A Stained Carpet

by Gary Inbinder

Nemo slouched in a worn leather recliner that faced a dormant television. On the wall, a few inches above the TV, hung a framed print depicting a fiery coastal sunset. A lamp glowed dimly on an end table next to Nemo’s chair. His shadowy form resembled an ancient Peruvian mummy that was buried upright in a cave facing the sea. He stared at a spot on the carpet.

Kafka crept in on little cat feet, like the fog in Sandburg’s poem.

“Excuse me, Mr. Nemo,” the cat meowed. “I was just checking to see if you were still alive.”

Nemo coughed to clear his throat before asking, “What did you say?”

“I said I was checking your vital signs. Since you’re my main source of food and shelter, it’s a matter of some concern to me.”

Nemo’s eyes narrowed; his mouth twisted in a rictus-like grin. He coughed again and took a deep breath. Then he made a show of reaching over with his left hand and felt the pulse in his right wrist. “I detect life. And, to quote Descartes, ‘I think, therefore I am’.”

“Mew. Mew.” The cat laughed, but he found his friend’s morbid humor disturbing. He paused a moment to consider the situation before continuing his inquiry. “Since you’re still among the living, would you mind telling me why you’re in this dreary room at midnight with the TV off, staring at a spot on the tatty old carpet?”

“Guess.”

“Is this one of your riddles?”

“Might be.”

“Sorry. I’m clueless.”

“Are you indeed? Look down at the carpet. Tell me what you see.”

Kafka looked. “I see a beige shag carpet that ought to have been replaced ages ago.”

“Anything else?”

“What else am I supposed to see?” the cat meowed impatiently. “Unswept crumbs from your last ten meals? Dandruff flakes? Dead bugs? Mouse turds?”

“Come now, Kafka. You cats are known for your keen eyesight. It’s right in front of you, as plain as the long whiskers on your face.”

Kafka scrutinized a purplish spot that was located near his right forepaw. “Oh, you mean that?”

“Yes, that. Do you recall how it got there?”

“No; I don’t.”

“Your memory is short.”

“As is my life, relative to yours.”

Ignoring the feline sarcasm, Nemo continued. “I’ll refresh your memory. Do you recall jumping onto my lap while I was enjoying a glass of my favorite Pinot Noir?”

“Ah, now that you mention it, the incident does ring a bell. But leaping onto your lap was a spontaneous expression of feline playfulness. Truly, it was a sign of affection.”

“I see. And I suppose, prior to affectionately pouncing on me, you didn’t notice that I had a full glass of wine in my hand?”

“Cats don’t always look before we leap. It’s our nature. You can’t blame me for acting like a cat.” Kafka gazed up at Nemo with appealing emerald eyes.

“Sounds like an excuse to me. Do you know what George Washington said about excuses?”

“No, but I’m almost certain you’re about to tell me.”

Nemo winced at another snide remark. Little smart ass, he thought. Then he quoted: “‘It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.’”

“A perspicacious observation. Did you pass this nugget of wisdom on to your son?”

“I did and, sad to say, I had to repeat it on several occasions. Like you, he had a plethora of dubious excuses and a conveniently short memory.”

“I don’t believe you’ve seen or heard from him lately.”

“He sent me a card on my last birthday. And, as I’m sure you know, he lives back East and has his own problems. I’m not complaining.”

“Why should you complain? And your granddaughters? You haven’t seen them for some time, either. Did they send you birthday cards?”

Nemo frowned dismissively. “Cutesy animated ecards. I suppose they made them and were inspired by something they saw online. They spend too much time on social media.”

“At least they took the time and trouble to make the cards,” the cat declared encouragingly.

“Do you want to see them?”

“Not unless you have a great desire to show them to me.”

“Good. I don’t. Or rather, I can’t. I deleted them.”

Kafka mewed the feline equivalent of a sigh. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are the girls doing now?”

“The older one’s in her first year of high school. Her sister’s in seventh grade. They live with their mother and the third man unfortunate enough to have married the bitch. At least he has lots of money to throw at her and the girls, so maybe she’ll stick with him longer than she did with my son.”

Kafka thought a moment before observing: “You’re not in a very good mood, are you?”

“You’re very perceptive, Mr. Pussycat.”

“If you don’t mind another observation concerning your moods, you do tend to get this way each year when your birthday rolls around. It’s next week, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Are my yearly mood swings so obvious?”

“I’m afraid so. At least to someone who knows you as well as I do. Since you’re fond of quoting the famous dead, here’s another adage for your collection: ‘Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret.’ I assume you’re experiencing the regretful stage?”

Nemo ignored the question concerning his age. Instead, he asked, “Whom did you quote?”

“Disraeli.”

“Disraeli,” he said with a wry grin and a disdainful snort. “I suppose that’s from one of his novels?”

“Yes, it’s from Coningsby.”

“I read that more than fifty years ago, in a nineteenth-century British Lit. class. Dizzy’s OK, but I preferred Thackery and Trollope. And, when it comes to political satire, you can’t beat the French. Have you read Zola’s Son Excellence Eugène Rougon?”

“Mais oui !” Kafka mewed en français.

Nemo smiled sardonically at the erudite feline. “Leave it to you to evade the subject in your devious kitty-cat way.”

“What subject was that?”

“You know damned well what subject!” Nemo pointed to the stain on the carpet with a shaking finger.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. What are we going to do about it?”

Kafka bounded up onto Nemo’s lap. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Very well.” Nemo sighed.

“We’re mostly powerless when dealing with life’s great misfortunes, but annoying little things can be fixed. You’ve lived here for thirty years. The carpet is atrocious. Why don’t you ask the landlord to replace it?”

“No way!” Nemo replied with a weary shake of his head. “The greedy bastard would use it as an excuse to jack up my rent.”

“Well then, do the next best thing. Get a good carpet stain remover. Surely you can afford it?”

Nemo admitted the wisdom of the cat’s suggestion with a shrug. “Very well. I’ll put it on this week’s shopping list. But could you do me a favor in return?”

“Name it.”

“Please don’t pounce on me when I’m eating, drinking or engaged in some other pursuit where your pouncing might cause a foreseeable risk of harm.”

Kafka considered the request for a moment before responding in lawyerly fashion. “You’re asking me to repress my feline instincts. Since you’re my best friend, in this instance I’ll try, but failure in my endeavor to keep such a promise is a distinct possibility.”

Nemo rejoined in a similarly legalistic manner. “Well, since you are my best friend, in case of a failure to keep your promise I, in turn, promise not to hold you strictly liable for any damages that I might incur.”

“Fair enough,” Kafka replied. Then he stretched and yawned. “I’m tired. Think I’ll call it a night.”

“Me too.”

Nemo shuffled off to the bedroom while Kafka sacked out on the recliner’s armrest. Just as Kafka was settling down comfortably, angry cries shattered the silence.

“Son of a bitch! Damn!”

Nemo’s continued shouting roused up the cat. Kafka scampered into the shadowy bedroom where he saw Nemo hopping up and down on one foot while holding on to the other.

Nemo continued hopping and cussing a blue streak until the cat remarked: “Looks like you stubbed your toe again.”

“Third time this week. Damn desk is too close to the damn bed!”

“May I make another suggestion?”

Nemo gave a painful grunt in the affirmative.

“Switch on the hallway light before you enter the bedroom.”

“Good idea. I’ll try to remember that.”

“And I’ll try to remember to remind you.”

Nemo stopped hopping. He sat on the edge of the bed and continued rubbing his sore toes. Then he turned to Kafka and said, “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Nemo. Good-night.” The cat padded back to the living room recliner.

Nemo muttered a few more choice cuss words, but softly so as not to disturb the cat. Then he undressed, climbed under the covers, rolled onto his side, and adjusted the pillow. After a minute or two, he grew drowsy. His lips curled up in a smile. “’It's better to light a candle than to curse the darkness,’” he murmured. Then he drifted off into a deep sleep.