Warren Adler 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

See complete contest information including other winning stories.

One minute I'm cruising through the night with the luscious Melinda Hartline, on the brink of enjoying the first meaningful relationship I've had since divorcing LeeAnn, Queen of Hell. An instant later, a striped cat hurls itself beneath my all-weather radials and sends the evening fishtailing into oblivion.

"Oh, Steve, we have to see if it's hurt."

"Probably just a flesh wound."

Melinda's eyes plumb the depths of mine, searching to see if I'm the sort of jerk who would leave an animal for dead. Which I am, until I see her plumbing my depths.

"We'll check it out." I pull a u-turn, return to the scene.

Squatting over the tire-mangled carcass, I catch a final, diabolical gleam in its eyes before it breathes its last. Yes, a definite gleam, and there is no doubt in my mind that the Fates, who have always been close friends with my ex-wife, threw this creature into my path, unhinging any hopes of happiness I might be harboring.

I stagger to my feet, knee ligaments crackling like dry twigs. Melinda shivers against the drizzle seasoning this fateful evening - a perfect opportunity to take her in my arms and provide some manly warmth. Perhaps there was a silver lining to this dead cat.

Her words shred my optimism into confetti. "Did you feel for a pulse?"

A married man would groan aloud, perhaps even complain. But for divorced guys dating strawberry-blonde women seventeen years younger, there is no percentage in bitching and moaning. Not on the first date.

Kneeling over the animal again, I realize that the ingenuous Melinda has turned a simple case of road kill into some insidious version of the Siberian Tiger Trap. Endowed with the heart of a Girl Scout, she is a believer in Santa Claus and a wisher upon stars. In her version of the world, a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down and cats really do have nine lives. I cannot help but compare her with my usual date, Blanche Roberts, the express lane checker at the supermarket I manage. To Blanche, compassion would involve running over the cat a second time to make certain it was dead. The downside, of course, would be waking up beside a forty-five-year-old, thrice-divorced nymphomaniac rather than the exquisite possibility of Melinda Hartline.

Melinda is a hygienist at DuPont Dental Clinic. Whenever I drop by for a check-up, she asks how my day is going and then actually listens to the answer before digging around in my mouth with sharp instruments. She seems fascinated by the fact that I may be the world's only supermarket manager with a degree in philosophy. She is the sort of girl I wish I had married the first time around. And so, because I want her to fall in love with me, I place my ear near the cat's whiskered muzzle and pretend to listen for signs of life. After a moment, I shake my head and make a guttural sound that I hope she will mistake for a sob.

"Poor Stripey." I stand and take Melinda in my arms. "Alas, he is Fortune's Fool."

"Can't you give him mouth-to-mouth?"

I consider the percentages. "Believe me, if there was something more that could be done…." I clench my teeth as though fighting back tears, going for stoic as I take Melinda's hand and lead her toward the car.

"We'll have to find the owner, of course. I couldn't possibly enjoy the evening knowing some little girl might be wondering why her kitty cat hasn't come home."

I halt in my tracks. Don't cat owners usually have a couple of days to consider all the possibilities before discovering their tabby's remains? It's part of the natural order. But to have the executioner actually deliver the corpse to your door like some fur-covered pizza? Talk about rude.

"Melinda, I too feel obliged to the grieving family, but…" I motion toward the endless maze of houses, "…these people are eating dinner."

She steps back and squints as though attempting to catch a glimpse of the real me.

I take another stab at compassion. "How about we stick him in someone's garbage can? That way, the owners won't find him out here, like this."

She continues searching my eyes.

"Or we could place him on the parking strip so he doesn't get run over any worse than he already is." I lift Stripey by the tail and lay him near the trunk of a spindly birch.

A long stare narrows into a razor glare.

"Maybe I should inquire at a couple of these houses."

She wraps her arms around my elbow and gives me an encouraging peck on the cheek as we head up the walk and onto the porch of a yellow split-level. A single knock, and the door opens, revealing a pudgy, potato-faced man wearing a grime-stained Black Sabbath T-shirt. I do not get very far into my explanation before he points to the crimson smudge I have left above the brass knocker.

I wipe my hands with a handkerchief. "Sorry. We ran over a cat."

"A striped cat," Melinda says with solemn, freckle-faced innocence. "Perhaps you know the owner?"

"Let me check with Ed." He whips his sweatpants down and pulls open the waistband of his undershorts. "Hey, Ed," he calls to his scrotum region, "you awake down there?"

Melinda outruns me to the car. I slide behind the wheel and slip the key into the ignition. For the first time, I realize that perverts might very well be a misunderstood but necessary part of our ecosystem.

"Wait, wait," Melinda pleads.

"What? What?"

"From now on, we need to bring the cat along so people can identify it."

I slump over the steering wheel. Why, why, why had I allowed myself to become smitten by such a Pollyanna? Why hadn't I fallen for someone more practical? Like Blanche Roberts. For weeks she has been pestering me to repeat certain feats of mattress athleticism. It strikes me that maybe, at some point in life, striving for multiple orgasms is as close to love as a guy is ever going to get.

Rooting around in the trunk, I find a yellow rain slicker. Melinda supervises from inside my Oldsmobile as I slide Stripey's slimy corpse onto the jacket with a stick. The evening's drizzle transforms itself into a monsoon; my cashmere sports coat becomes a sponge.

Melinda's voice strains to override this meteorological tumult. "I should probably follow in the car while you go door to door."
"Knock yourself out," I mutter as though we have been married twenty years.
"
You sweet huggy-bear." She leans out the window and covers my lips with hers for the most promising of instances. Then she slides behind the steering wheel and the window whirs shut.

I trudge from house to house, pulling the flap of my slicker aside at each stop like some sort of demented flasher. With every door slammed in my face, I question my sanity for desiring a woman who bases her relationships on what a guy is willing to do with a dead cat. I think of Nietzsche, something he wrote in "The Antichrist" about how a man who's in love will submit to almost anything. I am that man, only worse.

I decide to try one more house - then, to hell with it. The sight of the corpse brings smiles to the faces of an elderly couple. They claim that Stripey (his actual name) has been terrorizing their bird-feeders.

"Thank God, his reign of terror is over." The woman's eyes brim with gratitude.

She directs me across the road, a pink house with turquoise trim. Moments later, I'm facing a pig-tailed girl. Glancing back at the idling Oldsmobile, I signal thumbs-up. Yes, sweet Melinda, my love, my heart, my mid-life crisis trophy. Tonight you will surrender whatever vestiges of virginity you may still possess to your knight in shining armor, your loyal courier of cats.

"Daddy?" The pig-tailed girl calls over her shoulder. "There's a guy carrying a yellow raincoat out here."

"I wasn't expecting him so early, but go ahead and let him in, Sweetheart."

I consider throwing the cat into the middle of the living room and making a dash for it. Instead, I step inside; the door closes behind me.

The father mutes the football game, tightening the rope around his white terrycloth robe as he rises from his recliner. "Give me a minute to put on my shoes and I'll help you unload the rest of the soccer gear."

As though on cue, a half-dozen grimy-faced urchins surround me. A bedraggled woman stands at the edge of the dining room, wringing her hands in a dishtowel.

I focus on the television. Football players scramble across the screen, attempting to retrieve a fumble.

"Actually, I'm here about your cat."

"Stripey!" The children cheer. "He found Stripey!"

I renew my grip on the rain slicker.

The pig-tailed girl's lips tremble. "It's bad news, isn't it, Mister?"

Melinda was wrong. There are times when truth should remain unspoken, and doing the decent thing is exactly the wrong thing to do. "Your cat's not a Persian, is he?"

Mom and Pop exchange relieved glances; the children rejoice.

"Sorry to alarm you." I back out of the room.

Perhaps the same sleazy destiny that caused Stripey to become one with the pavement is also in charge of rearranging furniture. All I know is, suddenly I'm tumbling over an ottoman. The corpse of the ring-tailed wraith leaps from my hands, somersaulting toward the ceiling in slow motion. Every eye traces its ascent, and just before Stripey reaches his crescendo, the ceiling fan intervenes. His corpse splatters against the wall and oozes its way down to the thick, beige carpeting.

"Stripey?" The children cry.

"My new carpet!" shrieks Mom.

"You're a dead man." Pop makes a beeline for the gun rack.

I struggle up from the floor. "Look, I'm sorry. It was an accident." I attempt to slide the decapitated cat back inside the slicker. Red glop drips from the fan and splats against my forehead. "It just darted in front of my car, and…"

Pop pulls a shotgun from the rack. I barrel out the doorway into the roaring monsoon, serpentining across the lawn with my shoulders hunched against the bullet I imagine searing its way into my spine. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals an apparition in white terrycloth flapping after me. Melinda is just putting the Olds in gear as I disappear between houses.

Another flash of white, and I cut hard down the alley. The night explodes. To my aging legs, the gunshot provides a massive dose of youth serum. My feet pound out three blocks' worth of suburban terrain before I reach the main arterial. Sirens scream from every direction. I duck into the men's room of a Jackpot gas station.

Bolting myself inside the cubicle, I lean against the door and fight to regain breath. But I can little afford the luxury of oxygen. At any moment, my assailant could burst into the room, blasting serious holes in the argument for my existence. Somehow, I'm still holding the cat - definitely the icing on the rancid cake of life. Such is the price I must pay for attempting to date a woman who exited the birth canal about the same time I bought my first car.

To my way of thinking, perishing in a gas station men's room with a small, mutilated household pet in my arms does not sound like something I want my mother to read about in the newspaper. I glance toward the toilet, consider giving Stripey a burial at sea. If I must perish, at least none of his parts will wind up in my coffin. But I take pity on the sewer system, electing instead to stuff the slicker and its diabolical cargo into the garbage can.

Ensconced in the cubicle again, I stand on top of the toilet seat and crouch, dendrites and synapses firing at a feverish pace. How long can I remain hidden?

"Time's up," my knees squawk. Besides, the muddy footprints dappling the restroom floor are a dead giveaway.

Pulling in a deep breath, I exit the cubicle and tiptoe to the door. I open it a crack. A police cruiser is patrolling the area, no doubt answering a call regarding a drenched and desperate degenerate. I imagine dicey headlines, bizarre allegations, news cameras distorting my already distorted visage. My ex-wife will portray me to reporters as "one sick puppy." Receiving a fair trial will necessitate a change of venue to some town where the jury is composed of people who consider road-kill a menu item.

My only hope is that Melinda will soon pull up in the Oldsmobile. I imagine her driving me to her apartment and bathing my battered body in the narcotic waters of her bathtub before offering herself breathlessly. But there will be a stiff price to pay; I can see that now. I will become nothing less than her thrall, doing her bidding until the end of my days. Yes, Stripey has opened my eyes, revealing Melinda and all her inane storybook demands. If not for that poor, mutilated cat, I might have spent the remainder of my life nurturing a menagerie of homeless pets, ministering to incontinent iguanas and paraplegic parakeets.
No, none of that happy-face crap for me. Suddenly my needs seem uncomplicated - dry off, pound down a couple of stiff shots, and enjoy some good old-fashioned, no-strings-attached sex. I speed-dial Blanche Roberts on my cell phone. Ten minutes later, her Volkswagen Cabriolet rolls up to the pumps.

As I hurry to her car, the Oldsmobile pulls into the other side of the island, Melinda behind the wheel. Our eyes meet; her lips bud into a smile so promising, I stumble to a halt. I glance toward Blanche. Her smile is lascivious, offering nothing more esoteric than a night of raw, hedonistic passion.

Blanche or Melinda? Melinda or Blanche?

"Hey, Steve-a-reno." Blanche honks the horn. "You wanna get it on or what?"

I bolt across the pavement, hurling myself into the passenger seat of the Cabriolet. For the briefest of moments, I glimpse disillusionment stinging Melinda's eyes.

Maybe it's just me, I want to explain, but idealism seems like such a frigging hassle.

Blanche and I go tooling off, destined for a night of sexual depravity, pure and crude, unadulterated by the bogus demands of courtship. As so often happens, the right thing to do is not to worry about doing the right thing. And in the morning, slip into your clothes, exchange some tongue, and agree to do it again sometime real soon.