Just North of Whoville Turiskylie, Joyce (smart books to read .TXT) 📖

to pass him all the time. The first time I saw him, I ran into a bodega and bought a couple of cans of cat food to donate to the cause. Don’t know why I never thought to pick up a sandwich for the guy. But I noticed him stash the cat food under a nearby box. A week later, I took a close look and saw that the box was full of cat food and cat supplies. All people seemed to care about was the cat. Maybe he ate the cat food. Who knows?

But as Nate pulled up to my building, I suddenly worried that a month from now, that would be me. Out in the cold. With a big sign saying “Help me and my kitty.” Only no one would even see my kitty because she’d be hiding under a dirty blanket or in a trash can.

I wouldn’t even get to eat cat food.

The bottom line was, I’d have to move back home. Admit I’d failed and leave New York. I’d almost rather be homeless.

“Hey,” Nate said as we stood in front of the building. “If Alex isn’t going to be home for awhile, you wanna go upstairs and keep brainstorming on this ending for a bit?”

“Um…yeah. Sure.” I said with more than a little trepidation. Frankly, I had no idea where my priorities were at this point. Apartment? Relationship? The play? Overall, I suppose I was looking for some much-needed instant gratification. If I could quickly brush the ending to this play out of the way, that would at least be one thing I could check off the scroll-like Things-To-Do list.

There were no fears of the cat suddenly coming out of hiding and ruining my last excuse to be in the building. But, just to be sure, I quickly ran up the stairs ahead of him on the premise that I wanted to be absolutely positive that Alex wasn’t home. I quickly flew into the doorway, hid any potentially incriminating evidence that I continued to live there, tossed Alex’s Ted’s Ribs and Chicken t-shirt on the couch, spritzed the cheap cologne around the room, and called out loudly, “Alex! Alex! Are you here?”

This would not only provide the necessary cover, but would also ensure that the cat would not come out of hiding for hours. To be extra sure, I stomped on the floor and banged a pot around.

Sorry, Heidi.

A moment later, Nate walked in and I began calling for my hiding cat.

“Heidi! Come out Heidi!”

“You’re really quick on those stairs,” he said, a bit out of breath. “So, where’s this elusive cat? I’ve never even seen… Oh wait,” he said as he looked at the floor. “Yup. You have a cat.”

“That’s a Heidi hairball, all right,” I said as I went to the kitchen for some paper towels. “She’s hard to catch. She’s one of those hiding cats.”

“That’s a breed?”

“Yeah. Scaredy Cat. I don’t know what she’s…”

“Hey! Look!” Nate called to me. “It’s a Wonderful Life is on.”

In the apartment across the street, on a large plasma TV, the last few moments of It’s a Wonderful Life flickered across the screen.

We both stood there for a moment watching and thinking the same thing----how were we going to end the play?

“I know it’s an iconic moment in film, but it’s just so sappy,” I said as I watched Jimmy Stewart cry tears of happiness.

“All happy endings are sappy. Even Shakespeare wrote sappy endings.”

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I was a Grinch. Or a Scrooge. On screen, George Bailey picked up his little girl and held her in his arms. He looked so happy. Blessed and relieved at the same time. But I just didn’t get it.

“I’m sorry,” I let out. “It just bugs me. He’s so thankful. For what?”

“To have people that care about him. To get back some of what he gave.”

And then it hit me.

“But they OWE him!” I blurted out. “He sacrificed his whole life for that stupid town. All his hopes and dreams. Then, when he’s at the end of his rope, they finally step up in the last reel and throw a couple of bucks in a jar. And he’s grateful? He was too nice, that’s his problem. Maybe if they hadn’t shit all over him for years he wouldn’t be in that position to begin with. That’s like someone trying to choke you to death and you’re grateful to them when they stop.”

I was too riled up to notice that Nate had started laughing at my tirade. Like I was a stand-up comic doing a bit.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “That sounds horrible.”

“No. It was just funny watching you get all heated over a holiday classic. It makes sense, though. Okay---let me ask you something: It’s Christmas Eve and George Bailey feels so hopeless that he’s going to jump off a bridge. Why would anyone rather jump off a bridge than ask for help?”

“Maybe he feels like he doesn’t deserve help.”

“But you think he’s a good person, right?”

“Yeah. He’s a nice person.”

“Then why wouldn’t he think they would help him?”

“Well, they never did before.”

“But he didn’t ask.”

“You shouldn’t always have to ask.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Then I won’t.”

And then he kissed me.

“Dorrie!” I heard a voice from behind. It was Alex standing in the doorway.

“How could you do this to me?” he said in yet another Oscar-winning performance. I had to think quickly.

“Alex. We broke up. Remember?” I said, trying to jolt his memory.

“Hey, Alex, um---I’m sorry,” Nate started to fumble for words.

“Nate,” I tried to stop him. “It’s okay. Because we broke up, Alex. Remember?”

“Yeah. I remember, but…” he was trying to ad-lib, and it wasn’t going to be good.

“You told me that you had a work-thing tonight so