From the very morning, everything goes wrong and nothing works out. He’s just a little late for an important meeting, and that changes his life dramatically. Now he has time to slow down and look up at the sky. And an unpleasant incident on the road gives him a pleasant encounter. To take his mind off the difficult period in his life, he buys a plane ticket to Asia. But has the streak of bad luck ended?
The Universe has an infinite amount of everything—different things, beings, and events. But only one thing works stably and flawlessly always, under all circumstances, and for all creatures: Murphy's Law. I don’t know about other people, but for me, it’s at least two hundred percent effective. In fact, there is nothing more stable in my life. There are contributing factors: carelessness, flippancy, recklessness, chance, laziness, and foolishness. And the result of their action is called ‘Murphy's Law’. I run into it so often that it’s become an integral part of my life. Wherever I go, whatever I do, it’s always there and always working. No matter how hard the persistent law tries to make me more attentive, I’m just as frivolous as before.
This Law has become my constant Alter Ego. I’d like to befriend it, but that wouldn’t be fair to life, because then I’d know about all the nasty things that are bound to happen. I don’t want our friendship to be self-serving—it would mean I’m just using it. What if we just chat when we meet, every time something happens? And we have quite a few of those meetings. Maybe it would even prompt me where the next ambush or trap lies hidden. Ugh, I missed an opportunity today. It was such a great meeting. I’d even call it a classic. No sooner do I cut my finger than the water’s turned off, and there’s nothing to wash the blood away with. The bandage and the plaster I’d been carrying everywhere for seven years have vanished. The day before, I smashed the bottle of antiseptic.
It’s a good thing the Law hasn’t gotten to the cotton wool and the bottle of whiskey. By the time I find them, bloody patterns are already appearing on my finger. And the cut itself is no simple thing. It’s practically decorative carving on my finger. I sit, looking out the window, and think, why is it always the case that Murphy's Law works so reliably, and most importantly, why does it need to? What’s more, this week it has outdone itself. Of course, it all started on Monday. The alarm clock rings. It was supposed to sound, but there was no ring, even though I set it for five-thirty. I forgot to press the activation button, which means it all started on Sunday evening, if you want to trace it back.
My friends and I were celebrating a birthday. We drank a little, got talking, and the holidays added words to the conversation. Everyone had something to say. By the time everyone shared their opinion and discussed the details of all our friends’ life situations, it was late. Someone remembered that tomorrow was Monday, not Saturday, as we’d thought. Everyone had to get up early for work. We quickly finished whatever was left, ate the rest of the cake, and went our separate ways home. Those who lived farther away took taxis. My best friend and I live in neighboring buildings not far from the birthday boy. So we walked home together. On the way, we ran into a gas station that had no problem selling us two small bottles of whiskey. We weren’t going to go home for a large bottle, were we?
We found a bench nearby, settled down on it, and drank a toast to each other. That was enough for another two hours of heartfelt conversation. We sat like that until three in the morning. I listened to the happy story of his and his wife’s love, which ended as soon as they got married. At least, that’s what the married man thinks. I didn’t really tell much, and honestly, there’s nothing to tell. And I didn’t want to talk about what I was planning. We were so relaxed, our bodies stuck to the bench. We didn’t want to move at all.
The alcohol aired out. Our bodies carried us home. They just went on their own. I don’t even remember how we said goodbye. I was so tired and sleepy then that, as I said, I forgot to activate the alarm clock. I woke up at half-past eight instead of half-past five. It would seem the difference is only three hours, but it changed the rest of my life. So, I wake up at eight-thirty, look at the clock. My eyes open so wide that my eyebrows jump. My heart switches from a leisurely beat to a gallop. I don’t know where I find the necessary strength. I’ve never gotten out of bed so easily and quickly.
I brush my teeth, wash my face with cold water, and eat a couple of gingerbread cookies on the go while I get dressed. I bolt out of the house. I literally bolt, slamming the door shut behind me, leaving the apartment keys on the inside. That’s not a big deal, of course—after the meeting I’m so late for, I can just call a locksmith and have the lock opened. That happens to a lot of people. It’s a common thing. Thanks to situations like these, locksmiths and other service people have jobs. Murphy's Law takes care of all professions. No one cares that the lives of those at whose expense the lives of the repairmen improve are being ruined.
Yes, it all looks simple, but behind that door, along with the keys, is my briefcase, which holds all the documents for the upcoming meeting. And at that moment, another shot of adrenaline is injected into the existing amount in my body. Mixed with the alcohol in my blood, it makes jet fuel, throwing my whole body at the door. I smash into my own apartment with a crash. I find the briefcase, and hurry to the exit. Passing the mirror, I notice a torn sleeve on my jacket. I run to change. An unfamiliar sound rings out. The sound itself is quite familiar, but not for my apartment. Now a mangy stray cat lives with me. He moved in with all his fleas. I immediately pick a suitable name. Homebreaker for short. I don’t have time to get him out from under the sofa, so I leave him there.
I run out of the apartment and slam the door shut. It doesn’t latch. The lock flew off from the impact to the other end of the apartment. There’s absolutely no time left. It’s already nine, and the meeting is at nine-thirty. I won’t make it to the garage, I won’t be able to drop by my friend’s house as I promised, and I won’t take my trousers to the dry cleaner. Everything I planned this morning definitely won’t happen. I just hope I can at least make it to the meeting. At the very least, not be too late. What should I do about the door? The neighbors aren’t home, and there’s no time for a locksmith either. I rush back into the apartment. I find superglue in the nightstand. I pour the entire tube onto the joint and press hard. It should hold until the evening.
I grab the briefcase and run down the steps. I nearly knock over an old woman. I listen to a lot of “pleasant“ wishes following me. I wonder, does the fact that I turned back twice count as a common superstition or as the start of Murphy's Law? I slam into the main entrance door. It’s always been open, but today some conscientious person closed it. I open it and run out into the street. My wristwatch ticks down the remaining twenty-five minutes. It’s about twenty minutes to work by metro and about seven minutes on foot. I’ll run it. I race towards the subway. Where did all these people come from? Why is there a rush hour so late? It’s never been like this. I push through the crowd. Strange, I seem to be moving with the flow, but it’s hard to get through, as if I’m moving against it. I reach the turnstile. My travel card is empty. Why today of all days?
I run to the nearest ticket office. There’s a queue. A machine stands alone to the side. I run up to it. It only takes coins, and I only have bills. My face flushes. I shout, asking for change. An old man answers. I give him twice the paper money that he gives me in coins. I don’t care. I buy one trip. I jump onto the escalator. I race up the left side. At the very bottom, a few people are crowded in front of me. The train car has just arrived. I should make it. The escalator breaks down. What the hell! People walk up lazily. Those in front of me disperse. I fly towards the train car. The doors close right in my face. I can’t take it—to the sound of the departing train, I swear at myself, fate, the escalator, the train car, and even the voice that announced the doors were closing, although I had an excellent chance to see it myself anyway.
I barely stop myself from throwing the briefcase at the station name. I wait for the next train. Why is it taking so long? Finally, it arrives. I jump into the nearest car and squeeze into a corner on the edge. A familiar voice announces the next station. The doors close, and then the most rushing person puts their foot in the way. Of course, the door opens again, and he can’t squeeze through. The door closes, and we leave without him. Five stations drag on for an eternity. The next one is mine. The tunnel lights flash past. The wires stretch in waves. I shake my knee, I’m nervous, ready to bite all my nails off. Who would be surprised? Not me. The train stops in the tunnel. The voice announces that due to a malfunction on the line, traffic is delayed. They ask us to wait five minutes.
I have seven minutes left. We stand for five minutes, and we’ll ride for three minutes. I’m already late, and then there’s another five minutes of running. The five minutes of standing are horribly long. Even the internet doesn’t cheer me up now. I can’t call—there’s no signal. There’s no point in asking someone for a phone. The numbers are on my turned-off phone. It ran out of battery yesterday, I put it on charge, but the charger turned out to be unplugged. We stood for nine minutes. I’m hopelessly late for the place where I should have been fifteen minutes before the appointed time. My station. My count is minus six minutes.
The moving escalator is completely full, and the queue for it is such that it seems passengers from all over the city are in one place at one time. I run up the stationary escalator. My legs tire on the last step. I don’t lift my left foot high enough, hook the toe of my shoe on the step, and fall with my right leg onto the corner of the step. I’ve always been afraid of that. I’d dreadfully imagined how much it would hurt. I have to say, I was wrong in my assumptions. It hurts much more. I get up. A bloody knee is visible through the right trouser leg. A station attendant runs up, offering to treat the wound. No time. I politely refuse. I run towards the exit.
Minus ten minutes. My left leg cramps up. I fight the sharp pain. I burst towards the entrance of the building. I run like a wounded rabbit. I reach the building at minus fifteen minutes. The revolving doors are usually broken, but today they’re working. The only good news today. I jump into the transparent cylinder. My briefcase doesn’t keep up with me and remains in the next compartment. The handle is in my hand. I get out and snatch the briefcase. I try to reattach the handle as I go. I pass through the turnstile. The key doesn’t work. On the third try, the guard lets me through. I run to the elevator. No, it’s too risky—I don’t need to get stuck. I take the stairs. The clock reads minus eighteen. It’s so smoky that my head is spinning from the fumes and my throat is scratchy.
I reach the fifth floor at minus twenty-one minutes. I run to the meeting room. The door opens in front of me at minus twenty-two minutes. Company employees walk out to meet me. Among them is a man in a grey suit and tie, who brushes my arm; the briefcase falls to the floor and opens. Someone got hot during the meeting, so they opened the window. All my papers fly around the office as soon as I enter after the briefcase. Some of the documents fly out the window—I didn’t even have to make paper airplanes. That’s not so important anymore. No one is left in the meeting room of the people for whom these papers were prepared. That man in the grey suit was the last one out. And he was supposed to become my new boss.
The documents flying in the sky were my ticket to a job in the office on the floor above mine. We remained strangers, and I can completely forget about the promotion. I sit down on a chair by the open window. It’s nice outside. It’s cool, but fresh. My face is so hot that this coolness is exactly what I need right now. I look at the high-rise buildings across the street. Everything is as it always is there. People work, solve problems, and create new ones, only to immediately start solving them. I used to do that, too. Now, I won’t be allowed to create problems, let alone solve them. The sheets of my report float in the air, like little flat clouds. Everyone is so busy that only I look at them.
Five minutes later, after silently contemplating the fall of my career in the form of presentation papers, a cleaner walks in. We exchange sad smiles. I immediately assure her that I’ll clean up all the papers from the floor. The understanding woman doesn’t scold me. With kindness, she helps me gather the flat clouds. I put everything back in the case. Bidding her farewell, I leave. Without thinking much, I head to the elevator. I step in and immediately press the button for the second floor. Why the second? It’s simple. That’s where our accounting department is. Closer to the third floor, a rather expected event happens. The elevator gets stuck. I don’t press the buttons, as I always used to. I leave my rescue to chance. I sit on the floor, placing the case far away from me. It won’t be needed now.
The light goes out. Along with it, the stainless steel walls of the room where my thoughts are concentrated stop shining. It becomes as dark in my head as it is in the elevator. For the first couple of minutes, I recall entering the conference room, the scattered report, the buildings across the street. I was so hopelessly late that I didn’t even get nervous or worry about the failures that had accompanied me all the way here and ultimately led me to a stuck elevator. I can’t even quit now until the doors open.
The phosphorescent hands on my watch glow. I can’t look at the watch anymore. I unfasten the strap, take the watch off, and put it in my jacket pocket. I straighten my legs, which were previously bent at the knees. I fully relax. Now I won’t be upset even if the cable snaps. And yet, I used to worry about a bit of fluff on my jacket. A voice, distorted by static, is audible from the speaker. At first, I thought I’d imagined it.
“Hello, is anyone in there?” the speaker asks again.
“Yes,” I reply calmly.
“If you are, press the button at the bottom,” the voice prompts. Either I just didn’t think of it, or I didn’t want anyone to know about me.
“I’m here,” I say, pressing the dispatcher call button. I’ve looked at it so often during every elevator ride that I find it immediately.
“How are you doing in there?” the voice asks with slight concern.
“Alive, I think,” I answer with a touch of irony.
“That’s good,” I can hear that he’s speaking with a smile. “Just don’t worry, I’ll get you out soon.”
“I’m perfectly calm, don’t rush. Finish your pastry and tea and come over, I’ll wait for you here.”
“How do you know about the pastry and tea?” the dispatcher asks, surprised.
“I guessed,” I now feel indifferent about everything.
“Is this a joke?” he asks suspiciously.
“I don’t think so,” I reply, also with a smile.
“Alright then, I’ll be there soon.”
“No rush.”
Another five minutes pass before my savior arrives. During this time, I seriously wonder how I knew about the pastry and tea, although it’s not hard to guess. Nonsense. The elevator door opens. The cold light of the hall floods the car, momentarily blinding me. I pick up the case and stand up. The guy holds the doors while I step out. We walk towards the stairs together, without exchanging a word, except for my thanks the moment the elevator opened.
“How did you know about the pastry and tea?” the elevator technician asks, unable to resist his nagging curiosity.
“I don’t know myself,” I honestly admit. “When I heard your voice, I saw a rough image of your appearance in my imagination. And next to you stood a cup of black tea and a raisin pastry,” I explain calmly.
“Okay, I can believe the pastry and tea part is a simple coincidence; many of us take a break like that. But how did you guess it was a raisin pastry?”
“Doesn’t everyone eat those?”
“Only me on our floor. I checked,” the guy adds firmly, noticing my doubt.
“Then that’s certainly odd,” I say with a smile, scratching the back of my head. “But not vital.”
We step onto the staircase together. I thank the elevator technician once more for the rescue. We go our separate ways. The guy heads up to his area, and I descend the steps. It’s interesting: an elevator technician, yet he always takes the stairs. He must know how unreliable elevators can be. Or he just likes walking up and down the stairs. It’s only a short distance to the second floor. There’s the accounting department door. I try to open it. It’s locked. Fine, I’ll come in especially early tomorrow morning to quit. I go down to the first floor and exit, as usual, through the glass cylinder entrance. Now I don’t have to rush home. Wait, stop, I should rush. I have Home sitting under the couch there, if he hasn’t run away yet. I hurry to the subway again.
I make it into the first car just in time. The door slides shut immediately behind me. I reach my station without any trouble. I step out of the car. There are practically no people. I make my way to the surface. I breathe in the living air of the city streets. The subway is like another world. The air is different there, and the people are all different. I walk along the dusty sidewalk to my house. The entrance door is open. I go upstairs. The door to the apartment is still glued shut. I try to open it. The glue, it turns out, is strong. I have to kick it in again. This time, I do not spare my shoes. I strike the door with full force. The door swings open as if nothing had happened.
Homebreaker is sitting in the hallway, greeting me like the master of the house. He is not scared, nor is he surprised by my appearance. He does not even flick an ear. To be honest, I thought thieves would open the door and the cat would run away.
I look at my new friend with a smile. I do not feel like being angry or worrying about small things anymore. Especially since he will clearly be better off here than on the street. And he will cheer me up while I do not have a job. And I will not have a job for a long time. I need to call a handyman and get Homebreaker sorted. I put my completely dead phone on charge and call the locksmith. We agree that he will come by in a couple of hours.
I change my clothes, pick up the unsuspecting Homebreaker, carry him to the bathroom, and stroke him while the water runs. Just in case, I wrap a towel around my arms. So he cannot scratch me in a fit of rage when I wash him. It may seem strange, but Home enjoys the bathing. He only used to take cold showers in the rain. Warm water in a cozy bath is much nicer. I dry him off with a hairdryer. I kill the stubborn fleas. Some slip away from me. I will have to buy special shampoo while I have the money.
After a while, the locksmith arrives with a toolbox. We discuss the lock and decide to install a new, inexpensive one. I will have to economize now. I pay for the work and lock the door with the new lock. It closes stiffly because of the glue. I do not feel like cleaning the frame right now. And it is not necessary. There will be no drafts.
I make lunch with what I have. I do not remember exactly what I have, but it does not matter. I feed Homebreaker and I eat too. What is more, Home sits next to me on a chair, eats from the table, from the plate, the same food as mine. I do not want to offend my new friend with food from the floor.
Something tells me he will be my only friend for the near future. After all, who else needs a loser man my age? For some, I am young, but for myself, I am unsuccessfully old at thirty-two. I wonder, do women sense Murphy's Law in men’s blood? Is that why everyone I try to socialize with shuns me? Or do they sense the loser in me? They are naturally programmed to have a feel for winners. They sense everything.
I wash the dishes after lunch. Even when I do not feel like it and do not want to wash them, I wash them anyway. Dirty dishes in the sink irritate me. It is as if they follow me around the apartment and whisper in my ear to remind me of themselves. With each reminder, it becomes more unpleasant, as if a mountain of dishes is growing and accumulating a layer of dirt, even if I have only left two plates unwashed.
I settle down on the sofa; Home jumps up and sits beside me. I place a stool in front of us, put the laptop on it, and turn on the series I have long wanted to watch but have not had time for because of work. Luckily, I immediately find the first episode of the first season. I lean back against the sofa. I relax, for the first time today.
After a few minutes of the episode, Homebreaker gets nervous. The laptop clicks, and the screen goes dark. I just sigh heavily. We sit there for about five minutes. We calmly stare at the black glossy screen, looking at our reflections. Out of curiosity, I press the power button. Nothing. I try holding it for fifteen seconds. Nothing. I try all the key combinations I know. Zero. Home just glances at me and the computer. I close the laptop lid, lean back against the sofa again, and stroke Homebreaker.
He is purring. At least his purr box is not broken. Silence. It cannot be! Has it broken down after all? I carefully look into his eyes. He is asleep. Well, at least there is that. I continue stroking him to calm down. It does not seem to bother him. I stroke him and think about what to do next. Tomorrow, I will have to take the laptop in for repair. Then I remember that tomorrow is a holiday and they are closed. I did not get a chance to check the time on the computer. The phone, I realize, has stopped charging, completely died, and turned off. At least I managed to call the locksmith.
The sun has passed midday. It is roughly two o’clock now. It has come to this—I am telling the time by the sun. What can you do, at least I have a way. Although, why do I need to know the time right now? Only to quit my job. Tomorrow is a day off. I cannot quit my job. And right now, I can take a nap. I lie down next to Homebreaker. It is good that the pillow is always here. After a few thoughts about work and unrealized dreams of promotion, I fall into a deep sleep.
Sleep flies by unnoticed. I wake up later than Homebreaker. He’s already somewhere, walking around, exploring the apartment. I lie there, thinking of nothing. I get up and go to the kitchen. I move as if in a fog after a daytime nap. I turn on the kettle. And here comes Home. His face is too calm. He’s obviously relieved himself somewhere. Of course, I didn’t buy him a litter box. The kettle boils. I brew tea in my only mug. I go to look for the source of the problem. Well, sure enough, he doesn’t have his own litter box, so he went in mine. I don’t scold him much. My fault. I clean everything up in a couple of minutes. Home watches with understanding. There is no shame or remorse in his gaze. He always has a proud look, like a true nobleman.
We return to the kitchen together. I brewed the tea but didn’t put the kettle back. I put the kettle down. It misses its spot, and the stand slides toward the edge of the microwave. The kettle falls. Boiling water splashes out through the open lid. While I try to catch the kettle, my right hand bumps a glass, which I have no idea why it’s standing here. In a fraction of a second, I have five burns, a bruise on my arm, and a broken, gorgeous tall glass. It’s a good thing the kettle wasn’t full. I put it back in place. I don’t wipe up the water; right now, I’m too angry at myself and the situation. I take a burn ointment out of the fridge and rub the reddened spots. It’s strange that I even have this ointment, as I’m not a fan of medicine.
I sit down to drink my tea. Home is next to me on the sofa. It’s a good thing he wasn’t hit by the boiling water. It clearly would’ve hurt him more. From anger and surprise, I didn’t feel anything, at least not right away, but now it’s starting to sting. I sit and wonder what else bad could happen. Then it hits me that anything could happen. I calmly finish my tea. I take a sponge and wipe up the cooled water. I remember just in time that there might be shards of glass there. There are. I carefully wring out the sponge and throw it into the trash can. Well, we’ve had tea, and we’ve cleaned up the scene of the accident. Now I can go get a litter box, and I’ll buy some shampoo for Homebreaker while I’m at it. I get dressed and calmly leave. Everything is as usual, only I don’t look in the mirror, as I used to. I don’t want to see my gloomy face. I tightly close the door behind me. I walk away from the darkness.
Now it doesn’t matter if the entrance door is open or closed, or if someone is blocking the way out or not. I’m not rushing now, and when I’m not rushing, nothing gets in the way. Maybe nothing gets in the way when I am rushing either; maybe it’s just that my attitude toward everything becomes heightened and feels like spikes under my tires. Speaking of tires. I still haven’t picked up the car, haven’t visited my friend before work, and haven’t taken the trousers to the dry cleaner after Sunday night. They got quite stained at the birthday party. Some drunk girl dropped a colorful cocktail on my light-colored trousers and didn’t even notice. It’s good that it’s just a material thing. Now I need to sort Homebreaker out.
I walk on the shady side. I’m afraid of melting under the scorching summer sun. It’s been a long time since I was outside at this hour. Usually, I’d be sitting at work, and on weekends, I’d sleep until the evening. As I walk down the street and look at the exhausted office workers and the cheerful free people, I unknowingly approach the pet store. I noticed it when I was stuck in traffic in my car. I go in. The door rings with high tones.
A stack of litter boxes stands right by the cash register. The parrots in the cages are shrieking so loudly here. The rabbits are the quietest of all. There’s practically no space. Everything is covered with bags of animal feed. Toys, leashes, and nets hang between the aquariums. I choose a shampoo. The saleswoman asks the kitten’s age. I say about seven years. The saleswomen laugh. I pay and leave with my purchases.
The heat of the warmed streets blasts my face. I need to drop by my friend’s place; he has the day off today. I walk a couple more blocks. His wife opens the door and smiles, telling me that her husband is in the garage. It’s in the next courtyard. I go there. From the only open garage, shouts and curses can be heard, along with the clang of wrenches thrown onto the concrete floor.
“A new repair technology?” I joke with my friend.
“A strong word finds a solution for everything. Better than any technology!” Emjay answers proudly.
“Are you still tormenting the old lady?”
“Hey, watch what you say!” Emjay protests. “Where do you see an old lady? She’s only turning twenty!”
“Yes, you’re right, still very young,” we laugh, knowing the state of that car.
“And what brings you here?” my friend asks, momentarily distracted from the repairs.
“We agreed to meet yesterday. Did you forget?” I remind him of something I myself barely remembered.
“Ah, yes! Sorry,” Emjay holds his head. “My head still aches from yesterday. Remind me, what did we agree to meet for?”
“I don’t remember myself anymore,” I confess, smiling.
“Well, it happens,” he shrugs, not particularly bothered.
“So now it turns out we just met friendly-like.”
“Seems so,” he smiles and goes back to the engine. The phone rings.
“That’s not mine!” I immediately respond.
“Mine,” Emjay straightens up. “Could you hand it to me, please? It’s in the bag, in the right pocket.”
“Here you go,” I carefully hand him the phone, knowing how unlucky I sometimes am with my own clumsiness.
“Thanks,” he talks to his wife about family matters. “Could you put it back, please,” he asks after discussing the issues.
“Sure,” I take the phone, gazing at the wallpaper.
“What are you thinking about?” Emjay notices.
“I’m looking at the beauty on your wallpaper, and I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“What’s there?” my friend didn’t even think that the view on the screen was not just a photo but a real place somewhere far away.
“A quiet morning. Calm water, mountains, a boat getting ready to set sail.”
“Interesting,” Emjay straightens up and walks over to me. “I didn’t even notice,” we look at the phone screen together. “It wouldn’t be bad to take off there,” he sighs wistfully. “Family,” he adds, returning to the engine.
“You know, that’s an idea,” I pick up the thought with enthusiasm.
“And did you buy that for the trip?”
“What?” I ask in bewilderment, looking at the bags. “I forgot about Homebreaker!”
“A burglar broke into your place?” Emjay asks seriously. “And you bought shampoo and a litter box for him,” my friend laughs.
“A cat broke into my place and stayed to live,” I explain the situation with a smile.
“Congratulations on the pet!” Emjay smirks.
“Thanks,” and I’m genuinely glad that I now have Home.
“So, instead of a family, you decided to make a cat your anchor? Didn’t you have enough work?”
“I quit,” and I only remember that myself right now.
“What? Why?” such news cannot leave Emjay indifferent.
“I’m quitting. I missed out on the promotion, and without it, I have no desire to work at that company,” I try to explain, but it sounds somewhat frivolous.
“Then I get it. And what do you plan to do?”
“Set a wallpaper for life, not for a phone,” I try to bring the conversation back to a smile.
“In what sense?”
“I’m going there,” I point to the phone wallpaper.
“And what will you do with the burglar?” Emjay reminds me of the pet, guessing that I’ll ask him to look after the cat.
“Homebreaker,” I correct him with respect for my new friend in conversation with my old one.
“Yeah, Homebreaker. A great name, by the way, with humor,” Emjay approves.
“Yes, thanks, it just came to me.”
“So, what have you decided to do with him?”
“I’m taking him with me.”
“Abroad?” Emjay is surprised, knowing how complicated that is.
“Why not?” I try not to fear the upcoming difficulties.
“Do you realize how many certificates and vaccinations you’ll need?”
“I can guess. I can’t just leave him here.”
“Well, no, you won’t abandon the cat,” he scratches the back of his head again.
“Alright, I’m going. Thanks for the suggestion.”
“Always happy to help. Tell me later how everything went,” Emjay asks with interest.
“Definitely! You’ll be the first I tell everything to.”
“Well, see you, good luck!” Emjay dives back to the engine.
“Good luck to you too,” I smile in response, putting the phone back.
I return to the pet store. I buy a special carrier for Home. I find out what vaccinations are needed. It turns out to be quite a lot. I return home. I forgot to take the trousers to the dry cleaner again. Homebreaker greets me more warmly, sniffing the purchases, looking at the carrier with suspicion. I understand. I hide it; it’s not time yet. I call a familiar veterinarian, a referral from my neighbor. We went to school together. We arrange for tomorrow. They say he’s booked a month in advance. Evening is coming. I forgot to take the computer for repair along with the phone. Now I don’t feel like dealing with them. I turn on the light in my room and look through all the books that have been standing on the shelves for twenty years or more. I stop at a collection of short stories.
We lie down on the bed. I read stories to Home, and he purrs for me. So loudly; he’s accumulated tenderness over the years of street life where it wasn’t needed. I read, and everywhere in the stories, it’s about travel. Only a cat is never mentioned. Well, not everything in stories is like in life, and not everything in life is like in stories. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s completely dark outside. Time for bed. I go to the shower. Along with the water, the hopes for a promotion and future plans, the anger at the unfortunate turn of events, the disappointment in my own life, and everything that happened before today, including the day itself, all wash away. I hope nothing terrible happens because I accidentally washed my hair with Homebreaker’s shampoo. At least I won’t have fleas.
I come out of the bathroom. I put on clean sheets. A clean slate in life should start with a clean bed and clean dreams. As soon as I lie down, Homebreaker is right there. I can’t exactly kick him out. I even have a clean cat at the start of my clean slate. It’s good that this day is over. I fall asleep immediately; I don’t even have time to listen to Home’s purring. I’m sure he fell asleep right away, too. I wake up a couple of times during the night when the fur tickles me in an unfamiliar way. I carefully stroke his soft fur and fall back asleep.
I am not urging anyone to do anything.
All events and characters are fictional.
Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
I sincerely apologize if I have offended anyone.
Highly Recommended Age: 18+
The author bears no responsibility for the reader's perception of the book.