I thought I’d write a story.  A true one.  From my first apartment in Buffalo.

_____________________________________

Ugh.  It was the doorbell.  It was Saturday morning, near 8am.  I had gone out the night before and hadn’t got in until near 5am.  I lived in an upper in a two story house.  I opened the top door and I saw my downstairs neighbor Sandy standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Aaaajjjjj…. there’s a dead cat outside.”

“What?” I managed to say.  I was groggy, tired, and in boxers and a t-shirt at the top stairs barely comprehending what she’s saying.  “Get Norm to take care of it,” I said.

I should explain that Norm and Sandy live together, and were a couple I suppose.  Sandy was a well intentioned, but slightly unstable larger woman in her late 50’s.  Norm is a slim old man who is almost always inebriated.  They yelled and screamed at each other all the time.  They also never shovel the driveway or sidewalk, help with yard work, or take the trash down to the corner.  They both could be pleasant to your face, but spent their evenings arguing loudly and preventing anyone in the neighborhood from sleeping.

“Norm won’t get out of bed.  He says he won’t do anything about it.”

“Alright Sandy, I’ll be down in a minute.”

I headed to my room and threw some pants on while cursing out loud.  At this point I was living alone in my apartment, my roommate having moved out a few weeks early (and Rollin hadn’t moved in yet).  I stumbled down the stairs without putting shoes on.

Sandy was waiting for me just outside the door.

“Its in the backyard under the tree,” she tells.  She doesn’t leave the cement patio after I pass her.  “Be careful!!!  Don’t step on it.”

I look all around.  I don’t see a dead cat.

” What are you talking about Sandy,” I said.

“IT’S RIGHT THERE!!!”

I leant down to touch the ground.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!!!”

“This?”  I touched an object on the ground.

“yeah?” Sandy said.  More a question than a statement.

“Its a tree root Sandy.”

“No its not.  Its a dead cat.”

“Its a tree root.”  I started knocking it with my knuckle.

“But tree roots are underground,” she tells me.

“They come above ground sometime Sandy.  Its a tree root.”

Sandy came down to join me in the backyard.  “It looks like a dead cat though right?”

I started walking past her back upstairs.  “No.  No it doesn’t.  It doesn’t look anything like a dead cat.”

“Look from back here on the patio.  Doesn’t it look like a dead cat from there?”

“I don’t care Sandy.  I’m going back to bed.”

I went back to my room and let my head hit the pillow.

From downstairs I heard Sandy telling Norm “AJ says it is a tree root, not a dead cat.”

I couldn’t hear Norm’s reply.  Nor did I care at that point.

A few weeks later Sandy has complications in a vein in her leg.  It eventually leads to her death.  I sometimes wonder why that is the only memory I have of Sandy after living above her for almost two years.  In the end I don’t think another memory is needed.  Sandy was strange.  That’s for sure.  And she saw dead cats instead of tree roots.  Probably everywhere.