Wallstrait

WE CALLED HIM Phenomenal Phil, but nobody told him. It would not have changed his day.

 

Phil was mopping the lobby when I met him. “Good morning! I’m Daisy Barlow. I’m the Development Director. Are you a new volunteer?”

 

He was bald as a bean, but silver curls conspired with gel on his neck. He shook off his hand, cat hairs catching the sunlight. “Phil Kazyk. New like the morning.”

 

“It’s a joy to have you with us.” My spiel didn’t even consult my mind at this point. After sixteen years at the cage-free cat sanctuary, you welcome volunteers in your sleep.

 

“It’s a joy.” Phil winked, but not in the way of silver-curled men who wink.

 

“How’s it going so far? Any favorites yet?” I gestured towards the shriveled calico watching his movements like a spy.

 

“It’s phenomenal. Today is my favorite.” He was mopping again, his back turned. He had filed me on the hour’s index card.

 

I cornered our Volunteer Coordinator at lunch. “Siobahn, what’s the new guy’s story?”

 

 “Phil?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I think he’s a retired mucky-muck at Merck. Maybe Johnson & Johnson? I can’t remember.”

 

“He seems quite at home with our mucky-muck.” I had seen Phil break from mopping only to carry stainless-steel litter boxes on his shoulder like bayonets. “He seems…philosophical.”

 

“I can’t tell if he’s just toasty or burnt to a crisp.” Our Founder had a limited appetite for philosopher kings with mops.

 

Neil had created the cat sanctuary from stock options and moxie after a single cat caused him to stop rolling his eyes at animal people. He’d left AOL at the peak of its free-trial powers, writing a soggy storybook for cats of a certain desperation.

 

We had a lobby full of incontinent emperors and skylit “suites” of semi-feral despots. We wondered daily if we could pull this off. I was there to hustle donations, ten-dollar checks in shaky cursive with directives to “use it for the shaggy cat with diabeetis; God bless you people.” Siobahn was there to recruit moppers and feeders and petters.

 

Now we had Phil.

 

When the Weather Service issued tornado warnings, Phil mopped the lobby. When Wednesday volunteers called out sick, Phil guest-mopped the lobby. While you tried to get to know him, Phil mopped the lobby.

 

“Good morning, dear Phil!”

 

“Bouncy Daisy, good morning.” Phil was long past needing to look up at me.

 

“How’s your Thursday?”

 

“Phenomenal.”

 

The answer was unchanging, but I loved to wiggle my toes in the sand.

 

“Everything going well?”

 

“There are no bad days, only bad moments.” Left, right, left, right. I could never decide if Phil’s mop strokes were military or musical, feats of engineering or a string of epiphanies.

 

Cats followed Phil even as they winced over his Pine-Sol cauldron. He was not big on dilution. I asked Phil questions even when I knew where the answers trailed off.

 

“So, what did you do before you became Cat Haven’s hero?”

 

“Bouncy Daisy, I’m no hero. Oh, I had a time of it until time was up.” Left, right, left, right. A three-legged tabby prostrated herself before the phenomenon. “I had enough. Life calls.”

 

Phil asked fewer questions than he answered, but when his koans made me blither, he paid attention. All the principles of “active listening” laughed in ringlets around him. He didn’t look at me; he didn’t nod; he did remember everything.

 

“Good morning, Phil! How’s this Friday treating you?”

 

“Phenomenal.”

 

“That makes my day better every time I hear it.”

 

“I think you have a lot of good days, Bouncy Daisy.”

 

“You’re an insightful man. Although not everyone wants to bounce along.” I felt my bangs cringe over my face as soon as I said it.

 

“No?” Left, right, left, right.

 

“The world doesn’t know what to do with cheerful people.” I shifted my purse from one shoulder to the other. “Hallmark people.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Sappy people. Animal people. I don’t know. But we’ll try to bring them along, right?”

 

“I just do my joy.” Left, right, left, right, no pause for the pinto-bean cat baring her belly. “People are not my concern. Never were.”

 

Siobahn and I gave Phil a pass when the conversation cooled to sea foam, but Neil was persistent. He displayed his findings at lunch, like acorn caps and nautilus shells from a scavenger hunt.

 

“Phil says he’s been to every country except South Sudan and mainland China.” Neil was incredulous. “It sounds like bull, but for some reason I don’t think he’s lying. I’ll ask more questions.”

 

Neil questioned everyone. In my interview four years earlier, he’d launched a blistering inquisition into my education. “Master of Divinity? Is that an actual degree, or are you just writing down things while watching He-Man cartoons?”

 

“It’s a degree.”

 

“Why should I hire a defrocked priest to raise money for broken cats?”

 

I was twenty-seven but emboldened by the existence of Neil Solomon, and the presence of a one-eyed kitten on my lap. “Well, the Guy I served was big on broken creatures. Also, I was never properly frocked in the first place.”

 

“Too much of a heretic?”

 

“I prefer ‘Jezebel spirit.’”

 

My job offer letter addressed me as “Daisy, Apostate in Angel Wings.”

 

All the phenomenals worked on my theology. Like a clawed cat kneading a pillow, Phil’s proverbs were poking tiny holes in the wall between my previous and current lives.

 

Finally, I had to ask.

 

“Good morning, Phil! How’s this new week treating you?”

 

“Phenomenal.”

 

“You came in even though we’re having an ice storm.”

 

“It’s a masterpiece out there, an experience. Fractals on every window. What’s the worst that could happen?” Left, right, left, right.

 

“Hit the wrong patch, and it could be a bad day.”

 

“There are no bad days, only bad moments.” Silly me.

 

I watched his mophead, a working-class Muppet. “Phil, I’ve gotta ask.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You give me hope every day. Are you a spiritual guy?”

 

For once, no ready answer. He turned his back and worked a hairy corner. Pinto cat and I both coughed on Pine-Sol.

 

“Everyone is a spiritual guy.” Left, right, left, right. “But not in any traditional sense.”

 

“I don’t see you folding your hands for organized religion.”

 

“I keep my hands busy. But I hear you’ve got some history, yeah?”

 

Why would Neil tell Phil about me? “History and mystery.” I channeled the man himself. “Pretty disorganized at this point, but…yeah, it’s why I’m here.”

 

“I’m glad you’re here.” Phil didn’t look at me once. “Bouncy. Brave.”

 

I didn’t tell my husband much about Phil Kazyk. I had learned long ago to curate my day carefully, the better to protect mystics and kittens from contempt.

 

For some reason, I told V. that Phil called me brave.

 

“Who is this guy?”

 

“He mops the lobby. We wish each other a good morning.”

 

“Brave Daisy.” V. couldn’t decide whether to deposit a pat or an X on my forehead. “Well, Cat Haven needs more men anyway. It’s an unbalanced matriarchy.”

 

V. had never understood my work, much less my friends, “all those vegan Wiccans with twelve cats.” He warned me about getting my cover blown as a Jesus freak. He regularly confirmed that, “if we need more money someday, you’ll leave that place for corporate America.”

 

I kept my travel plans under a litter box.

 

“Happy Monday, Phil!”

 

“Every Monday is happy.” He stopped mopping. “Hey, do you have a minute for an old man this morning?”

 

“Only if it will make my life phenomenal.”

 

Phil looked me in the eye. His eyes were green. “Give me a minute.”

 

He left the mop, cut off a tuxedo cat in traffic, and vanished into Neil’s office.

 

“I set these aside for you.” His arms were full of books.

 

“What are—”

 

“—ever hear of the Camino?” He was looking me in the eyes. The mop fell over and excited the cats.

 

“In Spain?”

 

“Also France. Pilgrimage route. I’ve walked it six times.” He extended the stack. “You should go.”

 

“Why…”

 

“You should. You’ll meet people you need. You’ll hear things.”

 

“I don’t know if I—”

 

“I’m telling you. You’ll come back different. And yourself.” He took up his mop and turned his back. “It’ll be good for the cats, too.”

 

I left the books in my car and thumbed the maps at stoplights. I told Neil I might need six weeks off to stagger around Spain. Also France.

 

“You could raise money from Antarctica. I’m not worried. Just don’t go get frocked on me.”

 

“Very low risk.”

 

Donations were robust that fall, and the time seemed right for a Capital Campaign.

 

V. looked up from his dinner when I told him. “Real money, huh?”

 

“Neil thinks we can pull it off.” Neil thought I could pull it off, but curation was key.

 

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

 

“I won’t.” I kept my meal plan to myself.

 

There had been talk that Phil was a man of means – “Merck or something!”, Siobahn reminded me; “crisp around the edges, but I friggin’ love the guy,” Neil grumbled – and I was strangely unafraid to ask him for a donation. I shouldn’t have mentioned the plan to V.

 

“The man with the mop is hiding six figures in his sweat sock?” Contempt fogged the room like kitty litter dust.

 

“Well, between his job history and my wealth analytics software—”

 

“—you gotta be careful. You might turn him off forever. You wanna keep this guy as your friend?”

 

I scanned the invisible lobby of V.’s friends. There were none, only the parents he called “dotards” and the coworkers who were mostly “pathological liars.” The lobby was empty. The man who warned against losing people had no people.

 

“He’s kind of unoffendable.” I always said the wrong thing.

 

“No one is unoffendable.” But V. had an idea. “Want to role-play your ‘ask?’”

 

“Sure.” This was a terrible idea.

 

V. leapt to his feet and began air-mopping vigorously. It was all wrong, spastic and unthoughtful. He spoke with a shrill slide-whistle, as though Phil were a game show host. “Goooooood morning, little lady!”

 

“Good morning, Phil! How are you?” I would try.

 

“Oh, I’m alright, I’m alright. How can I help you today?” It was Vaudeville with disdain. He flashed a grotesque grin.

 

“Well, I’d like to talk to you about the Capital Campaign.”

 

V. beamed, apocalyptic. “I think I already do enough for this place, little lady. I’m a hard-working volunteer. Now you take your fundraising somewhere else.”

 

This was not how the ask unfurled.

 

“Good morning, Phil!”

 

“I haven’t had a bad one yet.”

 

“Listen.” I sat on the floor, in the Pine-Sol. The Pinto bean cat unfolded like a map across my legs. “I’m about to make myself a buffoon.” He didn’t look up. “I’m counting on you still liking me in the aftermath.”

 

Phil Kazyk stopped. He dropped the mop with a flourish and put his hands on his hips. “What’s that?”

 

“I—”

 

“I heard you. Bouncy Daisy, I thought you were a wise woman.”

 

“What—”

 

“Good things are sturdy.”

 

“What?”

 

“You know what I mean.” He picked up the mop. “Now what’s this buffoonery?”

 

Phil Kazyk pledged one hundred thousand dollars to expand Cat Haven.

 

“It’s just money, and money is just a canoe.”

 

“Phil, you’re going to ferry a lot of cats to safety with this.”

 

Left, right, left, right. “Call me the ferryman.”

 

“We all call you Phenomenal Phil.”

 

He turned his back. “I know.”

 

Phil’s daughter got sick that winter, and he moved to North Carolina to live above her garage. I started going in the side entrance to Cat Haven so I wouldn’t have to cross the lobby.

 

Phil responded to my emails in phenomenal form: “Keep smiling, kid. PK.” “Stay on pilgrimage. PK.” And once, with no context: “Transform, but never change. PK.”

 

We expanded, and cats with toes like leaping lentils are alive because Phil Kazyk chose phenomenal. I went to my twentieth seminary reunion, and a Baptist friend prophesied that I would raise the sum total of love on the planet.

 

“But I work at a cat sanctuary.”

 

“God is an elegant comedian.” Darius and his First Lady lay hands on me to bless Cat Haven.

 

Today, I live alone in a condo the size of a bean. My kitchen holds maps of Spain. Also France. I talk about my travel plans freely. There are no bad days, only bad moments.

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Angela Townsend (she/her) is the development director at a cat sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Bridge Eight, CutBank, Door is a Jar, Paris Lit Up, Pleiades, and Terrain, among others. Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 34 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life affectionately.