into the living room to watch TV. It was near four o’clock by now, and having turned the volume up a little she went in to the kitchen to start dinner. As she passed the table she snagged a few mints.
Tracker was lying on his side by the door wheezing himself back to sleep. Margaret smiled at him, enjoying his color, thinking how happy she was to take care of him—especially with his breathing problems and all. Deep down she suspected he just ate too much, but he was, after all, just a cat and animals couldn’t be expected to have self-control like people. She’d watch out for him.
Margaret pulled the ham from the fridge and set the oven. She then prepared it and put it in to cook. She loved a good ham, the kind with the spicy rind. It gave a zesty flavor to dinner that she liked. She then put the cabbage and potatoes into a pot to boil a little later when the meat was near done. Then, she pulled a box of ho-hos out from the cupboard, and began to unwrap them. She knew some folks would say she was nuts, but she liked to arrange even boxed deserts on a plate. She put them down in a star pattern on a plate, nibbling down the extra two (and of course dropping a few pieces into Tracker’s bowl). She then went back to watch TV until dinner.
TV was dull. Mostly it was just frivolous pap that wasted one’s day. She tolerated it for the two hours it took for the ham to cook and then switched it off with distaste when the timer rang. She prepared the veggies, removed the meat from the oven, cut it into thin strips, and set the whole lot out on the table. She spread her napkin smoothly on her immense lap and enjoyed the fruits of her labor. It was well worth the effort to have a good meal at least once a week, and Margaret always tried on Saturday or Sunday to do just that. The ham was flavorful and tasty, the veggies were just the right consistency, and the dessert was the perfect topper. She sighed with pleasure as she pushed the last piece of ho-ho into her mouth, and sat back to watch Tracker watch her. He always expected something from the table. But he should know that nothing was forthcoming. Margaret knew it was not good to overstuff him. And by now he should know that table scraps were not part of his diet. He ate at set times, with one snack a day. That was set in stone. And no amount of begging would change that. After watching her chew and swallow the last piece of ho-ho, Tracker circled a couple more times and resigned himself to waiting till later.
Margaret cleaned up, and went out to the sofa to sit and watch TV until dinner settled. She relaxed, comfy, occasionally downing a few mints and nuts as she listened. Finally, a few hours later, she headed for bed. On the way she took the box of cat food down from the shelf, and letting Tracker out the back door, she filled his patio bowl to the brim. He meowed thankfully and dove in with gusto. Margaret closed the door, turned the locks, and went off to sleep, leaving Tracker to roam the neighborhood until tomorrow when she would again find him waiting for her.
Squirrel
Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Meeting. Meeting Man. Meeting Man. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth Lane. NO! NO! NO! That’s not right. Not right! Fourth AND Lane, Lane, Lane,Lane,LaneLaneLane. The alley. The alley. The alley. AND,AND,ANDANDANDANDLANE! Meeting at Fourth AND Lane! At THE alley. They may try to stop me, but I gotta make the meeting. National Security. Make the Meeting.
Bart bends lower in the booth. Why was that woman looking at me? She’s looking. Looking at me! “Who are you?! Who are you?! Who are YOU?!” She’s looking again. “It’s FBI business lady! Just watch it! F-B-I. They know. They make it their business to know!” Looker, looker, she’s a looker. Look at me! Stop looking. CIA!
Check the toast. Check the toast. Check it. Bugs. She’s looking. CIA bugs. Check the toast. “I know what you did lady. I know the CIA. I know you. F-B-I business is what it’s all about. You know it. I know it. THEY know it! I’ll eat this, but I know about the bugs. I just want you to know I know.” Spooks.
“Hey friend, is there some way I can help you?”
Who’s that! Whoisthat?! Another Looker! “I don’t need help from the CID. Or the NSA for that matter! I know about the bugs. I know you’d like to get them and follow me around, and know what I’m doing. But the FBI doesn’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean, pal. You just don’t look so good.”
“Uh-huh. The satellites. They take your thoughts. The CID,CIAFBINSA. You know. I know you know. I know who you are, who you work with, what you do.” Spook. He wants the bugs too. I know.
Bart rises to leave. Meeting at Fourth and Lane. Nine o’clock. It’s . . . (looking at the cracked watch on his wrist) . . . it’s . . . 3:07. Time. Meeting time. Time to meet.
“Sir, you owe $3.00.”
A dollar flutters to the table top. “Keep the change. I know they want it.” Bart shoves the remaining toast in his coat pocket. “I’ll keep track of this.”
“Sir, that’s not enough money.”
Enough. Bart advances on the waitress, “I know what the planes cost. The Satellites. I know. That’s dirty money. It’s more than enough for them. They want it. They can have it!!” Operative. She may not know. She looks unsure.
Bart whirls on the man rising from his chair. “You can’t have it! I’m leaving and you’re not taking it!” The man stops. Another is rounding the counter.
“Sir, is there a problem?”
“You know the problem. She’s not the problem, but this guy is!” Bart thumbs toward the man by his chair. “CIA. Or NSA. The big cheese.” Get out while the gettin’s good. Bart moves to the door. Keep your back clear. He turns and leaves. Meeting. This is risky. But the gain. The gain is worth it to keep them at bay.
Bart walks briskly down the street toward the alley. Keep your eyes down. They can’t read your mind if you keep ‘em down. That guy’s looking at me. “I could use some cash.” Yeah, spook.
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I know you, and what you do. We both know so let’s not bullshit, ok? You think you can just follow along, take whatever you want. I’m ok, and it’s not gonna hurt the government to supply some revenue. They have the planes and the satellites; they have the doctors and the pills, but those are not coming outa my pocket. All I need is some cash, ok?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any cash for you.”
“Look. Go back and report, that I haven’t got any cash. Isn’t that enough? I have the bugs right here in my pocket. I can decipher them. I can use the data. I need the cash for business. Nothing FBI related.”
He’s backing away, trying to get by. Spook.
“I don’t have any cash for you!” He hurries by.
Bart turns and yells, “I have the bugs! I know where you are!” He turns back to the alley and walks on, clutching his ragged coat against the cold. Meeting. I hope my stuff is still there. Bugged probably.
The alley is dark, and thin. Ahhhh. Safe. They can’t see down between the buildings unless they’re right above. It’s the blind spot effect. Satellites can’t see anyway but directly down. Except the infrared ones. They can see into your head through concrete. Bart hugs the wall, staying near the metal trashcans. Interference.
The shopping cart is at the end of the alley. Still there. No spooks. Bart looks at his watch again: Almost time; it’s 3:07. He takes the cart, and moves down the alley to the next street. Crosses. Keep to the alleys. I wish the meeting were in the subway. It’s safer. The planes can’t detect you there. It’s the FBI.
“Hey Bart!”
Don’t look. Just keep on walking. Bart moves to the opposite side of the alley and continues on with his head down. “I’m not listening. You