Gato (Winner oi Honorable Mention,Short Story America)
Domingo Vasquez awoke with hammers inside his head and a mouth so dry he was sure his tongue had been welded to the roof of his mouth. Since he had consumed nearly a full bottle of tequila the previous night before falling fully-clothed into bed, this was neither unexpected nor uncommon.
Untangling himself from the thin blanket he had wrapped around himself as he slept, he hobbled stiffly from his windowless bedroom into what passed for his kitchen and living room. As he poured a glass of water from the ceramic jar atop his small refrigerator, he became aware that he was not alone. Turning warily, he discovered a cat sitting on his kitchen table, regarding him calmly with unusual green eyes. Aside from its eyes it was quite an ordinary cat, soft gray in color with darker subdued stripes. It looked well fed and cared for.
How had it gotten in? Had he left the door open when he returned home? If he had, it was now closed.
No matter, he thought. Out it goes. He opened the door and attempted to shoo the cat toward it, waving his hands and shouting. The cat showed no sign of being afraid of him and simply moved back on the table, out of reach.
Domingo wondered if he should get a broom and chase it but there was something about the cat’s green eyes that suggested that wouldn’t be a good idea. At that moment his headache returned in full force and he decided that the best course of action was to leave the door open and return to bed. The cat got in by itself; it could leave the same way.
It was past ten in the morning when Domingo awoke again, feeling something pressing against his leg. Raising himself on one elbow, he discovered the cat curled up comfortably and asleep beside him. This was not good, he thought. He did not need a cat. Especially one that could enter houses whose windows and doors were closed.
Irritably, he kicked it off the bed and onto the floor. As though this were the most normal thing in the world, the cat landed gracefully, then sat, licked one paw and serenely proceeded to wash its face.
The cat’s equanimity puzzled Domingo. Maybe this is not a cat at all, he thought. Perhaps it is a sign. But a sign from whom, he wondered? From God or from the Devil?
He had done nothing he could think of to attract the attention of the Devil. Well, drinking perhaps. But he had never harmed anyone. He was not a thief or a bully. He was a poor man. What would the Devil want with a poor man? Didn’t the Devil punish those with money?
What little money he had he earned by washing cars on Lic. Justo Mendoza, the street that ran along the backside of Bosque Cuauhtémoc. Some days he earned enough to splurge on a meal at a cocina economica, thirty pesos for soup, beans, rice, meat, tortillas and flavored water. On bad days he would settle for two beef tacos from a street vendor for seven pesos each. Any money left over would go for tequila.
He decided to do nothing about the cat. When he left for work he left the window in his living room open. Certainly the animal would be gone when he returned home that evening.
For several days there had been dusty construction on one of the streets leading into Justo Mendoza. Perhaps because of that or because people were being directed by the pointing finger of God, more than the usual number of drivers pulled over to the side of the street where Domingo waited that day with his buckets, sponge and tattered rags. It was the best day he had had in more than a month and he was able to treat himself to a good meal, buy a bottle of tequila and still have 60 pesos left.
He had forgotten about the cat and, when he returned home, was surprised to find it sitting on the table just as it had when he first discovered it.
“So you’re still here,” he said. He took a glass from the shelf and sat down opposite the cat which regarded him soberly without answering. Domingo filled his glass and took a swallow, the cheap liquor burning pleasantly in his throat.
“I had a good day today,” he told the cat. “Maybe you brought me luck.” He finished the glass of tequila and started to pour another but stopped. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t feel like drinking.
He went to bed and lay there wondering if the cat really had been sent by God; if it really had brought him luck.
The following day he discovered that his good fortune on Friday had not gone unnoticed. Two men, one his own age, the other a teenager, had set up in his usual position and were attempting to flag down motorists. Enraged, Domingo ran at them shouting, “Get out of here you motherfuckers. This is my spot. Find your own places you ass holes.”
The younger of the two retreated but the older man stood his ground. “First come, first served, pendejo,” he yelled back at the advancing Domingo. “I’ve got just as much right to this spot as you do.” He would have continued but Domingo swung a bucket at him and knocked him to the ground.
The day before had been good. This day was better. Car after car stopped as if pulled to his spot by a heavenly magnet. As soon as Domingo finished with one, another was waiting. He had never earned so much money in one day.
Again, he treated himself to a good meal, convinced that the cat had brought him luck. After eating, instead of buying his customary bottle of tequila, he walked to the sprawling Mercado de San Juan and bought a kilo of dry cat food. At a shop near his home he bought a bottle of milk.
The following day was Sunday. He went to church and put 20 pesos in the offering plate to thank God for sending him the cat. He still had 240 pesos.
That night, as he put food in the cat’s bowl, he considered his good fortune. In the parking lots of the city’s large plazas he had seen men with machines on wheels washing and even waxing cars. Lettering on the machines said that waxing cost 110 pesos, an astounding amount. Perhaps if he stopped drinking and saved his money he could buy one of the machines. He might even be able to get a job in one of the lots. There were hundreds of cars there. There was no end to the money he could earn.
Domingo arrived at his spot early the following morning, filled his buckets from the nearby fountain and set to work. Once again, God smiled on him. It was not as good a day as Saturday, but it was good.
Late that afternoon as he was cleaning his sponge and rags in the fountain and thinking of dinner, he noticed two men crossing the park toward him. One he recognized as the man he had cursed and hit with his bucket. Anticipating what was about to happen, he braced his back against the stone edge of the fountain and prepared to defend himself. The men set upon him quickly, attacking him with lengths of boards they had concealed behind their backs as they approached. When he was on the ground they continued to hit and kick him until he passed out.
It was growing dark when he regained consciousness and he lay there for many minutes trying to focus on where he was before he felt strong enough to pull himself to a sitting position by holding on to the edge of the fountain.
When he could finally stand he felt nauseous and threw up onto the nearby grass. Every part of him hurt and he wondered if he was bleeding inside from the kicks to his stomach and kidneys. His buckets and the money he had earned that day were gone. They had taken everything, even the old sponge, rags and his rubber boots..
“Bastards,” he said. Even talking hurt. He knew he’d be lucky to make it home without passing out.
It was late when Domingo reached his home and pushed open his door. Immediately he staggered to the shelf and took down a glass. The bottle of tequila from Friday was still nearly full and he collapsed into his single chair and poured himself a generous amount. As he did, the cat entered from the bedroom, jumped up on the table, took its familiar spot and stared at him with its unusual green eyes.
Domingo took a deep swallow of tequila. God doesn’t have green eyes, he thought. This is a cat. Only a cat.