Part 9
Badger's Cat Adventure: Badger's cat ran around and around in circles, claws clicking on cement, a demented look on its fastidious cat face, chasing a bit of smelly, homeless guy's hair clump that got caught in the end of its tail.
It's my owner's hairball! the cat loathed to himself, It stinks like him! He cleans other people with his tongue, why can't he clean himself more! I hate him so much.
The cat sat down, winded, and fumed. He was a cute little short haired tabby, not quite the color of a newly swirled Orange Julius, which was what Badger was hoping for when he grabbed the kitten from the trash bin, but a handsome little cat nonetheless. Brandon made him a collar that first week, a little hard leather and cord job he was very proud of, with special, burned in gothic letters that read, Pus. Not Puss, but Pus. He had forgotten the other "s". The lady cats made fun of Pus when he strolled by, tail in air, trying to look cool and nonchalant.
"Here, Pus, Pus, Pus!" they giggled, "any wriggling sores today? Did you get them from your owner, who cleans you with his germy tongue?" The lady cats were beside themselves, rolling in the giant, open rubbish bins by the pale moonlight behind the transient motel, an otherwise ever so romantic feline scene.
Pus tried to chew his collar again, but it was on perfectly good and tight. Brandon kept fixing it whenever the cord looked a little bit worn.
"People have to know who you are in case you are ever lost, Pus. I don't want to lose you. I love you so much."
Gads.
The cat sat on his tail and clawed at the soiled, foreign hair again. He finally got it off with his sharp teeth and claws, *ffsttt!* and *whicked* it away, paw vigorously shaking. The offending hairball hit a startled pigeon right in the beak, wetly. Damn, I have to eat with these paws, sniffed the cat, which reminds me…, and pounced at the stunned pigeon who took off into the air.
"Duude-cat, ewww, what have you been ingesting?" the pigeon cooed from above. "Ha! Stupid, slow feline."
"Damn you, you damn, dirty-bird! Damn you to hell!" the cat yowled. [Cats always get overdramatic when talking to birds, who are so beneath them, with all that mindless cheeping and cheery singing and happy pooping every 10 minutes. Usually, there's not really talk, per se, just "Hello! You're dead!" if they can keep it to that cat minimum.]
"Which reminds me," cooed the pigeon, and shat enormously on Pus's head.
"Double Damnation!" cried the cat, "Now I have to go off and rub my head on Badgers's lap! And he likes that toooo much!"
Dripping, Pus was now a pathetic sight, though quite befitting his name. He heard sharp-eyed, lady-cat laughter in the distance. He stalked, stiff legged, over to his favorite parking lot refuse basket to calm himself and take his mind off things. He rubbed his head on a convenient vagrant along the way, picking up a few ticks. Ah, the smell of cafeteria food wafted through the air, and he jumped up in anticipation.
"What? Who's been eating my favorite garbage?"
…
Jesse Pinkman threw some hamburger morsels to a hungry cat that was staring at him and yowling. He was sitting in one of 4 area hospitals renowned for its trauma center, and Jesse, being, of course, from the meth overdose and accident world, knew them all. He sat in the hot car waiting for them to come out, the ones who seemed to think everyone visited hospitals in cheap, dark suits and sunglasses. He would even recognize a few of them, what were their names, Artie and Scott? Those two interrogated him themselves, though now his face looked so different he wondered if they could i.d. Jesse so quickly. All he had to do was wait until he saw them, and they would visit, boy, would a bunch of them visit, and harass whoever was taking care of Heisenberg.
…
The nurse needed a bit of fresh air after the long shift. Her patient was resting comfortably, and the long day was coming to an end. The incoming night shift nurses had some of the easiest jobs, making sure patients had their before bed medications and were sleeping well, adjusting monitors, having emergency doctor's numbers at hand, bringing a good book.
She watched as the New Mexico sun gods painted the ancient desert bright orange into deep mahogany before going to bed themselves. Things were quiet, and she easily heard the lonely sobbing nearby.
Great, another one, she complained to herself as she dutifully approached the thin teen in oversized clothing and dirty shoes. This is not a shelter, kid, she scolded, but talked soothingly to the runaway even so. "Hello. What's wrong?"
The young man that looked up was older than she thought, and didn't have that look in his sharp, blue eyes that druggies had when hanging out on hospital doorsteps. Not in a while anyway. She had her myriad of keys prepared between her fingers just in case.
"He's in there, isn't he? Mr. White? He taught me long ago, and, and… he helped me for many years." The young man spoke softly, meekly, but the nurse was alarmed. Even in the soft, evening light she could see the dark scars all along his face, tracing a jaw line, outlining a cheek, wounding the curves of his gaze. They bespoke a history of violence, of brutality, but she wondered which side of that scale he fell to. Deep in his eyes, he seemed to know more about suffering than dealing it.
"Shhh," she said, then realized her mistake.
"He is in there! Please, I need to see him. You don't know how much he's done for me, how long he's been good to me. I just need to see him one more time."
The nurse looked around, frightened that others would overhear their conversation, but the empty, calm night continued. She moved in a little closer, curious, conspiratorially, "You knew him?"
"Yes, I've known him since high school. He's given me money when I needed it, taught me… how to earn a living. I owe my being here to Mr. White."
"How about all those awful things they said he did?" the nurse was just too intrigued.
"Look who he did them to!" Pinkman exclaimed. "They all deserved it. And some of those things they said he did are just lies. I know it. I know it in my heart. He's a good man."
Ah, here was the real story she always expected. She couldn't contain the excitement she felt, learning the Gen-u-ine Truth. No, they never tell you these things, they have to keep order. She saw honesty in the young man, and paused.
Jesse saw the opportunity. "Please," he continued softly, "I heard he was in critical condition. Is he dying? I just want to see him one last time, to say goodbye. I owe it to him."
"We-lll, he's an important man. No one can see him, just his doctors, and me," she said proudly, "I don't think you can go up there."
"He'll be happy to see me. He really will be."
"He is asleep a great deal. He won't even be able to talk to you. It won't help him."
"Okay, alright, I un-derstand," Jesse stammered, backing down, a dejected look on his face. "Can I at least wait down here? Will you tell me if he gets better, or worse? I want to stay up… with him. A vigil. He's like a father to me."
She looked closely into Jesse's face. He looked away, timidly. There was something in his eyes - a desperation. Yet, she liked the quiet, pained, young man. She could tell he had been through too much. They were both scarred in their own ways.
"Why don't you come up with me partway, and I'll talk to Officer Hendricks. He's very tough, and won't go for any nonsense, so you don't say much. If it's no, it's no. Understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am. I'm very grateful to you."
"Yes, okay, come inside. At least you will be out of the cold." She looked at Jesse again. "Whatever happens, will you tell me more about Mr. White? I'll buy you dinner inside even if you say no."
Jesse slowly nodded his head.
[A/N: You know that story from The Twilight Zone where the aging daughter is reading her ancient father a suspenseful story each night? She has to end each story, each night, on a "cliff-hanger" so that her father is just itching to hear how the story turns out, and he lives another day because of it. So the father is something like 120 years old, and the daughter writes a new, suspense story segment each night, and teaches the granddaughter to also do it. Just proves that stories are good for you? Um, live long and prosper? ;)]
[A/N2: Also, how IS Jesse supposed to get up there? I think that "dresses as an orderly" has been done too many times? You'll see it's not that. It's not keystone cops? Keystone? Argh!]