jackshoegazer | Writing Exercize Number One (Reply)

Charlie was ninety-six when they came for him. They at least allowed him the decency to pack his own suitcase. A strong baritone echoed from the next room, “We haven’t got all day Mr. Colson. Just pack what you’ll need for a few days.”

That is all he was trying to do, but his intentions were derailed. Charlie was transferring some clothes from his burnished oak dresser into his suitcase. As his hands, strong hands, he though, but really thin and gnarled, carefully folded a red and black flannel shirt, a large amber Abyssinian cat leapt onto the lid of the suitcase, snapping it shut.

“Now, Lester, you stop that. I’ve got to go,” Charlie said. Lester met out a long meow, almost human in tone, young, like a child’s first attempt at serious articulation. Charlie smiled, caressing Lester’s brow. The cat responded with a deep purr, rubbing his scent glands into Charlie’s hand. “I wish I could take you with me, but I’ve told you before, all of you,” he said as he scanned his bedroom, eyes moving from one cat to another, a room full of little sentient furballs, “that I can’t. Where I’m going, they ain’t allowing no animals.”

Several of the felines stirred at this. A smoky grey Chartreux with glistening golden eyes stalked out of the room like an indignant wife. Charlie sighed, “Come back here, Betty.” She kept walking and disappeared around the corner. He remembered when he’d picked her up from the breeder’s place in Spokane several years ago, almost a decade now, he decided. Betty was the only kitten of the bunch that didn’t show off, bouncing and leaping when he arrived. She took a good look at him and turned tail and stalked away. Some things never change.

“It don’t make no sense to me either. You kids are cleaner and better behaved than most the people I met in my life.” Charlie reopened his suitcase and placed the flannel inside. “Now listen up. I’ve arranged good homes for you all. Each and every one of you. God, how many are you now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?” Lester meowed. “Yes, right thirty-six,” said Charlie. “That damned son of mine is going to make sure you all go to the right people. Then the movers are gonna come and take what they can to that institution they’re sending me to. I never broke no laws but I getting’ sent up the river nonetheless.”

Charlie wasn’t getting sent to an institution. He wasn’t going to jail. However, his son had arranged an apartment in a retirement community. It was “a very fine facility” according to the aforementioned damned son’s wife. But to Charlie it might as well have been Alcatraz. Back when it was a prison and not a tourist attraction. Charlie would know. He was in Alcatraz, so his comment to his kids, to his thirty-six cats was not technically true, as Charlie had indeed broken some laws.