IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single cat in possession of a good sense of literature must be in search of a home. I am drawn to the back yard of a place midway up Hot Springs Road, a place with enough shrub and clutter to provide possible protection against the occasional coyotes, raccoons, and bob cats who, to determine from missing cat posters here and there, mean cats no good at all.
A man appeared one evening as I was passing through, greeted me by saying, Wait a minute, Epstein, I'll get you some supper.
How, I wondered, did he know I was Epstein when I barely thought of myself that way. The next night, he appeared to be waiting for me, dish in hand. Hello, Epstein, he said.
Odd. Truly odd. I make my way in the world by leaving traces by which I may be followed. If this stranger knows I'm Epstein, how many others may know? And what is their agenda? Being Epstein is dangerous enough, being known as Epstein adds more than spice to the matter.
Serious poker players speak of reading their opponent's faces for "tells" or signs that they have connected with a spectacularly good or dismally awful hand to play. I intend to watch this man who sets out the cat food and calls me Epstein. Perhaps there will be some tells.
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