Bob Barker Had The Right Idea
Featured in SORTES Magazine, Ed. 11.
Harold sat on a metal bench, watching the train he’d missed disappear through the tunnel. There was no doubt he would be late for work now. He checked his watch, a plastic piece he’d won from his nephew’s birthday pinata. It only fit with the addition of a rubber band laced through the notch, but a free watch was better than nothing. The dinosaur hands confirmed he was going to be late.
Harold leaned back, shifting in hopes of making the bench grow more comfortable. A jingle crackled on the speakers. The arrival time for the next train had been pushed back another twenty minutes.
The station collectively groaned.
Harold watched the platform empty until he sat alone, wondering if this job was worth having to smell subway urine every morning.
He leaned down to grab his threadbare bag but paused as a tabby cat appeared. It took a seat next to Harold, gazing off toward the tracks as though it were waiting too. Harold gazed around the platform, but no one looked like they were missing a cat.
The cat scanned Harold, as if it was assessing his appearance and deciding whether it should stay.
“Ps, ps, ps,” Harold stuck out a hand. He clicked his tongue and wiggled his fingers. The cat’s eyes narrowed. “No?”
“No.” The cat replied.
Harold’s mouth fell slack. He blinked a few times, sure he had imagined the cat responding. It must be the lack of sleep… or maybe too much caffeine? His doctor did say his blood pressure was too high. Were hallucinations a symptom of that? He’d had a second cousin who had gone insane after inhaling too much helium as a part-time clown, but surely that wasn’t hereditary.
The cat began cleaning itself. Every few seconds its eyes darted up to Harold. When it finished washing its face, it resumed staring at the tracks.
“Off to work?” It asked.
Harold didn’t respond. He stuck a finger in his ear and shook it vigorously.
“I’ve never had the displeasure of a job myself,” The cat sighed. “Much to busy for that. Do you enjoy your work?”
Harold opened his mouth but couldn’t find his voice. He shrugged.
“I’m not the employable type. Companies prefer the mindless drones who don’t think for themselves. I prefer to travel.”
Harold scrunched his nose, trying to decide if he’d just been insulted or not. “There’s nothing wrong with having a –”
“Have you traveled to New Mexico before?”
“No but I’ve always wanted to go. I just can’t get the time-”
“I’ve been to New Mexico. Ghastly weather in New Mexico. Too hot. Too humid. Do you like the heat, Mr.?”
“Harold,” Harold replied. “I don’t mind the heat so long as-”
“I hate the heat.” The cat continued. “Does horrible things to fur. What I prefer are temperate climates. As the Honorable Hepzibah Montigo once told me, ‘You find the most agreeable people in temperate climates’. I’m partial to Charleston in the spring. Excellent weather there.”
“Wait, who is Hepaba Mon-”
“I knew a fellow by the name of Colonel Bixby who’d always say Philadelphia was the place to be. Of course, he was mad. Most people from Philadelphia are. I went to Philadelphia just to see what the fuss was about. You can only go so long hearing about a place before you must investigate for yourself. Sadly, the only thing there worth going for is the food. You must travel for the food.”
The furthest Harold had ever journeyed was New Jersey, and his cousin’s bachelor party to Atlantic City wasn’t exactly something worth bragging about. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to travel. He had, in fact, purchased an expensive backpack just after college in hopes of a grand European tour. It wasn’t until after it arrived that he realized he had no money for the plane ticket. He took the first job offer he could get in hopes he could have his expedition soon.
That had been ten years ago.
The cat, unaware of Harold depressing spiral, was still talking about places it had been.
“- I once met a French chef who was staying at the Algonquin, and I told him he just had to try the crab from Maryland. It is the only way to eat crab, fresh from the harbor. And he of course took my advice. It would be silly for him not to.”
“You’ve been to Maryland, too?”
“No,” the cat snapped. “I never said I’ve been there.”
“But you just -”
“As I said, the crab in Maryland is just superb. The Frenchman wrote me a letter not long after, thanking me for the recommendation. Decent fellow.”
Harold shifted uncomfortably. The cat grating on his nerves, not that it noticed.
A woman appeared at the end of the platform, too engrossed with her phone to notice the cat. She came to a stop a few feet away, smiling at whatever was on the screen.
“Hey!” Harold shouted. “Can you see
this cat?”
The woman looked up with wide eyes. She spotted the cat, who was sitting unnaturally still. “How cute. What’s its name?”
“It’s not mine.” Harold said with disgust. “It just showed up and started talking! It won’t shut up. Couldn’t you hear it?”
The woman’s smile instantly disappeared. She took a step back, but Harold would not be deterred.
“I’m not crazy, lady. It talks. Listen! Go on, cat. Say something!” Harold snapped. The cat began cleaning itself. “It was talking! Wait don’t go-”
The woman began running in the opposite direction. Harold slumped into the bench.
“Here’s some advice,” The cat continued. “A nice bath goes a long way to making a good impression.”
Harold discreetly sniffed his shirt. “I don’t need advice,”
“I wash at least five times a day. In the mornings I wake up, bathe, and then take my tea with exactly two lumps of sugar. It must be exactly two or it is undrinkable. After tea I enjoy going to a local café to meet people and tell them stories of my travels. In the afternoon, I take my second bath, and -”
“And I don’t need a rundown of what you do every day.”
“-like to take a stroll in a park. It is there I will enjoy my third bath of the day, preferable in a sunny spot to watch the birds. A park is no park at all unless there are birds.”
“I don’t care,” Harold groaned. “Listen, kitty. Why don’t you go find someone else to talk to?”
“Have I ever told you of the time I went to the town of West York?”
“Do you mean New York?”
“It all began when I had learned that West York had an annual competition for yodeling and as you know, I’ve held the title in Boston for years -”
“Why would I know that?” Harold mumbled.
“So of course, I had to continue my legacy and travel to West York. If I recall correctly it had started as a sunny Monday. After my black tea with exactly two lumps of sugar, and a bath – as I said before it is important to maintain hygiene if you want to be taken seriously – yes two lumps of sugar exactly, I began my trip to East York. No, West York. I was on my way to East York, and there happened to be a wonderful café with exceptional scones. I only eat tuna on Mondays as I’ve said. I hope you are paying attention.”
Harold dragged his hands down his face.
“Now the yodeling contest was in West York. I had been in Galveston, which as you know, does not allow dogs in hotels. So, I went to West York to claim another title as Best Yodeler. I will sing some for you now.”
The cat began to howl, its little paw tapped to a beat Harold could not hear. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the tabby sang on. One of its paws gave a flourish in the air as the song ended.
“Thank you for the applause.” It said, bowing.
Harold slowly pulled his hands from his ears, which had not clapped once. It seemed the cat had said all it could think of and was finally finished speaking. Harold let out a long sigh, glad for some silence.
When it wasn’t talking, he had to admit it was cute. He pictured giving it some little goggles to wear as they rode a shoddy moped in Phuket; they could share a bowl of vichyssoise in Marseille and collect seashells on the Amalfi coast.
The more he thought about it the more Harold loved the idea. The cat was a fuzzy little miracle, here to shake him from his routine and introduce him to the wonders of the world! It was time to embrace adventure. He’d name it something refined, like Duke or Mr. Fuzzy Toes. With this cat, there was nothing he couldn’t do.
The signal for the incoming train pulled Harold from his thoughts. He turned to the cat, ready to seize the day. He opened his mouth to profess his need to travel but the cat beat him to it.
“As I was saying, I began my journey to West York on a Monday. After my morning tea and exactly two lumps of sugar I found my way to the yodeling contest. On Tuesday – ”
Harold snatched his bag and sprinted to the oncoming train. The doors had barely opened before he threw himself into the car. The people around him muttered as they shuffled around him to exit. He didn’t care. He collapsed into a seat beside a shirtless man carrying several bags stuffed with fake birds.
Harold’s eyes were glued to the cat. It was watching him in return. For one terrifying moment he feared it would try to follow. As the train’s doors closed, he sighed in relief.
“Merry Christmas,” the man beside him said. He reached into his bag and removed a gold finch with missing eyes. Upon closer inspection Harold realized it was a very real, very stuffed, taxidermized bird. He eyed the man’s hands, whose nails were encrusted with what looked suspiciously like blood. “Bob Barker reminding you, help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered.”
Harold leaned back into his seat with a smile. “You’ve got that right, friend.”
***
Bob Barker Had The Right Idea was featured in the 11th edition of SORTES Magazine. To read the publication, visit: SORTES 11