He's a cocky little Italian prick and he's dangerous. Joe paused and, with everyone quiet, continued, "But him and me's friends."

Everyone laughed and said, "Woooooo. Watch out everyone, Joe knows the Mafia."

Amanda broke in and whined, "Shut up you guys," and then, "Joe, tell about Deke." Joe continued:

"So one spring morning, after I'd made my restaurant deliveries, I was downtown, parked in front of an insurance building, killing time and watching the office girls arrive for work. Most of them were older than me, but so what? I'd started bringing Deke with me on my deliveries and he'd lay on the dashboard or on the seat beside me, sleeping or licking himself. He seemed to like it as much as a fucking cat likes anything.

Well, this girl, woman, walks across towards my side of the street. She looks good, all dressed for the office, but she's too thin, like she's been on some woman's magazine diet for too long. She'd actually have looked a lot better with a little weight on.

Anyway, she's carrying an apple; a big Washington Delicious that's probably breakfast, lunch and dinner. Half way across the street she drops the apple and it rolls right under my van. So I start laughing at her chasing this apple in a kind of squatty duckwalk, forgetting that it's spring and the window is down. She comes right up and says, ‘So you think that's pretty funny, huh? You little asshole.’

Well I felt bad for laughing and especially bad about the ‘little asshole’ part. I apologized and told her I must be slap-happy because I have to get up so damned early. Then I said, ‘Listen, the reason I get up so early is to deliver fruit to the restaurants. I have a box of the best oranges you've ever tasted in the back. Please. Take one. To replace your apple. No, take two. Really,’ and I jumped out, opened the back of the van and tore off the top of an unopened box of oranges. ‘Here, take these. You'll love 'em. They're the best. You know that restaurant, DeTillo's? Ever had their chicken salad? Has that big orange wedge on the plate? These are the oranges right here!’

Well, she didn't want to take them, but I insisted and she finally gave in. We stood in the street, for some reason by the driver's door, talking.

‘Is that your cat?’ she asked, pointing at Deke curled up on the seat.

‘Yeah, that's Deke.’

‘He's weird. He's orange but his eyes look kind of Siamese or something.’ Deke heard his name, stood up and stretched with his head and front legs down low and his ass up in the air, showing his balls and pink butthole to the whole world.

‘Deke's kind of goofy,’ and I explained about his mother and how he was born.

‘Oh! That's awful. I'm sorry I said he was weird,’ and she actually had tears in her eyes.

She took the oranges and, later, it started me thinking about all these people, running late for work and not wanting an Egg McMuffin or a big greasy donut. I looked around and saw two more people with fruit, one carrying a banana and one an orange, and I thought, ‘Well, shit!’

"So, did you ever see her again?" someone asked.

"Sure, I see her all the time, just about every morning. She loves those oranges," Joe replied and the guys all laughed.

"Y'ever do her?" It was the new kid, Drew, and he said it in a creepy way that Joe didn't care for. In fact he'd already decided that he didn't like Drew, and this clinched it.

Joe was still seated on the barstool but he straightened his back and put his fists on his knees. "Man! You're stupid, you know it? Whaddaya mean, asking me that? You need to learn some manners."

Amanda had been talking to John but listening to Joe, sneaking wide-eyed glances at him, wondering if there'd be a fight but also noticing that he hadn't answered the question. Drew looked at Joe and his fists, then looked away and said, "Take it easy, man, I didn't mean nothin'." Joe relaxed and thought that maybe it was true that no one had ever taught him any manners, that maybe he just didn't know better.

After a silence, Drew said, "So then what happened? I mean, how'd you get this whole fruit thing started?" But he smirked as he said it and Joe didn't trust him. Joe hesitated but went on:

"I thought some more about all those people running around downtown for maybe a two hour period in the morning, trying not to be late but looking for something to eat too. And I could be right there, waiting for somebody to drop their apple. I'm already up early with a truck full of fruit, so why not? And all cash money-no invoices, no checks and -shit!- no taxes!

But I'd need a good parking spot and probably at least a hundred permits. And what about the van? Selling apples out of the back is OK in good weather but what about in the winter or when it rains? And insurance? Man, I didn't know how to do any of this!

So I called my dad. At first he thought it was a stupid idea, saying, ‘Nobody's gonna buy fruit from a kid on the street. In the morning!’ Dad's a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy and I don't think he realized that most people don't eat his kind of breakfast anymore.

I said, ‘Listen! Just go downtown in the morning, park on the street and count the number of fruits that go by.’ He laughed at the stupid joke and I said, ‘No, that's not what I meant! I mean, count the number of people carrying an apple or an orange or a banana or anything to eat that they've brought from home. I was surprised-it's a bunch! And I could be right there.’

He was quiet for a moment and I think he was impressed. I know he was impressed that I'd started the delivery business. And he did go downtown and count the fruits. He called the next day, full of ideas. He'd talked to insurance people and his accountant, the health department and the zoning people, and a friend of his who's high-up in the police department. Nobody thought I'd have any problems, as long as I paid my taxes and got my permits.

‘But we've got to do something about your van’, he said and I noticed the 'we'. ‘It won't do. I talked to a couple of guys and they both said that your operation has to be clean, and I mean spotless. People won't buy dirty fruit, especially women. Your van not only has to be clean but it should be flashy too. So you'll attract attention.’

‘And one other thing. Get rid of the cat. The health department won't like it. Who's gonna walk up and buy an apple while that cat is licking his balls?’

I hadn't expected that and I said, ‘No! Deke's special. He's what will attract the women, not a flashy truck.’ And I told him about the office girl whose apple rolled under my van and about the tears in her eyes.

Dad hesitated, then said, ‘That cat will cause problems, I promise you. But it's your idea. Get ready to deal with some pencil-neck health inspector.’

‘I'll handle him, Dad. But you're right about being spotlessly clean. What about this? I saw this in a movie once where they showed a fruit stand in New York City. The guy would run a bit of water on an apple, wipe it with a towel and hand it to the customer. I'm sure the apple's no cleaner than it was in the box, but it sure feels cleaner! And I could use bottled water, you know, one of those big 5 gallon bottles of Evian?’

My dad had been listening to me as I rolled off these ideas, one leading to another, and he caught my enthusiasm. He interrupted with, ‘You know, half of those people who were carrying fruit were also carrying a water bottle that they'd brought from home. You could fill 'em from your van. Charge maybe a buck and you'd cover the cost of using bottled water to clean the fruit.’

Well after that, we really caught fire on this thing. I mean, you know how you can get going on an idea, how it's fun just thinking about it?"

Amanda sat listening to Joe, hearing him describe how his father had helped him with his idea, and thought of her own father, a self-centered playboy who'd hurt her mother, changing her forever.

As she listened to Joe she caught his brown eyes, saw his full lips moving to the words and felt a fundamental kindness that she'd not seen in other boys. Men, she corrected herself. She thought, "He has some sort of self-confidence that allows the kindness to show. I don't know, maybe all boys, men, have that deep-down kindness but it's hidden by self-doubt and fear. Maybe that's it. Maybe he's just braver than most."

Joe was talking now about his new truck:

"I couldn't believe it when my dad drove up in it. An old Ford milk truck, perfectly restored and painted a creamy white. It must have been used at one time as an ice cream truck because it had a fold-down sales counter cut into the side that could be used to display fruit, exchange money and serve as a perch for Deke. From there, Deke could watch everyone (you know how cats do) but, more importantly, everyone would be able to see him.

This truck had been beautifully restored and I hate to think what it must have cost! Pop had bought it from an old college pal who'd gotten rich in the asphalt business in Texas. He's told me many times about the '55 Studebaker President that they'd owned together.

But the best part about the truck was its smile. I know that sounds stupid but you know how the fronts of old cars have that round look instead of the boxy, angry look that cars have now? Something about that rounded hood looks like a nose. And the radiator grill seems like a brushy mustache over the bumper-mouth underneath. And the headlights have chrome metal shields over their top part that, I swear, looks just like eyelids getting ready to blink.

Well, that truck really made the business take off. People would come just to see it and touch its rounded fenders. And they'd usually buy something. I mean, some mornings there's an actual crowd around it! Some people walk away without buying anything, but only because I can't wait on everyone fast enough!"

"Maybe you need a partner," John said in his quiet voice, looking down at the floor, then at everyone at the table. Amanda got up and walked to the bathroom, excusing herself. Drew followed her and, as Joe answered more questions about his business, he noticed them talking next to the cigarette machine.

Joe headed for the bathroom and, as he approached Amanda and Drew, heard her saying, "...and I've tried to be nice but you just won't.…" Amanda saw him and looked nervous. Drew's eyes darted to Joe's and then quickly back to Amanda.

"Is everything all right?" Joe asked.

"Yes, just fine," Amanda clipped.

"You sure?"

"Yes. I can take care of myself. You're not the only one around here with good sense you know."

Joe was surprised. She was angry. And at him! He looked at Drew and held his eyes for just a second, but long enough to make his point. When he came out of the bathroom they'd returned to the table.

A couple of weeks later, Joe asked Amanda to dinner at a Mexican restaurant that he knew was good because he still delivered their produce, even though he really didn't make much money delivering anymore. She was cool to him at first but as the salsa and the spicy cilantro salad and, sure, the limed Corona's warmed her up, she scooted closer to him. One thing led to another and they ended up at his place with Deke watching them from his "spot" on Joe's cluttered dresser. He jumped down once, to sniff the crotch of Amanda's underpants that she'd frantically thrown on the floor.

"Deke, you perverted old creep! Get outta here," Joe laughed and was relieved to hear Amanda laughing too, hiding her embarrassed face in the pillow.

That next morning, Friday morning, she helped him in the truck for the first time, greeting customers, washing their fruit and smiling shyly at the comments about Joe's new helper. Joe sold out of apples before 8:30. That, in itself, wasn't so unusual but what he noticed was that Amanda had sold most of them.