Part II of the Oscar Post

(Prelude: I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon. Let's just say put judgment aside and agree that the jury is out on whether Delonas is a good or bad person or a racist. We can definitively say, though, (thanks to Gawker) that Delonas isn't a very bright cartoonist.)


II

The staccato knocks which were intended to alarm Jet instead gently pushed Alden's hollow, metal door open. Two thoughts rushed through my head as the door revealed a freshly turned-over living room: they're expecting me and I'm in great danger.

I scanned the room and saw Alden to my left, gagged and tied to a chair with twine. It was a sloppy job. He could wait.

I looked to my right. No Jet.

As I backed against the door, pushing it with the palm of my right hand, I looked into Alden's eyes and put my finger to my mouth. It didn't occur to me at the time that his muffled pleading was not the result of fear, but a warning.

"Pep-pep-pep-pep-pep! Jet! Pep-pep-pep. Come here, Jet!"

I heard movement behind me and about-faced. My eyes darted to the ground, expecting a medium-sized black cat, but instead I was startled to find a pair of black, leather dress shoes planted firmly on the ground, exiting a man's violet pinstriped pant legs like two upside-down whack-a-moles.

"We do not respond to 'Jet' in this form, Mister Eustice," the man said, his voice haughty from years of affluence. I trained my eyes slowly upward from the shoes; to the blue paisley tie bookended by two fat, violet lapels, to the waxy crags around his piercing blue eyes, and finally to his sly, white smile.

"Should I call you Tom?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Or Mister Wolfe?"

The man laughed.

"No, Jim. You may call me Christian," he paused and stared at me with the same sly smile, "or Mister Rosenkreuz."

To be continued...

My Dinner with Alden or Cat’s Got Your Tongue: A Study of the 2009 Oscars in 5 Parts

I.

On a cold Saturday afternoon in February I was teetering on the brink of sleep and awake, when my phone rang. Not quite awake, I answered the phone with a jumble of hellos and huhs and whats

“Jim, I need your help,” a voice said. Scratchy. High-pitched. Almost recognizable. Almost.
“Who is this?” I demand.
“Jet”
“What?”
“Jet!”
“Li?”
“No. Alden’s Jet.”
“Oh.”
“I need your help, Jim.”
“But-“
“Damnit Jim. Just listen! We have precious little time!”

I listened intently as Jet explained why he needed my help and what he needed me to do. I was to drive to Jet’s apartment outside of Baltimore in a sleepy little town called Arbutus. Jet said I needed to meet him at his apartment so that a formal plan of action could be made. Maybe it was the drowsiness or the urgency in Jet’s voice, but I never asked him why he needed me. I hung up the phone and hopped in the shower. As I lathered up, my mind wandered to my friend Alden’s wedding. Jet had said that he was Alden’s Jet, but I couldn’t recall meeting anybody named Jet.

I put on my shoes and ran to my van.

As I was sitting in the driver’s seat, it hit me:

Jet was Alden’s cat.

(cue ominous music)

I dialed Alden’s number on my mobile phone and waited for the ringing to stop.

Finally, an answer.

“Alden?”
“Jim…just listen to Jet. Come to Arbutus.”
“What’s going on?” I asked right as I heard the phone being snatched away from Alden.
“Are you listening, Jim?”
It was Jet again. More tense this time. More demanding.
“Yeah, I mean…yeah, Jet. I’m listening. I’m just confused. How am I talking to a cat?”
“Just listen, Jim. Come to Arbutus. I need your help.”
“But…”
“Jim! Don’t be a hero.”
“But…you’re a cat,” but he hung up before I could finish.

I started the car and pulled out of my driveway.

End Part I

Part II tomorrow.