Now that I’ve got all of Memphis pissed at me (for those of you keeping track, that’s fans of Gail Kerr, mid-century modern architecture enthusiasts, Methodists, and now Memphis folks), it brings to mind my favorite story.
A million years ago, my friend B., was in college in Memphis and I went to visit her. She lived in a big old mansion in a really run-down part of town. It was her and like ten or fifteen other art students and theater majors. She was the only one I knew, though.
So, we went to bed and I fell asleep and after a while, there was a tapping on my butt. I looked over at B. but she was fast asleep. Clearly not her. So, I made the reasonable assumption anyone in my situation would make. This must be the time of night everyone who wants to switches partners. And here I was, being called on to be a gracious guest to someone else in the house. I pretended to be asleep and not notice. The tapping on my butt continued.
And I got to mulling it over. I mean, fuck it, right? I’m in Memphis, with a bunch of arsty-fartsy interesting people. So, okay, I guess let’s do this.
I sit up.
It’s her damn cat. There is no exciting debauchery the likes of which would scandalize my parents. It’s just the cat for whatever cat reasons tapping on my butt.