By Alfred Brown
3.
I woke up with a start. I wondered if she would call me. This was usually the time she would call, but the phone did not ring. Then I saw her.
The moonlight paled over her, giving her a spectral appearance. I wasn’t sure if she was there, or it was a ghost that she had sent in her place. She had long, black hair; a small nose; perfect ears; and expressive eyes. She slowly disrobed, letting her wrap fall off one shoulder and then the other. She held it about her torso then let the whole thing drop. Her body was toned and shapely. Sometimes I liked them chubby, but her body was exactly what I wanted.
Speaking of chubby, for the first time ever, I found I couldn’t get an erection. As I said, this had never happened before. Perhaps I was too scared by the fact that she somehow silently came into my room and stood before me. I was a light sleeper, so I was sure I would have heard if the door or window had opened.
Still saying nothing, she reached out to me. I brushed the covers from my bed. She started unbuttoning my pajamas. She took them off and threw them on the floor in a crumpled heap. I looked at them and was overcome with emotion. They would get wrinkled! I knew what I had to do.
I pushed her away and pulled out from under my bed my ironing board. I liked to keep it nearby in case I was having trouble sleeping. I set it up quickly next to the bed. Then, with a moment of inspiration, I put her on it—though it was rickety, it seemed to hold her weight. Suddenly I was hard. And then I pressed her. I pressed and pressed her. When I moved away from her I would make a sizzle noise with my mouth, and when I went back onto her I would exhale and hum. I turned her on her side and did it again, then turned her again and pressed, and finally turned her one more time so I got all her sides.
I was not finished, but suddenly she disappeared. I yelled into the darkness, “If you leave me turned on, I’ll burn down the house!” But she didn’t care, she was gone.
I woke up and my covers were sticky. This, of course, had never happened before. Just like my erectile dysfunction earlier. But that was part of the dream. I took off my covers, threw them in the hamper along with my wet pajamas, and took a quick shower. When I came back to bed and took off my towel, I noticed that there was a smooth, folded pair of pajamas next to me. They were still warm.
When I woke up again, Haruki was next to me. Or, since he was Japanese, I should refer to him by his last name.
“Hello Murakami.”
“You can call me Haruki.” I knew this was a great honor. Usually in shojo anime, this was where the fair maiden would blush and wave her hand in front of her face and say, “No, no, I couldn’t do that!” And he would say, “I insist,” and call me by my first name. The wind would rustle our hair. I would then start to faint, my arms would go up in wavy lines, wavy streams would come down my face, and maybe cherry blossoms would swirl around.
“Okay, Haruki-chan.” I smiled, stuck my tongue out, and gave a peace sign. The cat rolled his eyes.
“You can call me Murakami.”
“I’ve read more of your books since you last came to me. I’ve read nearly every one they have in the library. The only ones I haven’t read, that are available there, are After Dark and South of the Border. I’ve hesitated because unlike the others, on the back they don’t have quotes on the book from critics. Instead they say, ‘more praise for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles.’ Which doesn’t really strike me as a good sign. Do you think I should read them anyway?”
“Well, you say they are at the library. Which means I don’t make any money if you do get them. Which means I really don’t care.”
“I want to get your new book, IQ84, but it is always checked out. What’s it about? I take it, it is about a man whose IQ is 84 points.”
“It is actually a reference to the Japanese way of pronouncing 1984, like the book by George Orwell.”
“Hmm, George Orwell. His books have talking animals in them and unrequited love. I can’t imagine why you would refer to him. I am now getting a weird image of the character from your first trilogy eating someone’s face.”
“You will have to read it to find out. That might happen. Though, since it is a very bad idea, it probably doesn’t.”
Haruki Murakami went over to my laptop and turned it on. Next to it he had a bottle of whiskey, he poured himself some into a glass and drank some while he typed. I was very surprised he could do any of these things as a cat. Didn’t he say he wrote with his tail? No matter. I watched him thinking of nothing at all. Then he left without saying a word.
I went to the computer and the file was on my desktop. I opened it, but it was encrypted with a password. What could the password be? It, of course, could be anything. But I had to open the document, it could reveal all the secrets I had been trying to figure out.
I had to try something. Of course! I typed in, ILickMyOwnPrivatesBecauseIAmACatWouldntYou. And success! I started reading.