On my way to work today, I came upon a cat. It was black, and dead. Or, maybe just pretending to be dead. I didn't really examine the creature like some kind of taxidermist. Either way, I thought, "Oh fuck, this can't be good."
I'm surprisingly superstitious. I don't walk on cracks or under latters. Umbrealls are for outside use only, and I avoid both hockey games and summer camps on Friday the 13th. Yet, I managed to stay calm and go about my morning---until the train was late, a lady spilled hot coffee on my foot, and I nearly got trapped in the men's room. But that can happen anyday, I assured myself. There was no way crossing paths with a kitty would do me such harm. And then, I went to lunch at my usual place--a buffet-style deli where you pay by the pound. I got my basics: some greens, some fresh mozzarella and tomato, and topped it with a few slices of skirt steak. My bill was exactly $6.66. Yep, black cat followed by the "devil's" number. Now, my thoughts multiply to "Oh fuck, I'm doomed." So, I call my mother (never a good idea in a time of panic, by the way) and ask her to finally come clean about where I came from. "You adopted me from Satan, didn't you?" "Yep," she tells me, chomping down on a potato chip. "Those horns were a bitch to cut off and everything." We laugh for a minute, until Mom decides to do that annoying thing that mothers can do sometimes--read into things. "Mark, you really don't think Satan's after you, right?" "No, Mom." "Because...wait, never mind." "Just...say it!" "Well...if you believe in the devil, then--" "I changed my mind, don't say it." "Seriously, if you believe in the devil, then you have to believe in God again, right? I make up an excuse--work, something or other--and hang up the phone. Because I'd rather deal with spooky, demonic creatures out to get me than getting into a thelogical debate with my mother. Atleast, with the demons, I still have a fighting chance.
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Mark Jason Williams
I find trouble wherever I go Archives
January 2014
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