My neighbor Mr. O'Henry is a most unusual fellow. A lanky, bespectacled man in his mid-seventies with a wispy grey combover, he's known on our street for being nosy, pushy, opinionated, and lacking in social graces. He's also kindhearted, intelligent, and willing to help anyone in need. Altogether, these qualities coalesce into a character which is hard to describe, although seeing as I am the one tasked with documenting his adventures, I shall have to try.
I first met Mr. O'Henry when I moved into the house next door to him five years ago. This meeting occurred when he came onto my property and pruned one of my fruit trees without asking, because it was obstructing his view of a distant mountain range he called "the Dragon's Spine". When I pointed out that he had just robbed me of a season's worth of tangerines, Mr. O'Henry simply scratched his ribs and told me there was a Mexican market nearby that sold them for 15 cents a piece.
"But I could have had them for free," I said.
"You should really install a security light," said Mr. O'Henry, gesturing towards my driveway. "Home Depot sells them for $30. If you wait for the monthly coupon book in the mail, you can get one for $28. Think about it."
With this, my new neighbor sauntered back to his own house, traipsing through one of my flower beds along the way, pruning shears dangling beside him. I marveled at the social bulldozing he had just delivered me, although he seemed oblivious to any wrongdoing, waving at me with a smile as he went back inside.
It was never my intention to become close with Mr. O'Henry, although our physical proximity as neighbors made it unavoidable. Our relationship developed in small steps, as these things often do. It started when I ascertained that Mr. O'Henry lived alone. I never saw anyone enter or leave his house, not even to visit. If Mr. O'Henry had family or children of his own, they were either dead or estranged, both pitiable situations. So I couldn't help but give the old man a hand when I saw him struggling to drag his trash cans to the street, or flailing with a string trimmer in his yard. I felt bad for the guy, 70-something years old without anyone to talk to.
But this neighborly kindness soon drew me into a trap. Any time Mr. O'Henry heard my sprinklers go off at the wrong time, or noticed a new person on our street, or got an interesting coupon in the mail, he'd be at my door ready to tell me all about it. I found myself somehow under his power, my politeness and sympathy keeping me from telling him the truth, which was that I didn't care about the sprinklers, and in fact was not interested in being friends.
As the years went by, Mr. O'Henry continued to assert and insert himself. Soon, his visits were so frequent that I couldn't figure out a way to undo them, to create distance - that ship had sailed. And so we became, as much as I hate to admit it, friends. As boorish and rude as the old man could sometimes be (he once opened my mail because he wanted to know how much money I made), I knew that he had come to care for me like some sort of son, and I couldn't take that away form him. It was sick, really.
Now that you understand the nature of my relationship with Mr. O'Henry, you will appreciate the circumstances that led to my being hoodwinked into a most obnoxious and embarrassing adventure with him last summer. The old coot appeared at my door one hot morning in July, looking like a wiry, grey-haired scarecrow, ringing my bell excitedly and holding a crumpled piece of paper. When I saw him through my front window, I figured he'd clipped out an another article about illegal immigrants for me, and groaned as I shuffled to the door.
"Hello, Mr. O'Henry," I yawned, coffee mug in hand.
"James! You won't believe what luck - get your shoes on, we've got work to do!" said Mr. O'Henry. He seemed positively electric. I wondered if perhaps he'd received a new credit card offer, or learned that fertilizer was on sale somewhere.
"Work to do? But it's my day off, Mr. O'Henry, I have plans to relax."
"Poppycock!" said Mr. O'Henry, scratching his ribs and rocking up onto the balls of his feet. He had these habits when he was excited - scratching, rocking, gesticulating. He was a lively old bastard when he wanted to be.
"What do you mean 'poppycock'? What's going on?"
Mr. O'Henry shoved the rumpled paper into my hands and grinned. "Look at that!"
I held the paper out in the sunlight and took a look. It was a missing cat poster he must have ripped from a telephone pole. It had photo of a feline with luxuriant orange fur, perhaps a Persian or a Maine Coon (I confess I'm not up on my cat breeds). The text indicated that the animal's name was "Melissa", and it had been missing for two days. There was a reward for $200.
This, I thought, explained why Mr. O'Henry was so excited. I didn't know him to have any pets or affection for animals in general, but I did know he was the greediest son-of-a-btich I'd ever met in my life. Despite being comfortably retired and showing no signs of financial trouble, $200 to Mr. O'Henry was the same as $200 to a 12-year-old. But for me, who made several times that amount in a day, this was little incentive to go out in the July heat looking for a stray cat.
"Mr. O'Henry, I'm sure this cat will turn up. Those things always find their way home. Besides, it's supposed to reach 110 degrees out there today, I really think we'd better stay out of it."
But Mr O'Henry was having none of this. "You don't understand, Jimmy. This cat belongs to Mrs. Jensen, that leggy blonde babe that lives by herself in the house on the corner of Reynolds and Capaldi."
"Leggy blonde babe? You mean the 72-year-old widow with the gout foot?"
"Aye, lad, the very one. Mrs. Jensen has been alone in that house for twenty years now, and this cat is her life, you see. We're the men of the neighborhood, Jim, it's our duty to form a posse and bring that feline home. If we don't, I fear Mrs. Jensen's health will further decline. I don't think she could bear to lose another loved one."
This was a little melodramatic for my taste. A lost cat is not in the same league as a lost spouse. Yet, as I looked into Mr. O'Henry's watery eyes, I could tell there was something else at play here. Could it be that the old bastard had a crush on Mrs. Jensen? Maybe I'd been too hard on him by assuming this was all about money. In that moment, pity and good-will towards the elderly won out over my own self interest, and I sighed.
"Fine. I'll help. What do you propose?"
Mr. O'Henry beamed at me. "Fantastic news, Jim, I knew I could count on you! Come now, get yourself ready. I have a plan of action."
Several minutes later I was standing in Mr. O'Henry's front yard, stinking from a fresh layer of sun screen and watching the old man rummage around in his over-stuffed garage. He'd given me a crudely drawn map of the neighborhood, with several key landmarks marked as possible cat hiding spots.
"I've lived in this neighborhood for forty years, Jim," Mr. O'Henry grunted as he pushed his way through piles of junk - fishing poles, vacuum cleaners, moving boxes - all the typical paraphernalia native to a suburban garage. "I know every nook and cranny of this place, every hidey-hole and badger den and sewer pipe a cat could disappear into. It's just a matter of going down the list."
I looked at his map again. It seemed like something a child would draw.
"A-ha!" cried Mr. O'Henry at last. He stumbled out into the sunlight holding what appeared to be a rifle. "A pellet gun! It'll stun that little minx long enough for us to catch her with this," he continued, brandishing a collapsable pool skimming net.
He looked proud of himself. A light gust coaxed his thin combover the wrong way, so that it stuck up, dancing gently in the wind.
"Mr. O'Henry, those pump guns are pretty serious. I've seen people kill squirrels and birds with those before. They're nearly as powerful as a .22, I don't think you want to shoot Mrs. Jensen's cat with that."
"What?" said Mr O'Henry, looking indignant. "It's a child's toy, James! Can't hurt nothing. I just want to stun that little puss, catch her in a net. Otherwise how will we get close to her?"
To prove his point, Mr. O'Henry pumped the pellet gun once, took aim at his 1995 Dodge Caravan, and blew out its passenger window.
"Christ Jesus!" he cried. "Holy shit!"
"Maybe we should leave that behind, Mr. O'Henry. If we find Melissa, I think we should try to coax her with some treats, or maybe some catnip. You don't want to bring Mrs. Jensen a carcass, do you?"
Mr. O'Henry thought for a minute, clearly troubled by the damage he had done to his van. "We'll bring the net," he said, "and a pillow case to stuff the animal in once we've captured it."
Having altered our plan to be more humane, I returned home, took some sliced turkey from my refrigerator, and rejoined Mr. O'Henry on the sidewalk. He was dressed in a bucket hat and moisture-wicking athletic attire, which made him look like a golfer and a zoo keeper had made love to a fisherman, who then gave birth to this.
"According to the map," said Mr. O'Henry, unfolding his crudely drawn topographic of the neighborhood, "there's an old hollow tree stump on the Bradley family's lawn. Maybe ol' puss-puss got in there and made herself a den?"
I was skeptical. More importantly, I was uncomfortable hearing Mr. O'Henry say the word "puss" again.
"I feel like Melissa probably isn't living in a stump," I suggested, but Mr. O'Henry gave me a sour look, like I'd insulted him. "But... we can check it out."
We walked up the street to the Bradley residence, a sprawling two-story home with a wooden swing in the front yard, a relic of the now-grown Bradley children's youth. There was also an old oak stump that sat halfway up the lawn, with holes and knots in it that were no doubt home to a multitude of mice and termites. Cats, however, seemed a little too big to call it home.
Mr. O'Henry walked up to the stump, which was far enough into the yard to be considered flagrant trespassing, and started kicking it. "Come out, Melissa," he muttered, circling the stump and delivering toe-kicks. Of course, the cat did not present itself. After about a minute of this, Mr. O'Henry spotted a coiled garden hose by the Bradley's porch.
"Gonna have to flood 'er out, Jim," he growled, scratching his neck. Before I could stop him, Mr. O'Henry had unspooled the hose and was shoving it into a knot in the stump. He returned to the porch and turned on the spigot full blast. The sudden pressure jettisoned the hose from the stump, bringing it to life on the grass like a writhing, water-spitting snake, spraying in every direction and causing quite a scene.
"O'Henry?! Is that you, goddammit?!" a man's voice thundered from a second story window. Mr. Bradley, a retired military man in his late fifties, was looking down at us. He seemed irate.
"What the fuck is going on down there? You playing with my hose again, O'Henry? I thought we settled this two Christmases ago - mind your own goddamned business!"
"You've got a cat in your stump!" cried Mr. O'Henry, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout over the spitting hose. "Tryin'a flood 'er out! Long hair, too - Maine Coon, I think. She's made a den!"
Mr. Bradley shot an angry look at me, and I stepped back onto the sidewalk, raising my hands as if to say "I have no part in this."
"I'm coming down to turn that hose off, O'Henry, and you'd better be gone by the time I do," Bradley warned, slamming the window shut.
"Let's get out of here, Mr. O'Henry," I said, tugging at the old man's sleeve. I had to practically drag him off the lawn and up the street. By the time we were two houses away, Mr. Bradley was in his yard, angrily re-coiling his garden hose and shaking his head. Mr. O'Henry often had this effect on people.
"I don't think Melissa was in that stump," I said, patting the old on the back. "Don't let it bother you. Come on, what's next on the map?"
Dripping with hose water and ruffled from his exchange with Mr. Bradley, my elderly neighbor once again unfolded his drawing. "I suppose we could check around the elementary school," he said, running a sleeve across his forehead. "Cats love them sandboxes. And you know why, Jimmy. You know why."
I did know why, but I was dubious about our prospects of finding Melissa at the school. The campus was several blocks up the street, and closed off to the public. What's more, I didn't think the neighborhood would take kindly to a 70-something-year-old man skulking around a children's playground with a net. But there was no arguing with Mr. O'Henry, so away we went.
As we walked, I tried to make small talk. "Ever have pets, Mr. O'Henry?"
My neighbor was quiet for several seconds, and I got the feeling he was deciding whether to tell the truth. "Well," he finally said, "I did have a rabbit once, in my youth. His name was Rocco. He was eaten whole by a boa constrictor. Have you ever seen the way they eat, Jim? Those devil jaws unhinge and they swallow prey like a hard boiled egg. Looks like a tube sock eating a grapefruit. Horror show, it was, Jimmy. The day I lost my Rocco."
"... Oh," I replied.
We passed the next several minutes in silence, sweating profusely in the July heat. Sun beat down from above and heat radiated up from the scalding sidewalk below. I could feel my legs cooking with every step. But Mr. O'Henry was trooping through it, the tough old rascal, and I had to admire his gumption.
A few blocks up Reynolds Street we turned right on Capaldi, passing by the corner where Mrs. Jensen lived, and continued for several more minutes until we reached a well-shaded neighborhood. It was a welcome break from our own sunny enclave, and this was where Mr. O'Henry figured Melissa may have escaped to.
"Long haired cat probably lookin' to cool off, find the shady part of town," he'd said with a wink.
When we finally arrived at the elementary school, we found it locked up tight. The entire facility was surrounded by chain-link fence, erected to keep children in and weird strangers out. But this was a weekend, and no one was present. So before I knew what was happening, the weird stranger known as Mr. O'Henry was squeezing himself through a loose gate, and I felt no choice but to follow. We were soon prowling the grounds of the school with a pool skimmer and a pocket full of turkey, looking for Mrs. Jensen's lost cat.
"Spspspspsps... c'mere puss puss, c'mere Melissa," said Mr. O'Henry, looking under lunch tables and squinting into treetops. "Cats never do come with you call. Dumb animals. We should've brought a can opener."
And almost as if on cue, we heard a can opening. A trash can - or a dumpster, rather, followed by the distinct sound of a groan and some rummaging. Mr. O'Henry looked at me curiously.
"Melissa?" he whispered.
"Sounds a little large for a cat," I said.
We crept towards the noise, following it around the back of the school cafeteria to the dumpsters. And there we saw a man, dressed in rags and half inside an open bin, rifling through the stinking food that had been discarded over the school week.
"You there!" said Mr. O'Henry in a surprisingly authoritative tone. "What are you doing?"
The rag-man jumped and hit his head on the plastic lid of the dumpster, whirling to see who had caught him. When he saw it was just an old man holding a pool skimmer, he seemed to calm down a bit. Then he looked at me - thirty-five and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and decided we weren't school security.
"Me? I'm just here looking for food, same as always. What are you two doing here?"
Mr. O'Henry and I exchanged a glance. Because we were trespassers one-and-all, it seemed harmless to let this vagrant in on the details of our mission.
"We're looking for a cat," I said. "She's lost from her owner, and we're trying to return her."
"A cat, huh?" said the rag-man, climbing out of the dumpster and brushing a banana peel from his shoulder. "What sort of cat?"
"An orange Maine Coon," said Mr. O'Henry, his tone gruff and his voice gravelly. "Could be a Persian, too. Some long-haired breed, goes by the name 'Melissa'. You see a cat like that lately?"
The man puffed his bearded cheeks out with a pained exhale, shaking his head. "I have, boys, to tell the truth. I have indeed."
"You've seen her?" I asked, astonished that this ridiculous adventure may bear fruit after all.
"I done more than seen her. I 'et her."
"You ate her?"
"Can't say I'm proud of it, but I did. Even got the collar to prove it," the man said, searching the pockets of his tattered clothes and producing a black collar with a heart-shaped tag that said "Melissa".
I felt ill. Even Mr. O'Henry, whom I've seen eat from the garbage himself, looked like he was going to be sick.
"Why... how... I mean... why would you eat a house cat?"
The rag-man took offense to this question. "Well ex-cuse me, but not all of us get to eat at the Ritz-Carlton," he snapped, looking at me as though this were something I habitually partook in.
"I understand that, but a house cat? Especially one with so much fur, how did you..."I stopped myself, realizing I didn't actually want to know the details.
"When a man's hungry, a man's hungry. Birds, squirrels, cats, garbage... it's all on the menu when you're one of the permanently unhoused," said the rag-man. "Not that you'd know anything about it, Mr. Caviar-on-toast."
This man was either mentally ill or had mistaken me for some tycoon of industry. I've never had caviar in my life.
"How did you catch her, if you don't mind me asking?" said Mr. O'Henry, bouncing his pool skimmer from hand to hand. "Dart gun? Net? Deadfall trap?"
"Caught her in my jacket."
"Ah. You must have good reflexes to catch a stray like that."
"The reflexes of a cat, old man."
"Listen," I interrupted, "would you mind terribly if we took that collar back to the owner? We can tell her coyotes got the cat or something, but either way I think it would bring her closure. The poor old lady is beside herself, and she lives all alone."
"In a house, no doubt," said the rag-man sarcastically. "With a roof and a bed and a kitchen, I imagine. Oh the poor thing. Sounds awful."
I wasn't enjoying this conversation. Thankfully Mr. O'Henry cut to the chase, as I sensed he was growing tired of this vagrant's sass as well. "How much do you want for the collar, then? Go on, I know what you're after."
The rag-man stroked his greasy beard with long yellow nails, pretending this was the first he'd thought about the matter. "Oh," he said, "I reckon fifty dollars should do the trick."
"Fifty dollars! For a dead cat's collar!? You no-good son-of-a-bitch, there's a beautiful woman not five blocks from here who's crying over her missing cat, and you're trying to extort us?!" cried Mr. O'Henry.
"Everybody's got a sob story, buddy. I have Gulf War syndrome and fought a seagull over a pizza crust last week. And I lost that fight, mister. So don't try to pull at my heart strings. Pay up or get lost."
"Let's just pay the man and get out of here," I sighed. Mr. O'Henry angrily took out his wallet and found the money. When the collar was finally in our possession, the rag-man cackled to himself and climbed back into the dumpster to resume his foraging.
"I've always hated bums," said Mr. O'Henry as we walked back towards Reynolds and Capaldi. "No-good lazy grifters, all of em. Always with a story about being veterans or forgotten heroes. If you ask me they're all drug addicts and criminals."
"Jesus, Mr. O'Henry. That's a little harsh, don't you think?"
The old man just grunted and kept walking, muttering to himself about undesirables and something called "the mooch economy". Personally, I was more upset about all the time I was spending in the sun - it was a little past noon now, and easily over 100 degrees. I had sweat through every inch if my clothing, and was most assuredly not escaping the day without a burn.
At least, I thought, we had an answer to our mystery, albeit a tragic one. Poor Melissa had gone the way of so many beloved pets, caught by a wild animal and devoured in a violent horror show. It was like something from a Werner Herzog film; the bloody, cold, impassivity of nature imposing itself on quiet suburbia. And to think this was supposed to be my day off.
When we got to Mrs. Jensen's residence, Mr. O'Henry looked at me with an expression that told me he was as unhappy about delivering this news as I was. "I don't think I can do this," he said. "I feel like we're gonna kill this poor, beautiful woman if we tell her the truth."
"But we have to be honest," I said, wiping another cascade of salty sweat from my face.
"Do we?" replied Mr. O'Henry, a sly smile creeping onto his face.
--
An hour later we were back on Mrs. Jensen's front lawn. I was holding a cat carrier, inside of which was an orange tabby cat with long-ish fur we'd found at a local rescue. Mr. O'Henry had purchased it for only $100, because it was an un-neutered elderly male with feline leukemia. The rescue had been trying to re-home it for several months with no success.
I insisted that this was a mistake - the cat looked only vaguely like Melissa, but was clearly much older, male, and striped.
"Poppycock," was Mr. O'Henry's response. "The widow Jensen is blinded by grief. Put Melissa's collar on this thing and no one will know the difference. Besides, who bothers to check a cat's genitals? You're overthinking it."
So here we were. Trying to pass off a dying tabby to an old widow with gout. What had become of my life?
Mr. O'Henry rang the doorbell, and within a minute Mrs. Jensen was standing before us. I could tell she was in great pain - gout had swollen her ankles up to the size of softballs, and her grey frizzy hair and unkempt appearance gave the impression she'd been up for days worrying about her cat.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Jensen," said Mr. O'Henry, taking his bucket hat off and holding it in his hands. "I've come bearing good news."
The old woman's eyes darted down to the cat carrier in my hands, and I saw her mood chance in an instant. She stood up a little taller.
"We've found Melissa, you see. Turns out the little puss just got lost in that neighborhood over yonder, down by the elementary school," Mr. O'Henry continued. "Come, James, show Mrs. Jensen her beloved pet."
I stepped up to the porch and set the cat carrier down. I opened the front of it, and out stepped the infirm tomcat wearing Melissa's collar. The cat shook itself and pounced onto a deck chair, where it and began coughing and spitting, either sick or perhaps working on a hairball.
Mrs. Jensen watched in horror as Melissa's name tag dangled from the neck of a cat that was definitely not Melissa. Her eyes welled with tears, and she put an arthritic hand to her trembling lips.
"Well there's old puss-puss, back again just as good as new!" exclaimed Mr. O'Henry with a smile. "These little buggers just like to run off sometimes, but all is well now. Welcome home, Melissa!"
Mrs. Jensen burst into tears. "That's not Melissa!" she wailed, leaning on the door frame in anguish. "That's not my cat! But why - where - how does it have my Melissa's collar?! Where did you get it?!"
Mr. O'Henry gave me a concerned look. He wasn't ready to give up just yet. "Why sure it's Melissa! Look, dear, she's got her... fur... and that tail, oh that famous tail! And the eyes - look at her eyes! I'd know those peepers anywhere!"
"Mr. O'Henry," I said, touching the old man's moisture-wicking sleeve, "I think the jig is up. We need to come clean."
Mrs. Jensen was looking between the two of us, no doubt wondering what horrible truth we were about to share. What Mr. O'Henry said next was surely beyond even the worst of her imaginings.
"Oh, goddammit, fine. Mrs. Jensen... Melissa was devoured by a homeless man."
"No!" the old woman wailed. It was like the cry of a banshee, a soul-twisting torment reserved for only the most primal of miseries.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Dirty bastard caught her in his coat. After that, I'm not sure. Maybe smacked it against a tre-"
"-Mr. O'Henry, I think that's enough," I interrupted, moving to hold Mrs. Jensen's hand. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Jensen. We just wanted to cheer you up. But what Mr. O'Henry is saying is true, although I'm sure we don't need the details. Melissa is gone. You have our deepest sympathies, and if there's anything we can do..."
"Get out," the old woman choked back tears. "Just go... you've made this so much worse... why! Oh, why? My poor Melissa..."
I turned to leave, utterly ashamed of the situation my meddling neighbor had dragged me into. But Mr. O'Henry didn't move an inch. In fact, he cleared his throat, and, idly fidgeting with the bucket hat in his hands, addressed Mrs. Jensen again.
"Ah, well, you see..." he began, "there is still the, uh, financial... matter to settle. I believe there was mention of a $200 reward on this flyer?" he said, unfolding the missing cat paper. My blood ran cold. I couldn't believe he was doing this - it had been about the money after all.
"And, of course, there are expenses. We paid a hobo $50 for that collar there, and adopting this sick tom - he has leukemia, by the way, you're going to want to bring him to the vet - that cost $100. All out of pocket, you see? So, if we tally it all up, you'll be owing us $350. Now I can't speak for my young colleague here, but I don't have this new Venmo thing everyone uses. Cash or check will be fine, however you wa-"
"Get out!" screamed Mrs. Jensen, pulling at her hair and collapsing to the floor. "Get out of my house! Get away from me!"
For the second time that day, I found myself pulling Mr. O'Henry from an irate neighbor's yard, pleading with him to go home. Thankfully, he was so stunned by Mrs. Jensen's outburst that he just stumbled along with me, baffled.
When we got back to our respective residences, Mr. O'Henry grabbed my arm. "What do you think, Jimmy?" he said.
"About what, Mr. O'Henry?"
"About when to re-approach her for the money? Do we just mail an invoice, or..."
I couldn't believe he was still on this. "Mr. O'Henry, we're not getting the money back - we're lucky she's not suing us for that stunt. We need to leave her alone. We tried to help, but we made it worse. Just drop it, okay?"
Mr. O'Henry scratched his ribs and rocked up onto the balls of his feet. I could tell his brain was fighting his heart, and the battle manifested itself on his face, which was contorting in lip-purses and frowns. Finally, he sighed and nodded his head. "Okay," he said. "Okay."
I turned to go back in my house, eager to salvage whatever was left of my day off.
"James," called Mr. O'Henry after me. I turned to see what he wanted, exhausted and patience worn thin. "When's the last time you cleaned your gutters? Better get that done before the rainy season. Borrow my ladder, if you want. We can do it together, even..."
--
This was hardly my last adventure with Mr. O'Henry, I'm sad to say. But, unlike some of our other outings, an unexpected happy ending did eventually present itself.
One July day about a week after our search for Melissa, the lost cat turned up alive and well. I'm not sure how or why, but Melissa came home one morning, a little dirty and very hungry, but otherwise unscathed. I still haven't been able to explain how the rag-man came to possess her collar - maybe it came loose on a fence, or she slipped out of it in a bush, and he later came upon it. That will always be a mystery to me.
Less mysterious, of course, is why he ripped us off and spun a story about eating her. It was in his interest to do so, I suppose, and we were foolish enough to be taken in. And as for Mrs. Jensen, I've received nothing but dirty looks from her ever since. Looks, I'm inclined to believe, that I would be spared if not for my association with the most unusual, obnoxious, and troublesome neighbor a man could wish for: Mr. O'Henry.
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