Alley Cat

The backyards of brownstone Brooklyn are a magical hidden world that the rest of the world doesn't readily know about, and before the massive explosion that brought about its gentrification by so many white Americans to our fair city, that was just the way we liked it. The apartments were beautiful and affordable, though not to my newly-established boyfriend from upstate New York. He was saddled by credit card debt elicited by his manic phases of unrest and urgency that told him he needed to do something now nOW NOW! It didn't dig him out of his depressive holes, but rather kept him there with something more to be upset over, which got him back on the binge cycle of drinking all-nighters that kept his diseases well-fed, if not happily cured. 

But, my aunt's old apartment by Ocean Avenue was sad to be in, and the neighborhood was too far a commute to Manhattan. I told him I would pay any monthly rent he couldn't afford, and for the next year, we had full use of the entire first floor of a garden apartment in central Park Slope, for the now mind-boggling low fee of $950/month. It was deemed an extraordinary luxury by some, and a horrid "frontier" land in the ghetto by others, depending on the individual's agenda. After we pulled out the fridge to clean it and found hypodermic needles, one could presume either a diabetic lived there or a heroin junkie, again, according to the bent of your imagination.

We didn't care. The neighborhood was great, and the apartment was gorgeous; a classic "railroad" style place where each room opened into the next to the garden in the back, separated by old wooden pocket doors that closed off the bedroom from the living room. The kitchen opened up to the garden by sliding glass doors, and by the reactions of our guests, I knew I'd struck gold. My dad joked about my lack of a green thumb because of the tree in the middle of a concrete area that died before we got there, which meant that some envy had taken hold. We hung sparking white Christmas tree lights on it that lit up at night, and as the evening wore on, the magic took hold until there was nothing else but happiness around the patio table.

An opera singer did her warm-up scales almost every afternoon with the window open in the building behind ours on the next block over, and thick ivy covered one of the walls that had a simple bench of concrete blocks under a bower of grapevines from next door. Without the partitions of so many walls, the whole city block is basically one big garden that no one can see from the street. Back there, it was a different world; gardens sprouted lush vegetables every year, as the bees and butterflies fluttered around huge sunflowers in the summer sun. Like our beautiful neighborhood with great rents, it felt like a secret we had earned as hard-working New Yorkers. It felt that good and that right, to me.

My friend from RISD had a place in Brooklyn, too, in a different neighborhood that's also well-considered, though less of a garden district. He'd gotten a kitten to ride out the loneliness that comes with the single city life and long hours at the studio. He'd found work at MTV Studios: a factory of drafting tables where he was one of hundreds of production artists who painstakingly filled in the minor details for the then-popular "Beavis and Butthead" show that caused him painful embarrasment as a classically trained draftsman. The creator, Mike Judge, could give a shit about the fine art of animation, and basically told them that at meetings. Oh, well. Looked good on the resume, though.

His parents still lived in Mass., as well-to-do Armenians who owned a successful car dealership. They spoiled Ed and his siblings rotten, but that's first generation affluence for you. Any problems could be solved with money, right? That's the American Dream! It wasn't, of course, but who were we to tell them that? They went on ski vacations every year, and turned out functional illiterates who could draw alone in a room for many hours. Done deal. Back in Brooklyn, we agreed to babysit Ed's kitten while he flew home for a holiday, with the warnings that me and Dave were solid dog people, and that a lot of cats roamed through the gardens, getting into loud fights almost every single night.

He tentatively agreed to drop off the cat with a backup plan of a kennel, in case the deal went bust, and it did, no surprise to us. He'd assured us that the animal had been well-socialized and could mix it up with other cats, but within a half an hour, me and Dave ran back to the kitchen to the sound of a deathly kitten scream, finding it being clawed through a window screen by a big orange tabby street cat with a really angry look on its face. That kitten won't make it through the night, here. We called him up with our concerns, and once again he was back at our place in a quick cab ride to drop it off at the kennel. Within a few months more, Ed and my other RISD friend Lisa would leave the city for southern California, never to brave the streets of New York again. Ain't that the way of it, though?

Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh,
Black and orange stray cat sittin' on a fence
Ain't got enough dough to pay the rent
I'm flat broke but I don't care
I strut right by with my tail in the air

Stray cat strut, I'm a ladies' cat,
A feline Casanova, hey man, thats where its at
Get a shoe thrown at me from a mean old man
Get my dinner from a garbage can

Yeah don't cross my path

I don't bother chasing mice around
I slink down the alley looking for a fight
Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night
Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,
"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy."

I wish I could be as carefree and wild,
but I got cat class and I got cat style.

I don't bother chasing mice around
I slink down the alley looking for a fight
Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night
Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,
"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy."

I wish I could be as carefree and wild,
but I got cat class and I got cat style.