TheBanyanTree: more from stories

[Tobie Shapiro]

September 25, 20006

Dear Companions,

	You have no idea the plumes of smoke that are rising above my 
life as I busy myself typing up these stories.  Consider yourself 
spared.  Here are more stories.

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Come Get Your Cat

	When I was fourteen, I auditioned with the Young People's 
Symphony Orchestra for a scholarship.  The scholarship would pay for 
music lessons and for membership in the orchestra for a year.  Or at 
least that was my impression of what the scholarship would do.  I 
can't even rememeber what the piece was that I played, though I 
remember the dress I was wearing.  I only remember stumbling when the 
judges asked me to play an F# major scale.  I was deficient in that 
department.  I had plenty of soul, but lacked the rigour and book 
study of thorough scale knowledge.  I squirmed in my seat and 
mumbled, "That's the trouble.  I don't know my scales very well."  I 
picked myself up and carried my cello away in complete humiliation. 
What could have been worse?  I walked home under a dark cloud and 
retreated, sideways like a crab, to my room where I cried into my 
pillow and onto the pages of my journal.  But it turned out that I 
won the scholarship.  There were three prizes being given, and I won 
the second prize.  They would have awarded me the first prize but for 
the F# major scale.  Second prize was not bad: $250.00, which in 
those days was a whole lot of money.

	My parents decided I should be rewarded further and asked me 
what I wanted.  That was easy.  I wanted a cat.  What I wanted most 
in the world was a cat.  My father was allergic to cats, but he put 
up no opposition.  He said I should keep the cat away from him, a 
sort of impossible promise to make.  But I promised I'd do my best. 
My mother took me to the Humane Society way down near the bay in 
Berkeley.  There was a dog section and a cat section.  You could hear 
the dogs barking while you were in the cat section.  Big barks and 
little barks.  Yips and growls.  The cats didn't make much noise.  I 
found myself standing in front of  the cages where the adult cats 
were kept.  I saw a Siamese, a lovely female with beautiful fur and 
dark brown markings on her ears, muzzle, paws and tail.  (What an odd 
genetic code that is.  Imagine this on a human being.)  The cat was a 
year old.  She welcomed my picking her up and cuddling with her. 
This was the one.

	Thai was my first mine only cat.  There had been cats when I 
was a little kid, but they were all neighborhood outdoor cats, who 
only occasionally came inside and they belonged , if they belonged to 
anyone, to the family, not any one of us in particular.  Besides, I 
got to name this one.  She was mine alone.  Thai had an uncanny sense 
of my moods.  And at fourteen, Ihad plenty of them.  She came to me 
when I was depressed or upset without my having to call her.  We 
sided with each other.  She was my most important person, and 
everyone in the family knew that.  Wherever I was in the house, Thai 
gravitated to me.  If I were doing my homework, Thai would be sitting 
on the book.  If I were lounging on the couch, Thai would be on my 
lap.

	My sister did not like my attachment to Thai, and treated her 
not quite well.  I was lying on my back on the couch in the living 
room, reading some endless homework assignment, and Thai was curled 
up on my chest, purring.  My sister, looking over all the other 
places to sit in the room, decided that I had the place she wanted.

	"Get up.  I want to sit there."

	"No.  I was here first.  You can sit in a dozen other places."

	"That's the place I want.  Move."

	This was the sort of intelligent fare that passed for 
conversation between us.  She drove a hard bargain.

	I gave her another perfunctory, "No," and returned to my 
book.  That's when she leaned in, squeezed her hands around the cat's 
neck and lifted her off of my chest.

	"Come get your cat!" she sang.

	It was the fastest sit-up I ever did.  I reached out for 
Thai, and my sister dropped her on the floor, plopping herself down 
in the spot I'd abandoned while rescuing the cat.

	"MOM!!?"

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Pick Up Line

	One of the things I used to like to do, before I became a 
responsible mother of four, was take my writing materials to a bar 
and write while all the craziness happened around me.  There was 
something stimulating about the cacaphony, and it allowed me to form 
an insular wall around myself.  So I felt private.  I'd order maybe 
one drink; the rest were diet sodas, and I'd bury myself in the 
tablet of paper.  The conversations that happen in a bar are often, 
well, what is that word?  Stupid.  Yes.  But not often worth putting 
down in ink.  Every once in a while however, something truly 
memorable comes to pass.  I was seated at the bar with my paper in 
front of me, my pen in hand, writing furiously.  Next to me was a man 
on a barstool, and next to him was another man on a barstool. 
"Another man" leaned over to catch my attention.

	"Hey!  Watcha doin'?  Writin' a book?"

	I looked at him briefly.  "Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing."

	He tried again.  "Can I read it?"

	"No," I answered, letting my annoyance show.  "It's private. 
It's not done yet.  You'll have to wait for it to come out in paper 
back."

	"Aw, come on!  Just a little?"

	"No," I said, not even looking at him.

	Then he tried a different avenue.  "What's your sign?"

	"I can't believe you asked that."  I returned to my writing, 
shaking my head.

	Then he addressed the man between us, shouting in his ear, 
"Gee, it sure is hard pickin' up on a chick when she's writing a 
book."

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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net