I panicked.
I, who had lived by my wits for centuries and could mesmerize or crush with my strength; I, who could fly with wings through the night, or drift like mist; I, who thought I was above the laws of nature, didn’t know what to do for a little sick cat.
I swept her into my arms and took to the streets. I had no money and didn’t know where to go. I would have to ask for help. Did these people who danced all night and had no job I knew of have doctors who healed for the sake of love? If anyone knew, it would be in Haight-Ashbury, the kaleidoscope heart of the alternate city.
I ran to a head shop on Haight, which I knew was open until midnight. Wrinkling my nose against the overwhelming stench of incense and patchouli oil, I pushed past the browsers around the comic book racks and the bulletin board, to the far end of a glass display case full of pipes, roach clips, and other drug paraphernalia. The girl at the counter was almost hidden by racks dripping with multicolored scarves and beads.
“Where do the sick go?” I asked her urgently.
She stared at me blankly for a moment, and I would have grabbed her if my arms had not been full.
“The free clinic, man.” I turned to see a young man with a bushy black beard, holding a flyer up for me to read the address.
“The doctors volunteer,” he said. “It’s for the street kids who don’t have money.”
I thanked him and hurried out.
“Stay cool!” I heard him call after me—advice or a meaningless salute, I don’t know.
The clinic was in the basement of a church. That stopped me cold. I stood there staring at the looming facade, a sinking feeling in my gut. I must have held my cat too tight. She squeaked in pain. That decided me. But as soon as I crossed the threshold I felt my insides crush together in fear.
A motley assortment of young people sat in the rows of ancient straight-backed wooden chairs, or lounged in the few tattered armchairs that sat on the cloudy linoleum floor.
“Dude’s got a cat,” a youth in a purple shirt said to no one in particular, and giggled irrelevantly.
A shivering boy with large black pupils was led past me by his friends. Too much LSD or mescaline, I guessed. “You’ll be safe here,” I heard one friend say. “They’ll give you something to bring you down.”
“They never call the police,” said the other.
The girl at the table looked over her square, pink-lensed glasses at me. “Whatcha here for?” she asked, pen hovering ready over a printed form.
I held out Grimalkin.
“Cat sick?” she asked, the space between her eyebrows creasing with concern.
I nodded, still unable to speak.
“Bummer,” she said. “I dunno, tho’. We don’t do pets.”
I folded Grimalkin back to my chest, and swallowed a scream. The weight of the crucifix somewhere over my head seemed to bear down on me and take away my thoughts. I didn’t know the question to ask next.
The girl did, however. “Jerry,” she called through a door to her right. “Where do we send people with cats?”
A tall young man in a white coat over jeans and T-shirt poked his head through the door. He looked me over and winced. “You sure it’s not you that needs the help?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He sighed and came over. “Hi, baby,” he said to Grimalkin, gently stroking her head. “It’s okay, it’s just Dr. Jerry. I’ve got two like you at home.”
Unlike so many, he then looked me in the eyes. I saw compassion there and, for a moment, it took the weight from my chest.
“Listen … uh … sorry, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Simon,” I answered before I could help it.
“Simon,” he repeated, and I felt a slight shock as someone spoke my true name to me for the first time in years. “I don’t know anything about sick animals. I don’t even know what the normal heart rate of a cat is, but I know a vet,” he said, “a friend. She lives near. I’ll call her. Maybe she’ll come over.”
I waited in that clammy basement, stroking my cat, overhearing words like clap, knocked up, bad trip, and pain. Someone cried loudly in another room for a while. Patients went in the back, emerged again, and left. Others came in from the street to take their places.