Cat's Paw - Part 7 by Zooie
Standard disclaimers apply
Duo POV
“Duo.” Heero speaks out of the blue, saying my name with
all the enthusiasm of a dyslexic at a spelling bee. He’s not
in a very happy mood, having spent all morning trying to climb out
of bed only to have the nurses come running in like the Cripple Gestapo.
He’d decided he’d had more than enough of being bedridden
and took it upon himself to go for a walk. Four unsuccessful attempts
later, the nurses told him if he didn’t “plunk his behind
in bed and keep it there,” they were going to strap him in.
He ceased and desisted.
“Yesh, Heewo,” I respond, doing my best to imitate the
actor in the classic movie we’re watching. Heero declared remote
control dominance nearly a week ago and has since dictated our viewing
choices. Today’s critical selection is Yet Another War Film,
starring Yet Another Appalling Actor. Big surprise, since nothing
else seems to capture my roomie’s interest. At least it’s
sufficiently bad enough that it’s distracting me from the fact
that my ass hurts like a bitch from laying in bed all day.
A pain in the ass. That sums me up pretty well.
“Your nose is bleeding again,” he informs me before turning
back to the TV, concern for my well-being evident in every line of
his body.
“No, it isn’t-” I begin, but then, when I wipe
my hand across my upper lip, sure enough. It comes away smeared red.
Swell. Just swell.
Why am I always the last to know these things?
Grumbling under my breath, I grab the box of tissues off the nightstand,
nearly knocking the phone off in the process. Stupid phone. Why do
we even have it in the first place? No one ever calls us and we don’t
exactly have pressing social agendas that need tending. They should
just take it out so we didn’t have to think about how pathetically
alone we are every time we see the damn thing.
Or maybe I should just get over it.
I hold a wad of Kleenex to my nose and tilt my head back against
the pillows. I can still see the TV out of the corners of my eyes.
I watch over the tissues as the lisping actor blasts the hell out
of some Nazis with his machine gun. Their bodies gyrate wildly before
they fall twitching to the ground. Miraculously, not a drop of blood
is shed. Apparently they don’t have low white blood cell counts.
I hope this thing stops soon on its own. If it doesn’t, I’ll
have to call the nurse so she can come and do something useless like
pinch the bridge of my nose or hold ice on my face -both of which
I’m perfectly capable of doing by myself, but she‘ll insist
on doing it for me, being the adamant do-gooder that she no doubt
is- and naturally neither will work, so she’ll have to page
Dr. Merino and then he’ll come and frown and cluck and order
me another blood transfusion because it’s not good when your
white blood cell count is too low because then your blood can’t
clot properly and you can bleed to death, slowly and miserably, a
drawn-out process that is surely unpleasant and would ruin the bed
sheets to boot, not to mention scar your roommate for life...
“Can you change the channel, Heero?” I ask, my voice
coming out all funny, the way people usually sound when their nose
is being held. I’m breathing through my mouth and my lips are
starting to dry out. I fumble blindly for the Chap Stick -cherry flavored-
that usually sits on my nightstand next to the telephone. However,
it too is apparently depressed by the neglected and underused phone,
for it has taken a suicidal plunge to the floor. Damned traitor. It
is dead to me -phht!
“Why?” Heero demands, tearing his eyes from the heroic
charge taking place on screen. “I thought you liked it.”
“I do like it,” I protest. “But I seem to be leaking
sympathy blood.”
“Sympathy blood?” He frowns, more so than usual, and
lowers his scraggly eyebrows. I swear, one night I’m going to
procure a razor and shaving cream from somewhere and shave the damned
things off. Preferably before they eat us both alive. Feed me, Seymore!
“You know, like sympathy pain when somebody talks about their
sprained ankle? Sympathy blood. The soldiers on TV aren’t bleeding,
so I am for them.”
“Do you honestly believe that?” he asks seriously, looking
at me as if I’m about as intelligent as a box of half-melted
crayons. Well, he’s not the brightest crayon in the box by a
long shot if he can’t even tell that was a joke.
“Of course not,” I defend myself. I glare at him as well
as I can, but I don’t think he can see much of my face at the
moment, thanks to the tissue-eclipse. “I just don’t much
feel like watching this right now.”
“I thought you said you liked it.” He sounds as though
I’ve betrayed him badly. Like I’ve slept with his girlfriend,
eaten all his Girl Scout cookies, jumped on his new sofa, ripped up
his porn magazines, guzzled his beer horde, and then kidnapped his
pet dog, Poochie. Completely overreacting. No sense of perspective.
“I do. I’d just rather watch something else right now.
Something that doesn’t have plastic body parts being chucked
around by the stage crew,” I exclaim around the tissues.
“That rules out everything but Telecare and the TV Guide channel.”
Sometimes I forget Heero has a sense of humor, too.
“I guess you’d better leave this on, then,” I sigh,
doing my best martyr emulation. “I’d rather watch this
than some baggy old nun talking about naked people in paintings.”
Especially since said nun looks remarkably like Sister Mary Willis.
“I thought you’d feel that way,” he smirks and
returns his gaze to the TV.
When the movie ends half an hour later, immediately followed by the
classic comedy, “Desk Set,” my nosebleed stops. I swear
it’s too convenient to be a coincidence. However, I don’t
think Heero will be impressed by my newly-discovered psychic connection
to the television, so I keep quiet.
Now that his blood-and-guts-fest is over, Heero begins flipping methodically
through the channels. Unlike me, an experienced flicker, he needs
to pause for more than half a second on each station. He presses the
“channel up” button, watches for about five seconds, then
hits it again, then watches for five more seconds, and so on. Watching
him plod through the networks is enough to make me antsy. It’s
so inefficient. Five seconds per channel; that’s only twelve
channels per minute! For goodness sake, there are 108 channels! It’ll
take nine minutes just to see what’s on, let alone decide on
anything!
“Yo, Heero. How about I get the remote for a while, huh?”
I ask casually, trying not to let on how much his TV viewing habits
irritate me. That would be petty, trivial, and downright lame.
Click.
“No.”
“Aww, come on. I promise I won’t make you watch ‘Hamtaro’
again...” Especially since the one time we’d watched it
had certainly scarred me for life.
Click.
“No.”
“Hey, it’s the news! We should watch. Something important
might have happened.”
Click.
“No!”
“What about this? Everybody loves hand puppets. Look! It‘s
the letter ‘I!’”
Click.
“NO!”
“How about we just watch whatever’s on the next channel?
No matter what it is, that’s what we’ll watch.”
Click.
“NO!!”
“Okay, how about whatever’s three channels from this
one?” And since we’re on channel 33 now, that’ll
bring us to 36, which at this time of day is playing “America’s
Most Wanted,” an all-time favorite...
Click.
“Will you be quiet then?”
Click.
“Yep!”
“Fine.”
Click.
“Next, on ‘America’s Most Wanted,’ we go
undercover into the infamous terrorist organization known as...”
Click. A very familiar, overly perky theme song begins playing...
“Hey! You were supposed to stop!”
“I hate cop shows.”
“Oh, and ‘Columbo’ isn’t a cop show?”
“No. ‘Columbo’ is a detective show. It’s
about a Los Angeles police lieutenant working in Homicide. He solves
his cases through extremely dogged and careful pursuit of all clues.
Painfully obsequious sometimes, his blade-sharp analysis is always
carefully hidden by an apparent shambling, disorganized nature that
always makes the criminal underestimate him and make mistakes.”
“Like I said, a cop show.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“That’s because you know you’re wrong.”
“Your nose is bleeding again.”
“Goddamn it!”
~+~+~
“I don’t understand. Why is he trying to kill them if
the boat is sinking? They’re all going to die anyway.”
“It’s a matter of honor. He must avenge his pride.”
“If he’s so concerned about his pride, why isn’t
the fiance the one chasing after them? Why is the butler doing it?”
“Don’t ask me, Heero! Just watch the goddamn movie!”
“But it’s stupid.”
“I know it’s stupid, but everyone and their mom likes
it!”
“So why do we have to watch it?”
“I don’t know! We’re just obligated to! It’s
a cultural icon!”
“For what? Ill-conceived plots?”
“For brilliant cinematography.”
“It would have to be brilliant to cover up the gaping plot
holes and inferior performances. I mean, did you see how miscast the
actors are? There’s no way that woman could pass for sixteen-”
“Do you want me to turn it off? Because I’ll turn it
off if that’s what you want.”
“No, you don’t have to-”
“It really sounds like that’s what you want me to do.
I’ll turn it off and we’ll watch something else. Quatre
left a whole bunch of DVDs. How about ‘Terminator?’”
“Which one?”
“We have them all. Which do you want to watch?”
“Which has the most explosions?”
“Uhhh.... I think the third. As the plot decreases, the action
increases in proportion. It‘s an inverse slope, like the current
stock market.”
“Do you associate everything with something you saw on TV?”
“Do you complain about everything you don’t understand?”
Promise me you’ll never let go, Rose!
“Oh, for God’s sake, shut it off!”
“I’m trying! The clicker’s dead!”
“Well, get up and do it!”
“I’m tired. You get up!”
I promise, Jack.
“Duo! Make it stop!”
“NURSE!!!”
~+~+~
“Here. Educate yourself.” My oh-so-congenial tutor chucks
a textbook at my head, his frustration with my academic aptitude causing
him to seek my decapitation. By using my super-human reflexes, I manage
to intercept the Book of Doom before it does any serious harm. Go-go
Gadget Arms! I lower the heavy volume to my lap and examine its cover.
Ohhh. Look. Holographic letters. This will keep me entertained for
hours.
If there is an upside to being chronically ill, it is that you are
no longer expected to haul your sorry ass to school. Whatever school
district you are enrolled in is instead required to provide you with
a tutor, your very own fountain of knowledge. Said tutor shows up
for an hour or two each weekday, leaves you with a bunch of bullshit
busy work, helps you with any questions you have about your reading,
and everyone is happy. The school district is fulfilling its obligation,
you’re getting some semblance of an education, and your tutor
is chalking up goody-two-shoes points with the administrators. Yeah
for public education.
I’ve been working with Wufei for about a week now. He’s
a pretty cool dude, for a suck up, and I’ve actually been looking
forward to his visits. He stops by the hospital on his way to martial
arts class from school, hauling along his book bag and his big-ass
equipment duffle. I know he’s cutting it close time-wise because
he usually changes from his street clothes to his training uniform
in my bathroom. He’ll go in wearing his dorky turtlenecks and
creased khakis and emerge looking ready to kick some serious ninja
ass. Gone are the glasses! Gone are the penny loafers! Gone is the
floppy, too-long hair that keeps falling in his face! (Not that the
ponytail is much better.) He is radiating danger. He is a menace to
more than just small animals and brittle old people. He is lean, mean,
Ninjitsu machine with plenty of pent up aggression!
And he refuses to beat Heero up for me. Wuss.
Not that I really want him to. It’s just... it would be funny.
I mean, the mental image of Wufei cracking Heero’s leg cast
in half with his forehead is pretty damned amusing.
It’s not like he could hurt Heero anyway. Whenever Wufei shows
up, the Amazing Coma Boy departs. He is magically spirited away by
the nurses right before my tutor arrives. Either he has a dual-identity
that I was unaware of, or someone thinks he will distract me from
my lessons.
Me? Easily distracted? Never!
Ohhh. Look, TV.
But anyway, things with Wufei are working out fine, except that I’m
exasperating him. Immensely. To levels never before seen this side
of Uranus.
Hey, if I was mature, I wouldn’t be fifteen.
“The Cambridge History of China. Volume One,” Wufei reads
the book’s title aloud, as if I’m as literate as a toenail
clipper. He taps on its cover with his finger, looking quite satisfied
with himself. “There are fifteen volumes and all of them are
as long as this one. In fact, volumes five and nine are two books
a piece.”
“The history of China?” I muse. “Pray tell how
this falls under the curriculum the school provided. Not that I don’t
want to read it, but this certainly doesn’t look like it pertains
to US History and Government.”
Wufei looks flustered. “We already finished that syllabus.
Actually, you’d completed it before we even began.”
“Dude,” I apologize. “I sit in a bed all day. I
have nothing to do but read and watch educational television. After
a while it just kind of sticks, you know?”
“You can recall the names of all the current state representatives
and when their terms expire, but you can’t remember not to call
me ‘dude?’” he glares. With his long hair and glasses,
he looks about as intimidating as an ill-groomed Drew Carey.
I shrug. “It’s a figure of speech.”
He doesn’t look happy, but he also doesn’t argue. Score
one for team Duo! Break out the pompoms! Bette
“Fine,” he sighs. “But getting back to the book...
I thought it would be an excellent opportunity for us to converse
about topics of culture. Since most Americans seem to regard Asian
heritage as a novelty, I felt this would provide an adequate basis
for future discussions of an intellectual nature. Perhaps once we
have followed the journey the Chinese have taken over the past millennia,
I can help you to garner a deeper understanding of the value of Asia’s
past.”
Now it is my turn to sigh. A certain someone seems to feel that because
I do not obsessively devour Asian history like he does, I feel nothing
but malice towards Asian culture in general. This is most certainly
not true, but explaining that fact to Mr. Chang while he’s in
the middle of his Heritage Pride Parade borders on impossible. Every
time he comes here, it devolves into a speech about his being Chinese.
It really irritates me because other than that he’s such an
awesome guy. Either he goes to school with some really racist pricks
and he needs to justify his self-worth or he uses his time with me
as a mental prep session for his Ninjitsu class.
Usually I merely smile and nod while he bellows and frowns. This
probably doesn’t help matters any, but what am I supposed to
do? Wrap Drippy around his neck and pin him to the floor, yelping
some idiotic crud about how I watched “the Mysteries of the
Great Wall of China” just the other day and not everyone is
a slimy, skeevy, jerk-face with his head up his ample behind?
I begin to consider it, though, when I regard the book I’m
holding. Fifteen volumes... and they’re all this long? Jesus.
No wonder the rainforest is in danger.
“Uh, Wufei,” I venture. “Is there any chance that
there’s a Reader’s Digest condensed version of this?”
He smiles. “Intimidated?”
“No... It’s just, I don’t think we’re going
to have time to finish them all...” If I get stuck reading this,
it is definitely going to endanger my TV viewing time. This is so
not good.
“We don’t have to finish them all. We just have to read
enough for you to comprehend the intricacies of China’s past.”
He nods assertively, his hair flopping limply and, as usual, managing
to find its way into his mouth. He swipes at it irritably.
Maybe he’d be in a better mood if I got him a gift certificate
to Super Cuts.
Why do I get stuck with the stubborn tutor? Why couldn’t I
have gotten some nice, wishy-washy, oh-I’m-so-darn-cute-and-sweet-and-look-at-me-simper,
push-over of a girl who is too busy giggling to actually tutor anyone?
Why did I get stuck with poor, tormented Wufei who probably has no
friends because he comes here and vents to me of all people?
If I can’t talk my way out of this, I may have to infringe
upon my slavish television addiction so I can read this overly-tedious
book. Unless....
“Hey, Wufei! I have a great idea!” I announce. Say bye-bye
to the chain and shackle, for I am gosh darn brilliant. “My
roommate is Japanese. Maybe he would like to read this instead. I‘m
sure he must be interested in his continent‘s history.”
Wufei looks skeptical. “Roommate? I don’t believe you
have a roommate. I have never once seen this phantom roommate.”
He glances pointedly at the empty, neat bed across the room.
Damn the nurses for being so efficient in their bed-making. Every
time they take Heero out of the room, they use the opportunity to
change his sheets, a task that they accomplish with the speed of a
hyperactive Energizer Bunny. Why aren’t they that quick when
I want pudding?
“No, no, really I do,” I protest. “He just went
to get some more X-Rays done.” Or something. “The nurses
just changed his sheets again. See? His chart is there...”
Wufei looks thoughtful. “I would enjoy speaking with someone
who understands... I wonder if I could possibly tutor both of you?”
“Sure!” I gush. “Heero would like that. He loves
to learn, especially about wars and stuff. This would be right up
his alley.”
He nods. “That sounds like a valid idea. We could hold discussions
and you could listen in, possibly participating. It would be an open
forum for the expression of ideas and interpretations of our world.”
Actually, that did sound kind of cool. “Great!” I grin.
“Now that we’ve got that sorted out, do you want to go
over my essay on ‘the Pearl?’ I discussed whether Steinbeck
intended it to be a commentary on American greed and selfishness.”
And what a riveting discussion it was. The audience was at the edge
of their seats...
Actually, Drippy did have some comments to add. Wanted to know when
I was going to stop hogging him and set him free. I was unaware that
he was that anxious to be introduced to the trash compactor.
Wufei looks at his watch. “No, I have to leave if I want to
reach class on time. Just give it to me and I’ll have the teacher
grade it.” Wufei doesn’t actually get to grade my work
(probably much to his dismay). He instead acts as a messenger boy
and delivers my essays and tests to the appropriate faculty member
for review. I’m certain if he were grading me, I would get all
D’s.
Dimwitted. Dull. Dense. “D” most certainly stands for
“Duo.”
“Alright, buddy!” I eagerly thrust his book into his
hands. “Don’t bust too many skulls at practice!”
He frowns at me, looking more intense than Homer Simpson when he’s
confronted with a choice of beers.
“I would never be so careless,” he chides, stowing the
dreaded book away in his book bag.
Did I ever mention that some people have no sense of sarcasm?
*******
TBC
*******
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