Ghosts of Cabeceo Past, Part 4: My First Nutjob

A warm fall day in upstate New York is no time to be locked inside, studying. Better to study in sunshine.

At a nice city park not too far off campus, I found a spot close but not too close to everyone else, settled cross-legged on the grass with my books.

A man walked across the grass, sat down nearby. Attractive. I was brand-new to college, and in high school I didn’t get out much. So I could be wrong. Still, this is the way I remember it: handsome.

Of course, I studiously ignored him.

He stood up and moved closer. Scooted over a little more. Struck up a conversation. It took a few minutes to catch his drift.

… change into a cat, he said.

Wow! I thought. I need to get out more!

Really, he insisted.

Wow, I said.

He went on and on. His story was fascinating! Somebody was changing into a cat, but it was not quite clear who.

You can do that? I said, sounding impressed. He believed it, why shouldn’t I believe it with him for a while?

He grew agitated. No, he said. No, not me!

Evidently, turning into a black cat is not a good thing in his world.

My roommate’s girlfriend turned into a cat, he said. A black cat. Do you believe me?

Yes, I said. I wasn’t lying. I was speaking from my wild-imaginative self, who would willingly, unquestioningly, follow any idea into its own space.

I killed her, he said. I still have the gun in my pocket.

I snuck a look at his pocket. His hand was in it, too.

Ah, I said. (Run, wild-imaginative One Heart, run out of the forest!)

She turned into a cat and she tried to jump out the window, he said. So I shot her.

I see, I said in the voice I used with my little brother when he was very intent on explaining his four-year-old world to me.

What about you? he asked. There was some talk about women and cats.

I can’t turn into a cat, I said.

He shifted around, here and there.

Really, I said. I don't think most people can do that. I bet there's hardly anyone in the world can do it. Don't you think so?

Are you trying to do it right now? he asked.

(Run for the hills, One Heart!)

What I like to do is, I like to lie back in the sun and close my eyes, I said. Do you want to?

He did.

Just like that. Can you believe it? I couldn’t.

I like to close my eyes and think of things I like, I said, sliding my books q-u-i-e-t-l-y into my bag.

I like to lie there for a long time. I like to breathe and smell the grass and feel the sun on my face. I like to think about the things that make me happy, I said, standing up without making a sound.

Do you want to? I asked.

As he listed the things that he loved, I backed away.

I liked him. I still do. In retrospect I doubt he had a gun in his pocket. I hope he beat that whole black-cat thing.

My family calls me the Nut Magnet. He was my first. (The other ones—pervert, malicious middle schooler—were only opportunistic.) This was a clear-cut case. I want to say this in a way that doesn't sound too like a woo-woo drama queen. He was just he and I was just me, and we shared a nice walk in his interesting worldhis thickety thinking together.

When I was a kid, the nuns said each of us is born with a divine gift, and it is our duty to use it well and often, every chance we get. It's the least we can do for Jesus.

It's a weird gift, companion to nutjobs. But when I count my blessings, this is chief among them.