Read You Must Go and Win: Essays Online
Authors: Alina Simone
You Must Go and Win: Essays (25 page)
W
hen Josh and I moved to Brooklyn in May of 2009, two things began to die at once: my cat and my musical ambitions. The world was already deep into the economapocalypse, and a lot of arguably more important things were dying as well. Newsstands were lagoons of fear and sorrow: unemployment soaring, exotic species of bailout-resistant mortgages imploding daily, swine flu proving to be almost as bad as regular flu … Millions were suffering, and there I was, rummaging through the junk drawers of my own piddling problems. I felt guilty, but by then the drear was tinting everything. It had become a color, a season, a landscape you inhabit without ever noticing how the road bends to accommodate its slopes and valleys. It was hard to Hope for Change when the status quo felt like a Chevy Impala on the losing end of a monster truck match. Or when your cat was dying right in front of you.
hen Josh and I moved to Brooklyn in May of 2009, two things began to die at once: my cat and my musical ambitions. The world was already deep into the economapocalypse, and a lot of arguably more important things were dying as well. Newsstands were lagoons of fear and sorrow: unemployment soaring, exotic species of bailout-resistant mortgages imploding daily, swine flu proving to be almost as bad as regular flu … Millions were suffering, and there I was, rummaging through the junk drawers of my own piddling problems. I felt guilty, but by then the drear was tinting everything. It had become a color, a season, a landscape you inhabit without ever noticing how the road bends to accommodate its slopes and valleys. It was hard to Hope for Change when the status quo felt like a Chevy Impala on the losing end of a monster truck match. Or when your cat was dying right in front of you.
The cat’s name was Etsa, and by any standard, he was a terrible pet. He yowled incessantly, with great esophagus-ripping force. His hobbies were peeing on any stray piece of clothing that might have landed on the floor and shitting in shadowy crevices of the apartment. There were certain closets he would inhabit
and defend with the ferocity of Robert E. Lee at the Second Battle of Bull Run. When we brought him home from the pound, a friend of ours suggested the name Etsa because the cat was Twinkiecolored, and Etsa, she explained, meant “sunbeam” in some Sri Lankan language. We took her advice, and, of course, since that day, every Sri Lankan native we’ve ever happened to meet has strenuously denied that Etsa means anything in either Sinhalese or Tamil. Now, whenever anyone inquired about the cat’s name, we were forced to recount a story tedious for everyone and satisfying to none. Add to this that Josh named our other cat Zhuang-zi (after an ancient Chinese philosopher) and it is easy to understand why the vet’s receptionist hated us.
and defend with the ferocity of Robert E. Lee at the Second Battle of Bull Run. When we brought him home from the pound, a friend of ours suggested the name Etsa because the cat was Twinkiecolored, and Etsa, she explained, meant “sunbeam” in some Sri Lankan language. We took her advice, and, of course, since that day, every Sri Lankan native we’ve ever happened to meet has strenuously denied that Etsa means anything in either Sinhalese or Tamil. Now, whenever anyone inquired about the cat’s name, we were forced to recount a story tedious for everyone and satisfying to none. Add to this that Josh named our other cat Zhuang-zi (after an ancient Chinese philosopher) and it is easy to understand why the vet’s receptionist hated us.
“Er … Zoo hung zee? And … uh … Eeet za?” she’d call into the waiting area before a typical visit.
“That’s
Zhuang-zi
,” Josh would reply, with the intonation of a Jiangsu rice farmer, at which point the receptionist would begin stabbing us with her eyes. Fucking Yuppies, I could practically hear her hiss as we passed by on the way to the examination room.
Zhuang-zi
,” Josh would reply, with the intonation of a Jiangsu rice farmer, at which point the receptionist would begin stabbing us with her eyes. Fucking Yuppies, I could practically hear her hiss as we passed by on the way to the examination room.
Etsa was losing weight, but no one knew why. When we took him to the vet, she suggested there was nothing physically wrong with him, that our move had just stressed him out. Yes, no doubt, the move from a small, crappy sublet to a clean and spacious new apartment had been traumatic. But as far as I could tell, now that all the boxes were unpacked and the furniture put in place (things the cat didn’t have to help with), Etsa was spending his day much as he always had: sleeping, shitting, blinking, and giving Zhuang-zi a rim job. Given that the cat already spent a good three quarters of the day unconscious, it was hard to figure out how else to help him chillax. Oriental foot massage? Detoxifying green tea baths? Aromatherapy? We brought the cat back to the vet, who did a round of blood tests. Everything came up normal.
We adjusted Etsa’s diet, offering him a bonanza of Fancy Feast seafood and little salty treats that were probably made from repurposed bits of other cats. Nothing worked. The vet suggested X-rays. Our terrified pet was passed through the scanner, but still no explanation for his illness could be found. There was only one option left and that was invasive surgery, a biopsy.
We adjusted Etsa’s diet, offering him a bonanza of Fancy Feast seafood and little salty treats that were probably made from repurposed bits of other cats. Nothing worked. The vet suggested X-rays. Our terrified pet was passed through the scanner, but still no explanation for his illness could be found. There was only one option left and that was invasive surgery, a biopsy.
Now, being a nonpurchaser of cat biopsies was something I happened to pride myself on. Let other people put a second mortgage on their home in order to fund Fluffy’s dialysis, I’d think to myself. Last I heard, they were still giving away pets for free at the pound. This was a cat, after all, not a baby. And while some people confused their cat with a baby, I was determined not to be one of them. Maybe I felt defensive because it would be cool to have a baby but all I had was a lousy cat. But whatever, Josh and I were firm in our decision: no biopsy.
We brought Etsa home and he went about dying. He retched dramatically every day. He pooed on the sofa and peed on the bed. His weight kept dropping until I could see his bones poking through his fur. Some kids on my block set up a little donation booth to help fund their dog’s surgery and I found myself putting a couple dollars into their fishbowl every day, rooting for their dog to live even though I kind of hated their dog. Etsa’s meow changed; it grew soft and plaintive and sounded almost human. He was like Robert fucking De Niro with that meow. And the way he looked at me! Those eyes! Like giant satellite dishes beaming signals of infinite sadness from that shrunken little head. I couldn’t stand it. I started to pray over the Russian Orthodox icon—a present from my priest, the Punk Monk—that hung in our living room. It was a prerevolutionary icon of Jesus, but during the Soviet era someone had scratched a thin white line into the paint to make it look like he was smoking a cigarette. The Punk Monk had told me I should cherish the icon
all the more, for it had suffered, like Jesus had. It was a martyr icon. And I did find myself cherishing it more, but only because now Jesus reminded me of Kurt Cobain. After praying for guidance, I would kiss the icon, as per Orthodox tradition, always feeling a transgressive little thrill for lingering too long. Two weeks later, I made up my mind.
all the more, for it had suffered, like Jesus had. It was a martyr icon. And I did find myself cherishing it more, but only because now Jesus reminded me of Kurt Cobain. After praying for guidance, I would kiss the icon, as per Orthodox tradition, always feeling a transgressive little thrill for lingering too long. Two weeks later, I made up my mind.
“Do you realize Etsa’s biopsy costs the same as eleven days’ rent?” I asked Josh. Now, from a financial perspective, all this really proved was that New York City rents were insane and that we should immediately pack off for some decaying rust-belt metropolis where homes sell for under twelve dollars. But Josh could see my point. We were already setting trash bags of money on fire every day anyway, just for the right to drink the Ritalin-enriched tap water New York City is known for.
“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
When I wasn’t busy massaging cat diarrhea out of my kitchen floor, I would contemplate my music career, which was also lying anemic in the corner. As with Etsa, everything looked good on paper, so it was hard to figure out the source of my trouble. I had finished recording a new album that was my best effort so far; my last album, which covered the music of an obscure Soviet punk singer and gave journalists a perfect excuse to finally use the word
magnitizdat
, had gotten lots of press; and, most auspiciously, I’d landed a book deal, which gave me a convenient platform to gloat about both of these things at length, a selfpromotional clusterfuck my boss at the consulting firm where I worked part-time would call a “feedback loop.” Still, there were some ducks missing from my row. Aside from a small but vocal core of depressed Jews, I didn’t have much of a fan base. I also didn’t have a label to put out my records anymore. Mine had
gone bankrupt in the spring. One day I just received a message from one of the owners, Bryce, asking whether I’d be interested in buying back 1,456 copies of my first album and 43 copies of my second, all for the low, low price of $4,000. He was losing his storage space and if I wasn’t interested in buying the albums, they’d end up in the dumpster. I didn’t buy the albums. A few days later, the label’s website went down and I haven’t heard from the owners since.
magnitizdat
, had gotten lots of press; and, most auspiciously, I’d landed a book deal, which gave me a convenient platform to gloat about both of these things at length, a selfpromotional clusterfuck my boss at the consulting firm where I worked part-time would call a “feedback loop.” Still, there were some ducks missing from my row. Aside from a small but vocal core of depressed Jews, I didn’t have much of a fan base. I also didn’t have a label to put out my records anymore. Mine had
gone bankrupt in the spring. One day I just received a message from one of the owners, Bryce, asking whether I’d be interested in buying back 1,456 copies of my first album and 43 copies of my second, all for the low, low price of $4,000. He was losing his storage space and if I wasn’t interested in buying the albums, they’d end up in the dumpster. I didn’t buy the albums. A few days later, the label’s website went down and I haven’t heard from the owners since.
Even so, I thought I’d found a way around these problems. While at South by Southwest in March, I’d met a manager who, impressed by my feedback loop, felt confident she could attract interest from a good label. We agreed to work together. I had heard stories about managers doing wonderful things for artists, so I decided to focus on writing my book and let nature take its course. But as the summer months passed, the only thing nature seemed to take was my cat. A few days after Etsa’s biopsy, the vet called.
“We have a diagnosis,” she said. “Etsa has gastrointestinal lymphosarcoma with additional inflammation in the stomach due to helicobacter bacteria. There were no cancer cells seen in the stomach specimen that was sent in, but I suspect it is there as well.”
Etsa had cancer?
“You should probably come by now to pick up his medicine,” the vet continued. “Let’s start him on the prednisolone and the Leukeran right away. Then you can bring him back for a CBC recheck in a couple weeks.”
When the phone rang, I was just about to leave for Connecticut to help a friend with his move. Instead, I drove to the vet to pick up the medicine and then rushed home to wrangle it into Etsa, still a frail, half-shaven wraith after his biopsy. By the time I got on the BQE, it was early in the afternoon and traffic was an
angry, slow-moving mess. I inched along until the expressway gave way to the northeast corridor, and as I drove, I thought about Etsa. I had somehow convinced myself that so long as the vet couldn’t find the source of his illness, he couldn’t die. Like a cop insisting you can’t have a murder without a body. But now it was done and those Latin words had put a boot to my throat. The cars jerked along. It was stop and go across all five lanes. I refused to cry. Remember, a cat is not a baby. I reached forward to change the Björk remixes that had been on auto repeat for the past two hours, suddenly feeling like I was trapped in the aural equivalent of a Stan Brakhage film and would rather eat my cell phone charger than listen to Björk for one more second. Reaching for the eject button, I felt it—a sickening jolt—and lurched, full-body, against the steering wheel. It was the semi right behind me. I’d been hit.
angry, slow-moving mess. I inched along until the expressway gave way to the northeast corridor, and as I drove, I thought about Etsa. I had somehow convinced myself that so long as the vet couldn’t find the source of his illness, he couldn’t die. Like a cop insisting you can’t have a murder without a body. But now it was done and those Latin words had put a boot to my throat. The cars jerked along. It was stop and go across all five lanes. I refused to cry. Remember, a cat is not a baby. I reached forward to change the Björk remixes that had been on auto repeat for the past two hours, suddenly feeling like I was trapped in the aural equivalent of a Stan Brakhage film and would rather eat my cell phone charger than listen to Björk for one more second. Reaching for the eject button, I felt it—a sickening jolt—and lurched, full-body, against the steering wheel. It was the semi right behind me. I’d been hit.
We both made our way over to the right lane, a maneuver that took five minutes and gave me plenty of time to reflect. The truck had rear-ended me, so legally, I wasn’t at fault. But I knew my mind hadn’t been on the road; I’d probably been stopping when I should have been going. I reached the shoulder and pulled over, the semi right behind me. A cat is not a baby, I thought, stepping out into the hot sun and rush of foul air, but a car isn’t even a cat. The driver of the semi hopped down from the truck, which was big and expensive and bore the logo of a major corporation. He was a stocky Hispanic guy with a pitted face, not much taller than me and not much older either. As he got closer, I could see his face pulled taut with fear and concern. Maybe he was worried about his job. Maybe he had a family to support. And I’ll never know what that man could read on my face, but when we reached each other, neither of us yelled. We didn’t even talk. Instead, wordlessly, we hugged. Right there on the side of I-95, in full view of five stalled lanes of traffic, on a weedy, oil soaked
strip of land somewhere between Bridgeport and Fairfield, Connecticut.
strip of land somewhere between Bridgeport and Fairfield, Connecticut.
“Look at my hands,” the man said, holding them out in front of him, “they’re still shaking.”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I was so scared that maybe I hurt you—”
“You didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Did you check the back of your car? I got my papers right here.”
“I don’t care about the back of my car. I park it on the street and it’s all banged up anyway. Really. I’m okay. No papers.”
The man asked me if I was sure and I said I was. We told each other to take care and I walked to my car and waited for the semi to pull back out onto the highway. Only after the truck had disappeared among the columns of cars, and I was sure the driver was out of sight, did I finally put my head down on the steering wheel and cry.
I needed something to help get my mind off things. It was a summer of endless rain, the future pregnant with the specter of cat funerals and imploded childhood dreams. I didn’t want to just wait around anymore, getting slowly fucked by the fickle finger of fate. So when my friend Konst suggested we write a screenplay for an action thriller together—a project I was spectacularly unqualified for—I opened my mouth to say no and found myself saying yes instead.
It started back in April, when Konst was getting ready to move to L.A. and launch himself like a giant Russian enema into the ass of Hollywood. We were walking back from D’Amico’s in Carroll Gardens, where we liked to go for coffee and spy on the locals.
“You know,” said Konst, “I’ve been thinking that I’d really like to get in touch with my feminine side.”
This was an interesting confession coming from a man who voiced conversational encouragement by yelling, “I’ve got my hand on my cock, bitch, keep going!” and disapproval by announcing, “Getting stiff over here, but not quite ready to tell you to turn around.” Konst didn’t want to get in touch with his feminine side; he wanted four-quadrant, big-box-office success. He wanted to get in touch with his third quadrant. And when he wasn’t hanging around with me, he was probably slinging tapioca at the nursing home, stroking his geriatric side, or trying to avoid pederasty charges at the playground, in search of his inner child.
“Okay, shoot,” I said. Konst liked ejaculation metaphors.
“Imagine that you are a girl. Okay?”
“Last I checked—”
“Right. But get this: you are
also
a wolverine—”
also
a wolverine—”
“This is some kind of horror movie?”
“No. A classic coming-of-age story. Because, see, you’re
also
gay. Then one day you meet this German pinscher …”
also
gay. Then one day you meet this German pinscher …”
When I got home, I created a Word file and saved it as “Idea Poo.” Every time Konst said, “What if … ?” I double clicked on “Idea Poo” and wrote down whatever he said.
“What if … a tailor discovered that some thread he bought at a flea market had magical properties? We could call it
Fame Pants
!”
Fame Pants
!”
“What if … a ruthless stockbroker immersed in a prostitutionring scandal suddenly falls in love with
a toy robot
?”
a toy robot
?”
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