what are you doing

Clenching his teeth and shaking his head in disgust, Paul reached for the bottle of vodka hidden behind his computer screen. He reached for his water cup and, without batting an eye, poured himself a generous helping of Russian comfort. Paul took another hard look at the error he had just discovered in his calculations and cursed to himself silently.

"Fucking thing."

The Finance Manager popped into his office,

"Want to grab lunch, Paul?"

Paul looked up and shook his head 'No'.

The Finance Manager left his office, and Paul gingerly picked up his glass.

"Here's to me."

He drank from the glass unceremoniously, and leaned back in his chair. How long must I suffer, he asked himself, how much can I give? The late nights, the working Saturdays, the "mission-critical" deadlines - how much punishment can any man take? He stared down his glass and helped himself to another sip.

From a distance, Nathan watched Paul wince from the alcohol. Nathan's eyes focused on the glass, then on Paul, and then retreated back to his computer screen, disturbed by what he just saw. Paul had picked up on this, but said nothing. He watched as Nathan then shut down his computer and headed out to lunch with a few co-workers.

Hardly embarassed, Paul set aside his glass and wondered what Nathan thought of him. He saw a lot of his younger self in Nathan - young... ambitious... eager to please and get noticed. Completely oblivious. He smirked to himself. "Nathan," Paul wished he could say, "Go out and explore the world! You should be out, trekking across South America, studying abroad in London, wooing Swedish women! What on God's beautiful earth are you doing here???"

He wished he could say these things, but knew better. He then redirected his gaze back to the screen, and began tackling the world's problems once more. One number at a time.

"My Little Kitty"

The best thing Nabi did was sleep with one of the neighborhood cats and have kittens. They looked like everything that is right in this world - absolutely adorable! Other than that, I don't have many good memories of her. Neither does my mom. Over the phone, my mom would constantly let me know what strange sounds Nabi had made all through the night, what sofa she attacked last, what smells she was responsible for. And with each complaint, I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that she was my cat and my responsibility. Nabi was barely manageable when I was still around; without having me there as a dedicated carer, she suffered from neglect and acted in kind. She went from being "My Little Kitty" to "Public Enemy #1".

"Nathan, if you don't do something about this cat, I'M GONNA KILL IT WITH MY HANDS, I swear to God!" - Mom

Sometime during sophomore year, my mom told me that Nabi had gone missing. I told her not to worry, that Nabi was making the most of her freedom and would be home when we least expected it. By then, Nabi was the least of my concerns. I was 400 miles away and preoccupied with sex, drugs and rock and roll (okay, maybe just sex). Secretly, though, I hoped that Nabi wouldn't come back. I hoped that she would find a new, better home and finally relieve my family of the burden and myself of the guilt. Days and weeks passed with no news. My mom never told me if she had come home, and I didn't bother asking.

It's been years since I've seen her last. It was then a complete surprise for me when I saw her in my sleep.

I was lounging in my backyard at home, laying out, enjoying the sun. I then see Nabi, only much older and worse for wear. Her pretty, black and grey coat had been replaced with coarse, thick hairs that accentuated her wiry, muscular frame. In fact, she did not resemble Nabi or a housecat at all; she looked like a bobcat. It wasn't until a mouse started crawling toward me that I recognized her by her voice,

"Don't worry! I got it!"

The mouse leaped out of Nabi's way. Nabi dove and dove again, each time throwing herself around with greater violence. Within a few moments, the mouse had scurried to safety, but not without leaving Nabi in a heap, with several cuts and bruises.

"I'm sorry I let you down." Nabi said with great disappointment.

I inexplicably had Neosporin, cotton swabs and bandages handy, so I began to dress her wounds.

"That's OK. You didn't even have to." I answered, reassuringly, bandaging her open cuts.

Nabi then looked up at me, into my eyes. "You're not going to leave me again, are you?"

I stroked the stiff, hard hairs on the back of her head and took a half-second too long to answer.

"No, of course not." And I meant it.

Bellwether

I removed the bread crumbs from the mats and seats in my Camry in anticipation for our date. I remember washing my car and meticulously applying Armor-All to each tire, making sure the polish didn't drip into the rim.

When I entered the house, my mom and dad both asked me if I needed some help getting ready; me going on a date was as alien to them as it was to me. I played it off and marched straight into the bathroom, massaging my head with gel and studying hair's stubborn ways. The barber had cut it too short that day. I told myself that hair wasn't a big deal, that no one cared, but spent an hour staring at it anyway. When the time drew near, I grabbed my Red Hot Chili Peppers "By The Way" single and jumped into my car. I checked to see that the gas was at "F", put on the CD, and drove to your house, excited and scared out of my mind.

I don't remember if I prayed to God before knocking on your door. If I didn't, that's only because I forgot to.

Your mom gave me a full interrogation:

Where are you going to college?

Where are you taking my daughter?

What is your SAT score?

I was deathly nervous, but determined to win your mom over. I gave the answers any mother would love to hear, each capped with my signature smile. At the end, she seemed relaxed and accepting, and hoped to see me back around. It was a first, minor victory, I thought, and hoped it was an omen of good things to come.

That didn't happen. Four days later, you said it wasn't working out. I was devastated. I replayed scenes from our date over and over, counting the awkward silences and flat jokes that I knew I could fix. For those next few months, I was inconsolable. I spent many nights drinking Coke and listening to "By The Way" hundreds of times, wishing I could show up to your house as Anthony Kiedis and take you away forever. My melancholy wouldn't last very long - senior year quickly came to an end, and before long, I was off to Northern California where I would have much better luck than I ever did with you.

Some of the disappointment I suffered has stayed with me, like cigarette smoke lingering in a closed room. But for what it's worth, I did want to say this: when you ended it, you had nothing but the kindest words for me to hear. I didn't want to listen, but those words stayed with me. I know now that everything you said was the absolute truth, and in time I've learned to appreciate them. Thank you.

You know, your name comes up in conversation here and there. And after all these years, I find myself smiling and hoping that you're doing well, wherever you are.