Laser Cat

  Author's note:  Sorry again for the underlines, this was a vocab assignment in another life.  I will be uploading a sequel to this from The cat's point of view when I have the time and the points.  I hope you enjoy! :)                                                                                                                                                                              “Um, hello and welcome to Sandy Surfrider’s! My name is Alan, and I will be serving you today. May I take your order? We have a brand new Surf n’ Turf special with buttered mashed potatoes for half price if you like.” It all pushes out of my chest at light speed and I curse myself for being so nervous. C’mon, A.J! It’s your second week here. Grow a spine.                                                                                                                                                           I fight to keep my smile plastered on and try to ignore the couple’s identical baffled faces. The young, sandy-haired guy's bloodshot eyes droop in lethargy as he lackadaisically mutters something about starting with drinks, and I soon rush to retrieve their orders of Coke and Pepsi. (How does that relationship survive?) My faux grin thankfully melts off me as my black Asics thump on the checked linoleum toward the kitchen, past the posters depicting blonde guys catching waves and sharks wearing Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses.

As I burst into the kitchen, I am met with the thin-pupiled, icy eyes of Zing, the ‘kitchen cat’ of the restaurant. To me, the wiry, ginger-furred feline brought nothing but trouble, but most of the staff thinks she is precious. The manager, Lori Oreille, owns her, and had an entire kitty jungle gym implanted around the kitchen, which I believe irritates the cooks. We’ve had many send-backs due to cat hair, whiskers, and excrement in soup. Right now, she’s stalking me on her doorway catwalk, (Geddit? Yeah, me neither.) blue eyes fixed on a stray bit of pork left on the hard linoleum ground.                                                                                                                       I quickly scramble out of her way as Zing’s legs propel the audacious cat to embark on a nearly gravity-defying journey to the ground. An inkling of worry shoots through me in a split second as I watch her graceful descent. That platform has to be nine feet up. This place will go into a state of rebellion without that cat. But, without missing a beat, the tufty vermillion paws impact on the maroon linoleum lightly, and before you can say Santa Claus smells like Sauerkraut, the piece of pork was in her mouth being subjected to a harrowing destruction at the hands of Zing’s profuse teeth. I skirt the corner, and grab a cold Pepsi and Coke (Share a Coke with Breezy Marie Paisley V), and pour them both prudently into glasses filled with ice. But, when I go to pilfer our stash of straws for the couple’s convenience, I stumble upon something odd. A slovenly preparation of the shrimp tail, steak, and sugar cookie stew(aka The Shark Barf Special) had left a pinkish goop on one of the cooktops. Repulsed, I fight the urge to hurl.

The first thing I notice when I return to the restaurant was that the sky has turned inky black, and sheets of rain, snow and hail battered the Seattle skyline. Not uncommon here, but I feel there was an uncanny amount of lightning swirling around the Space Needle. I figure working the late shift must be going to my head, and return to the table where I had stood, attempting to mask embarrassment just minutes before. They are now ready to order, and I am once again met with a mumble from the tired man's companion, a shorter girl, whose unevenly cut hair is dyed with all colors of the rainbow and more. With a flash of common déjà vu, I speed to the kitchen, and yell my order across the room. That’s when I notice Zing. She is standing on the cooktop where the Goop used to be.                                                                                 Wait… used to be? I suddenly detect her pleased look, and the pink stuff dribbling from her chin. No way. I can’t believe it. I have always thought of felines as the connoisseurs of the animal world, as my best friend Tina owns one named Opal who will only eat a certain kind of whitefish blend when it rains. This view burned that stereotype to the ground.  I now realize that cats are all different, and a few felines, including Zing, are omnivores devoid of dignity.

Now, I perceive something in Zing’s eyes I have not noticed hitherto. A sort of power, a rage I have never seen before. And then the cat shoots lasers from its eyes. She blinks, crouches, and crimson light suddenly explodes out of her corneas, burning a perfect hole through a frying pan. My brain feels like it is rattling around in my skull.  This is like a superhero origin story gone wrong. Why did I not eat that slop? The answer is, of course, that I am a regular person with standards. Even despite this, a weird and gross part of me that should never see the light of day still regrets my normal decision. I now decide to run out back into a rainy alley, knowing I  risk a rebuke from Lori, and never look back. (mostly)