My “9 Tricks for Organic Dialogue” used a spoof novelization of a scene from Green Eggs & Ham. One thing led to another, and now I’m writing a dramatic novelization of this Seuss classic. This post contains part three and four. You can check the first two parts here.
Part Three
If you give a stray scraps of meat, it’ll keep coming back. Eventually, it’ll make pitiful yowling noises outside your door. That’s the short version of how I wound up adopting Fiona Rebecca Alberti the Third, the unofficial mascot of the Alpha Tau fraternity house.
She was a collective secret. No animals were allowed, but all of everyone helped me tuck her away. Her nickname amongst the Alphas was “frat cat,” but I told her—told Fiona, that is—that she was too much of a princess for a name like that. I scratched her behind the ears and told her “FRAT” was just an abbreviation. Fiona Rebecca Alberti the Third. Feline royalty.
Cats and dogs sometimes fight like, well, cats and dogs—but not Fiona and Casey. Fiona was around when Casey was just a puppy. If Casey thinks someone else in the apartment is his mother, it’s not me. As Casey’s gotten older, he’s been pretty tame, but Fiona is feral by birth. It took her months before she’d accept me petting her. She bristles at most anyone else, and loud noises turn her wild.
So it was spring, and I didn’t have to worry about my walking schedule bumping against newspaper man and his glare. But one day a car outside backfired while I was about to slide out the door, and Fiona freaked. She bolted into the donut hallway, and I had to sprint into the hall after her. The more I tried to chase her the more scared she got. She rushed for the lobby.
Newspaper-man was there, right on schedule. He straightened up as Fiona ran within inches of him, bolting for the corner. The man in the crumpled hat lost his grip on his paper, which fell into parts in front of him. I went over to coax Fiona out, but as soon as I got close she gave a viper hiss. I sighed and raised my hands in submission, then looked back over to newspaper man, meaning to give an apologetic look. He was shaking his head, all dour and grim, as he picked up his paper again. My jaw clenched.
It took nearly twenty minutes before I was able to work Fiona out. When I finally had, I held her between my arms and looked back over to newspaper-man. I tried to be kind. “Sorry about that,” I said. “She got a bit spooked. I’m Sam, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself.”
He made a rumble of a noise in the base of his throat, then shook his head and raised his paper back up. Like the Great Wall of the New York Post between us, intended to keep me and my barbarian animals at bay. I shook my head, and that probably would have been the end of it, but he muttered—loud enough that he must have wanted me to hear—”Animals like that ought to be disposed of.”
Part Four
Most people aren’t as defensive of animals as I am. I’m sensitive in that way. It’s why I wanted to be a vet, and why I wound up quitting before I got anywhere close to certification. If you love animals, you don’t want to see them suffering and dying all the time.
But what riled me—what really worked its way into my bones—was the way he said it. “Disposed of.” Like it wasn’t even anything. Like Fiona could be crunched into a compact size and thrown into some animal-recycling bin. I fumed as I went back to my apartment. I called my work and let them know I was running behind schedule. I felt too upset to do my job, which wasn’t even brain work. Just cooking, working as an emergency chef, only I couldn’t think straight. My brain was too busy ranting.
The repeat loop showed the condescending glare of the newspaper man. The way he shook his head so disapprovingly. Him not even introducing himself in return. I was confident that I could read his thoughts. “That Sam-I-am! That Sam-I-am! I do not like that Sam-I-am!” But what did he know about me, really?
I reassured Fiona that some people just didn’t get it. “It’s not your fault, princess,” I said. “You didn’t choose to be feral.”
The thought locked in my head. I remembered how much Fiona feared me when I first threw her scraps of meat. It took a long time before she saw me as anything but a threat. So, newspaper-man didn’t like me either. He didn’t choose to be feral. If I wanted to be mad at him for not learning my story, it was my job was to learn his story first.
I scratched behind Casey’s ears and kissed Fiona Rebecca Alberti the Third on the top of her head. Then I insisted that my chin lift up, I went into work, and through every order I filled my mind spun around a plan. At the end of the work shift, I got permission to use to kitchen for some cooking of my own. I ran out and picked up my ingredients, then came back and worked on the dish for nearly three hours.
Some people do well with color. Some people love to experiment. When I quit vet school and decided to take to the culinary arts, I loved how much of the work was about trying new things. This “new thing” was one of my favorite creations: a mint sauce infused into the thin-sliced ham, accompanied by eggs benedict with a pesto drizzle that tinted the fleshy whites to a pale sage color. Some of the chefs I trained with come up with fancy names for every dish they ever invent. I was never so clever. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever stumbled upon, but to me, it was always just “Green Eggs and Ham.”
Once completed, I’ll link to part 5 and 6 right here. You can expect that update on or before January 19th.
Write on,
Rob
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