The Crossroads sofa features beastly Gaby. Legs open wide, the skirt barely there at all. The connoisseurs of private parts huddle around, peeking in eagerly. Gaby’s having fun, swatting at them with her purse and squeaking coyly, but doing nothing to limit the view. When they see Great Bird it’s all silence and jerky jumps away. I part that silence and take it with me, the silence, the flushed cheeks, and the sickening feeling of being somehow involved. A stern grandfather happening on a granddaughter in a compromising position. Disgusting. And funny at the same time.
A familiar tune assembles thread by thread out of thin air and pulls me in. I slow down. The Coffeepot’s entrance. Guitar gently weeping. Rats swaying their motley heads blissfully, pressing into the tiled walls. All the slender-legged stools are packed, but mine’s free as always, projecting emptiness two seats deep. Only Shuffle, the troubadour of our youth, is pressing right against it, his nose buried in the strings.
I come in and sit down. Shadow takes the seat to the left of me. Louis goes on the right. An empty cup. I look in and it fills up. I nod, I drink, I take out the key ring and count the keys. Eighteen, just as expected. The same result time after time after time. Someone with gills and one nostril floats closer. Wheezing. Puts out a claw. A silver earring. Nice, but there’s no place to put it. It would ruin the general concept. The gills droop sadly. More wheezing. A tiny key, about the size of my pinky nail, is tendered. Silver as well. I try it on. Now this I have to get.
“How much?”
The claw extends four fingers. That’s as many as it has. I draw the wallet out from the secret pocket. I pay up. I have this soft spot for keys. Especially when they’re useless. Doggy breath behind my back. That would be Shuffle.
“I hope the music isn’t bothering you?”
“Not at all, old man. Quite the opposite. Pity you’re not singing. How about it?”
He smiles, a mute question in his eyes. “You, of all people, should know I don’t have the voice for it.”
I know. He only sings when he’s drunk now. Not having the voice doesn’t stop him when he’s not sober. He launches into “Immigrant Song.” By itself, without the singing, it’s harshing me, but I can handle it. By the time he gets to the end, the Coffeepot is packed. Rats’ skulls mostly, making my eyes see spots, but then Rodents are huge fans of the Big Song, wouldn’t do to throw them out of the dear old feeding trough. I put on dark shades instead. All there’s to it. One hundred percent improvement. The skulls acquire a gray uniformity, the nerves settle down. We can listen in peace again.
At the first strains of the Lady and her “Stepladder to the Skies,” Sphinx wanders in. Three perches empty in short order. He mounts one of them and goggles with his black beetles set deep into the virginally clean skull. An amazing specimen. I pull off my shades because he needs to be appreciated in color, and we continue listening. Sphinx begins to pipe in softly. Rats sway. Shuffle’s guitar picks up steam and breaks into arpeggios. Sphinx picks up steam and breaks into scream-whispers. I pick up steam too and start keeping time with my foot.
Someone jumps up and closes the door, just in time to prevent the invasion of more riffraff. This charming evening is going to end in a scuffle, because that’s the way it is with Rats, but we’re not there yet. We’re good. Especially me. Shuffle scratches his nose, Sphinx grins. Music is a perfect way of erasing thoughts, bad and otherwise. The best and the oldest.
We’re chilling for about half an hour, and then a depressed junior Rat suddenly bursts into tears and digs out a razor. They can’t help themselves. That’s about the only redeeming quality in a Rat, his constant readiness to off himself, anytime, anyplace. Himself or those around him. That old fart Don Juan Matus would be happy. But not many others would. I, for one, detest these things.
The Ratling is sawing at his wrist, drowning in snot. Shuffle, entranced by the performance, stares and bungles the melody. End of the fun. Rats file out reluctantly, hauling off the youngling to be patched up. Nice-looking scarlet puddles on the floor. Sphinx sighs. I put on my Number 5 shades, in the cheery orange-yellow range. They’re a big help when talking to the Poxy brethren.
Sphinx notices the freshly acquired nail-sized key and approves. It’s the little things that matter. We drink our coffee and shoot the breeze. First about Breughel. Then about Leopard. Neutral, inoffensive talk. Also a kind of escape. We’re swimming in cigarette smoke, coffee stains are barely visible through the white clouds, and here are the Birdies peeking in timidly, looking for their Leader. I snap at them without turning around, and they’re not there anymore, and never were.
“Obedience to the point of reflex,” Sphinx says. “What are they so afraid of, Yelloweyes?”
“My hulking bulk.”
