Bullied

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When I was seventeen and starting my senior year in high school, my father’s friend, creepy Jim, gave me a gift that was surprising for two reasons.

First, like my drunk father, Jim wasn’t exactly the generous sort. He was tight. What little money he had was spent on cigarettes, his daily 12-pack of Bud, the occasional bag of weed he bought from my cousin, Maury, and whatever bills he needed to pay in order to keep the mortgage current on his shithole of a trailer, which was overrun by cats.

Jim gave them shelter and water. Since his trailer was tucked deep in the Maine woods, he let the cats fend for themselves when it came to catching their own dinner. He said he wished he had enough money to give them proper food, but he didn’t. Least he could do was give them a home. Jim felt good about that. He thought he was a great man for having such a big heart.

Thing is, if you saw the rotten, stinking condition of that trailer, you’d wonder if Jim’s act of kindness was actually a form of unintended cruelty. Nobody should be allowed to live in that rectangular firebox from hell that he called home. Not Jim, who’s actually not a bad guy. Not the cats. Not a rodent. Not even me.

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