This Month's Story

“… and if you really want anything, you’re going to have to say something.” This is me talking and it’s Holly listening.

“Paul, when are you going to learn that Holly does not understand English?” Stella looks in at the two of us. Holly is at the side of my chair staring fixedly up at me, feigning intense interest in what I’m saying.

“Oh, he understands all right! When I start to sing, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,” he may think I’m actually singing, ‘Put the Chicken in the Soup and Leave the Fat out,” but that’s the cat in him. The point is, he understands what he wants to understand.”

With that, I looked down at Holly, who hasn’t moved. “Hey, baby duck, would you like something to eat?” Instantly, Holly is on his feet and heading toward the kitchen. I get up and follow him with a, “See, he understands,” over my shoulder. In the kitchen, as I pour dry cat food into Holly’s bowl, I hear Stella’s rejoinder from the hall, “Maybe it’s you learning cat language.”

Maybe what she said is true; Holly and I do have a rapport. It may be on a very basic level, but it’s there. We understand each other. The rapport I and Stella have is more subtle and on an everyday working level, our rapport has a lot of leaks. My problem is that when she gives me those looks, I understand what she means, but I go ahead and do it anyway.

A good case in point happened at a gathering at a friend’s house the other week. Another guest had pigeon-holed Stella and was telling her about he and his wife’s trip to Russia and how much it had cost. I couldn’t tell which point he was trying to make the more impressive, the fact that he went to Russia or how much it cost. Stella stood the whole time during his one sided discourse, smiling her ‘oh, my’ smile that hid the fact that she had been to Russia when it was the USSR and that at the time she went, she was an all expense paid guest of the Soviets.

I moved between them and shoved my hand out, effectively cutting his story short.

His eye’s lit up as I introduced myself, “Oh, hey, Jim told me about you. Said you write books. Say, am I glad to see you. I’ve always wanted to write a book about my experiences, but I’m so busy, I never have the time. You wouldn’t believe the things that have happened to me, the things I’ve done. They would make great stories. You know something, we could collaborate. With what skills Jim says you have in writing and me telling you some of my stories, we could really have ourselves a best seller. Why when I was young, did you know, I…”

I interrupted, “You looked jaundiced.”

I had been staring at him as he talked and I leaned closer, looking at one side of his face and then the other, staring markedly at his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor,” I explained. “I read up on all that medical stuff and I think I can do most of it now.”

Behind me, Stella was starting to get that look which I know very well. I ignored her and went on with my monologue. “Last night,” I continued, “I read on the web about yellowish pigmentation of the skin. It’s caused by the deposition of bile pigmentation, pretty simple stuff. You know, around your eyes...”

By now the man was sputtering and then, spotting his wife across the room, excused himself, and hurriedly moved away.

Stella watched him leave and then turned to me, “You’ve always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Well, yeah. That and a concert pianist. Shouldn’t be anything to it. I could learn them both in a week if I had the time.”

“Oh, what are you so busy doing?”

“Writing a book. It’s not as easy as some people think.