a cat named taliban
g and i went walking today, to the triboro bridge park. on our way back, we stopped at this little dive of an outdoor bar, called steve’s place. we never met steve, but we met taliban.
steve’s place isn’t even really a bar – it’s a glorified tent patio, open to the street, on hoyt avenue with a few tables outside and a television. one section is “indoors” – that’s where, presumably, steve or a reasonable facsimile thereof sells his drinks to his thirsty patrons. there are always a smattering of old greek men that hang out there, playing backgammon and getting defensive about their favored teams for whatever sport is on the television. the television is older than i am. i’ve never seen a woman at steve’s place.
we decide to have a coke and brave the social norms that dictate the all-male presence inside the tented patio. I sit down with my frosty can, and g meanders her way to the bathroom (later to report the expected dismal atmosphere in the toilet). A cat, really a kitten, wanders over to my feet and looks up at me. i know instinctively she’s female. she’s a gray tabby, those common street cats, with trust-me blue eyes. when i lived in africa, there were always stray cats wandering around. while i know it’s inhumane, it’s a sight that reminds me of my childhood and i’m always strangely comforted by strays in outdoor restaurants, hanging under cars, digging through the trash – you see my point.
I pull the kitten on top of the table and she immediately starts playing with my backpack, tugging at the strings and pawing at my keys which dangle from a climber’s hook. when g returns, we take turns playing with her. our favorite hilarity is when she gets huffy over the empty umbrella hole in the center of the plastic table – you can drive her crazy by sticking your fingers up through the hole and making her reach her whole arm down in there, trying to snag your finger.
eventually, thanks to our peals of hysterical laughter at the cat’s antics, his pseudo-owner (or just some guy pretending it’s his cat so he can talk to girls) comes over, and while he lets the cat to positively shred a paper napkin that he dangles above her head, we talk.
what’s the cat’s name? i ask.
tali, he says. taliban.
i didn’t ask. it’s better that way.
so without further ado, meet taliban, the cat:
there she is, trying to get g's sunglasses through the hole.
and here’s gen, and the coke, and taliban:
doesn't she look sexy? not the cat, genevieve. duh.
and oh, here’s me and gen at the bridge, and so now you can see my hair, short:
<img src=http://www.cendre.com/users/krissa/meandgen.jpg alt="the hottest chicks in astoria."
so next time you come see me, (and you and you and you too), remind me to take you on a walk. we'll go watch the sun set over the triboro bridge, and on the way back we'll stop at steve's place, have a coke, and play with a terrorist cat.
cheers,
k.