The Knock | 16 May 2022
I was jolted out of my sleep by loud banging at my front door. I glanced at the clock. 3:30am. Jesus, is he back again?
HCH Response
“Just ignore it,” my roommate groaned from the bathroom. “Party’s over.”
Real talk. The party had been over for two hours, but we had a floater that kept resurfacing. Fucking Keith.
He’d been the last to leave, and definitely the drunkest. Twice I had closed the door behind him, started clearing some mess, and then heard a sloppy knock. I answered with an armful of empties to find him hanging on the door frame: “Ssssorry hey. Hey. Is my jacket in there?” After some furniture shoving we found it rumpled behind the couch. ‘K bye. Click. Off went the kitchen light. Five minutes later: “Ssssuper sorry. Can’t find my phone.” I dialed and woke it from slumber in the neglected planter in the corner of the apartment. He found this hilarious — I was less amused. “Aright man. You all good? Yeah? Wanna do a patdown? Keys, wallet, lighter? Ok. Night.” Click. Off went my pants on the floor of my room. I was starfished out on my bed when I heard the door again.
“Don’t do it,” my roommate warned as I stomped down the hall. “Whatever. It’s on you. But the bathroom is occupied.”
I threw the deadbolt and jerked the door open to find him standing hunched over something wrapped in his jacket, cradled in his arms. His frame had gone concave, two bony shoulders arched inward like wings of a gargoyle perched on a pillar. “I found… this cat. It’s… not great. Can I come in?”
Cradled arms cast and break spells. It doesn’t matter if you’re carrying a baby or a five gallon tub of cheez balls. Primates know: what lies therein is precious, just by virtue of being held protected. As he slipped past me into the apartment, I glimpsed a blood-crusted ear and the sliver of an amber eye nestled in the jacket’s lining.
He lay the bundle on the carpet and the patient was revealed. The cat made a feeble motion to bolt, but gave up in pain. Its breathing was shallow, its fur matted in blood. There were punctures and scrapes on its neck and back, angrily struggling to clot.
Keith had been approaching the overpass that was halfway between our apartments when he saw it. “I thought… I dunno. I just thought you might know what to do? So I came back.”
“Me? Shit… I’m no vet.” I looked down at the pilled inside of Keith’s jacket and thought how lucky the cat was that he hadn’t just gone home without it. With some shame, I suddenly felt softened by that intersection of luck, timing, and circumstance that always seems to follow the soft-hearted. The fools, some might say. Read the room. Go home at a reasonable hour. Check your damn pockets. Don’t impose. Don’t be embarrassing. Why are you stopping? What are you going to do, it’s a street cat. It’ll probably scratch you, and God knows you don’t want that infection. Dude, it’s so late… and so on. But here we were. In the disorder of the living room, I saw Keith in a new light.
His eyes were fixed on the cat. He slowly extended the back of one finger and stroked its leg, so lightly the contact was barely visible. Half an hour ago, he’d been swaying in his sneakers. Now it seemed like he could balance a tray of teacups if it only meant the cat would be okay.
“But I’m glad you did... I get it. It’s good to have help.” I reached over and touched his knee. “I’ll get us some water.”