Fool's Gold
by Don Bernal
So who wanted to know? Who wanted the cat out of the bag, claws all sharp and itching for skin and blood? Who thought that letting that beast out of its bag was a good idea?
You want to know a good idea. Keeping dangerous things in tight, confined places is a good idea. So is neutering. And desharpening of claws.
But mainly the bad thing in the bag is the good idea.
***
I thought I knew so much. I thought I was being smart and prudent. Was thinking of now and the possible future. Like I know what the possible future holds. I don't even know what I'm going to wear tomorrow.
And my closet is just right over there.
***
I thought I knew so much. Like I was king of the world. Like I was something. Something that mattered. Something that meant ... something. Something like that.
Substance. I thought I had some. I thought I was full of it.
Yeah, I was full of it.
***
My love won't return my calls anymore. Never did really, but I thought there were good reasons for that. See that word again. Thought. Goes to show you how well I thought.
I think I finally figured it out when she said, "You don't really care one way or the other if I left you, right?"
***
I thought about it. And said yes.
You're reading an idiot's words.
***
But don't worry. I won't hold it against you. Read this, and forget it. Promise me. Because you'll forget it anyway, and in that case, you'll feel some fulfillment at the achievement you've made.
Feeling fulfillment is good. It gives you something inside.
I achieved something today. A whole lot of something, all right. A whole lot of doses of reality.
***
Note to self: reality really really really has a problem with you.
Addendum to note: so do I.
***
You see, my love can't love me anymore. She simply can't. Its too hard. Too painful. Too ... much.
She has to put up with me.
***
And the bad thing is, is that I can't do anything to help it. I can't help her at all. Not a squat. Because I thought I was helping her. I thought I was giving her all I could give.
All I gave her was grief. Wrapped in pretty, pretty packages.
***
Here is the story, for those who don't know: my love loved me. No, she loves me. No, she loves me not.
Wait. You're not a flower, I'm not a flower. Who's picking who? I'll continue.
She had something for me. I had something for her. I gave her stuff. She smiled when she got it. I liked her smile, so I gave her more stuff. She gave me her voice. She gave me her time. She gave me her life, a slice of it, a piece.
The greatest pie I've ever had.
So I gave her more of what I had. Whatever it is. Whatever this is. I gave and I gave, knowing full well in my mind that I was adding more water in the barrel, in case it ever got droughty, and she needed water. Then she'd have a store of it saved up, courtesy of me.
My courtesies are the dumbest things in the world.
***
For instance, I hold the door for people too long. Like if I'm walking up a flight of stairs, and open the door, and I see someone just walking up the same stairs, chances are, I'm waiting for that person. Door open, me just standing there. A doorman in shabbier clothes.
What's the point? I'm just annoying the door. The person down the stairs probably wanted to open the damn thing him/herself. So why do I do it?
I just have nothing better to do.
***
My love asked me, when she finally told me that me and her were gone, "Please don't be hurt or mad."
I thought about it. Then I said, "Of course I'm not hurt or mad." I went on to say that I only thought of her, that whatever she decides was fine with me.
You know what I should do with my spare time. Study more to stop being stupid.
***
How can I tell her that I won't be hurt or mad? How could I lie to her like that? I'll tell you how: I'm an idiot.
I thought I was being nice to her. Saving her feelings and such and such.
What she really thought (because now, even now, I'm not so lost that I don't see what happened): He doesn't care. He doesn't care that we're not going in the right places. He's not hurt, angry, mad. He doesn't have any feelings. He just doesn't care.
I can't believe I just wrote that.
The truth is usually so hard for me to put down on paper.
***
Look at the damage I've caused. Another life, wasted and upset. Touched by me. It's like I'm cursed. I'm a living mummy.
Put me back in my coffin. Let me rest another thousand years.
***
Put me back inside, just like the cat let out from the bag.
***
I didn't do a single thing. I'm not lifting a finger now. She's going, going, gone. And I'm here talking about cats and putting little dots on the paper.
Like all I'm good for it complaining and spacing things out nicely.
***
I space things out nicely all right. My love is about a thousand miles away. Her heart must be somewhere on Mars. How far can she get it away from me?
The cat is running around the world now. He's sprung from the bag. He'll never get back in.
You know what I'm afraid of. The thing I'm really upset about.
What's written on his collar. Etched in the fool's gold that his tag is made of.
My owner is an idiot.
***
The reason I'm upset. My address is on it. So people will find me. Knowing full well one thing about me.
My foolishness. And my inability to keep the cat in the bag.
***
I'm no good for such things. Just ask my former-love. I'm no good for love either. Can't keep either locked up in a nice, tight confinement.
They just want to get out even more, claws a razorin', teeth bared, ready to strike at first light.
***
Note to self: don't stand in front of opening bags anymore.
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