the golden cat

I count the seconds between each train that passes. Every five minutes the whole room shudders and the sound resonates and bounces off the walls. The clock on the opposite wall ticks. Seven normal ticks, one slightly off-kilter. The number confuses me. I force my eyes to move along. They land on a small, waving cat on the counter. It is one of those golden charms constantly waving and grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Unnerving as I should find it, I can’t take my eyes off it. Naturally, I search for a returning pattern in its waves. I find none.

The next day, I trace my 3,462 steps to the café. It is my 400th morning here. It is officially a habit now. I take two croissants, order my coffee and go to my spot.

My quarter fits perfectly into the slot on the side of the old-fashioned jukebox. I select number 47. I don’t know the name of the song nor do I care.

It has become the soundtrack to my breakfast. I don’t sit yet, even as the waitress brings my coffee. As soon as the train passes, I lower into the red plastic chair. This way I can count the trains that pass until the 9th train rattles past and it is time to leave.

I eat my croissants, drink my coffee and write in my book. It is a black (leather) moleskin and contains all the data I collect. One day, I will publish it.

Then, maybe, I’ll eat an extra croissant in celebration with my earned cash. I simply must share this information with the world. It would make it a better place.

If - for example - the girl who always sits in the corner knew that that corner isn’t exactly ninety degrees then she may consider changing her breakfast spot.

I sigh. I’m spiraling again. The eighth train passes. Five more minutes.

My eyes scan the room I know so well. Even with my eyes closed, I could describe every angle, colour and shape in excruciating detail. My pen hovers above the lined page.

What extra titbit could I add? I locate the cat again. My eyes follow the repeated movement and my brain tries to find a pattern.

I count one, two, three waves and then one that makes a slightly different noise. Almost not detectable, but that is why I pay attention. Because of me, other people - including the owner and manufacturer of the cat - will soon know what is wrong with it.

Just as I am about to note this down on a new page, I hear it. A second click. I sigh. I must have made a mistake. I should be more careful next time!

I nearly wasted precious ink and paper to write down false information. I put my pen down and start to listen again. One, two, three, four *click*, five *click*, one, two, three, …

Satisfied, I conclude that I must simply add a click to my calculation. And then suddenly I don’t hear any clicks for ten waves. And then five clicks. In a row.

I stand up and stare at it in horror.

Its jewelled eyes glint with evil intentions. Its maniacal smile turns absolutely sinister. Surely, I must have misheard? I hear a series of three clicks, two waves and then seven clicks.

My breath quickens and I feel my heart shudder in my chest. I am trying to work out what to do next when the 9th train passes.

I have no choice. It is almost as though my feet force me out of the café. The jukebox finishes number 52, the last song of my breakfast time.

I leave the golden cat behind and exit the café.