Ginny Baby

Ginny was a little one. She had gray fur with a little patch of creamy white on her spine. She arrived at the shelter in a cardboard box by the front door like a cartoon baby at a firehouse. I was opening that morning. Found the little fella on the ground meowing. Meowwwww. That’s what it sounded like. The cat. She didn’t have a collar and there were fleas all over her. I went inside, flipped on the big fluorescents, threw my bags on a seat in the breakroom and grabbed some latex gloves. When I got back outside, the cat was meowing and shaking. Poor little baby. Angel thing. I picked her up by the scruff of her neck and brought her inside. I plopped the critter down in our massive industrial sink and covered her in soapy water. She didn’t move. I think she knew I was helping her. I picked up her front paws one at a time and scrubbed them real gently with a little kitten sized sponge shaped like a paw. Her paws were no bigger than a nickel each and she purred a little when I pulled a thorn out of one. Little scratch under the chin. Small meow. Rumble from the purr. Little angel thing.

Present tense. Coworker Randal opens the side door smelling like brandy. Ugh. What a freak. He says, “My roommate killed a mouse.” I’m silent because Randal sucks. He asked us to call him Randy a few weeks ago. No one calls him that, of course, because he’s Randal. He’s such a Randal. Big glasses and stupid tattoos of old Fueled by Ramen’s logos. They’re faded because he’s impatient. Impatient Randal. Must’ve itched at them. Ugh. Ginny and I are in our own little world. Even Randal can’t ruin that. He’s complaining about prices on Uber Eats. Says he doesn’t cook. The brandy scent makes me nauseous and stresses me out cause I’m sober and have been for nine months. No more booze, cigs, caffeine, nothing. Just me and Ginny. Ginny and me. I scratch scratch scratch under her chin and she leans her head in cause she loves it. I’m thinking about zilch. Totally nothing. And Randal is ranting in the corner about hot wings and YouTubers. Ugh.

Once I got Ginny all cleaned up, I wrapped the baby in an oversized towel and gave her a delicate squeeze. I could feel her fragile skeleton kind of bending underneath. She went mow, so I stopped. I just wanted to get her dry. Real dry. She’s ok. I unwrapped the angel and laid the towel out on the metal counter, took a handful of scruff, and plopped her on the towel with another little mow. She stood there shivering. Poor baby. I picked up her paws one by one and clipped her little claws. Not too much. Just a bit. Manicure. I thought briefly about the movie where Ryan Gosling falls in love with the sex doll. Lars and the Real Girl. Wow. What a movie. Ginny’s all ready.

Two months later, Ginny’s shaking. The little baby, she’s got a cold. Or something like that. Randal and I try to keep her warm. We put her in the crate nearest to the radiator. It’s a centennial building. She’s next to last year’s mini Christmas tree. It’s made of plastic, sort of half-melted by the radiator. Ginny won’t stop shaking. I unlock her crate and Randal swaddles the angel in a fuzzy blanket. My baby. My little angel. I’m thinking about that movie again, the way the whole town starts to love that sex doll too. The way the doll gets sick and dies. The way Ryan Gosling falls in love again. What a movie. Gosh. Ginny’s little eyes are shut. Ginny’s little paws are tucked under her little torso. Ginny’s shaking. Randal passes me the kitty and I squeeze like I did when Ginny and I first met. I feel her skeleton compress just a bit. She stops shaking. I think I love you, Ginny and Randal thinks it too. He’s the worst, but he loves Ginny. He loved Ginny. I can feel her heartbeat speeding up. Bum bum bum bum bumbumbumbum. Little mow. Then it stops. And Ginny’s dead.

I love you, Ginny.

I think about Lars and Bianca, the sex doll. I think about Bianca. I think about the dead kitten in my arms. Ginny baby. Randal’s crying, baby. I don’t cry like that, baby. There’s classical music coming from somewhere. Just loud enough to hear it. Clair de Lune. That one part.

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Charlie Zacks lives in Boston, MA. He is the author of RIFFS and founder/editor of STIMULANT. His works are found in Expat, Spectra, and L’Amour - La Mort Poetry.