So let’s say you’re old — somewhere between Bernie Sanders-old and Brontosaurus-old.
Let’s say you’re a little bit decrepit. OK, maybe more than a little.
Where are ya gonna live?
If you’re at Tabby’s Place, your options are generally three:
- Adoption Room #3
- The lobby
- The lounge
#1 is reserved for brassy old women and one Orion. But let’s say you’re in neither of those categories. Next?
Ah, the lobby. The lobby is an outstanding choice. Wet food free-for-all, continuous human traffic, treat free for all, and dry food free-for-all. Clearly the place.
But let’s say your bowels are irritable.
Your diet is prescription-only.
Your smorgasbord is standardized.
Congratulations: you, old man, are headed for the lounge.
And so it goes for the unlikeliest bros in the history of Tabby’s Place.
Felix is no newcomer at this point. He may be old; he may be an old-timer; but he’s as purposefully hip as a Silicon Valley wunderkind who cans his own beets. Felix, in fact, is so afraid of being left behind the times that he insists on placing himself continually in the flow of what’s current.
By which I mean, of course, running water.
If you are looking for Felix, he is in the sink.
If you are not looking for Felix, he is in the sink.
If you are in Paris or Entebbe or Kuala Lumpur, Felix is in the sink, and he will scream his hipster head off until you are at his side, running the tap, restoring him to his flow.
happiest if happy if and only if he is sitting, trancelike, under a drip or dribble or crashing cascade of tap water. Forget the hot springs of Arkansas or the healing lagoons of Iceland: if you want invincible health and never-ending happiness, you’ll bathe in the tepid trickle of eau de Ringoes.
At least, you will if you’re Felix.
Then there’s his new, old neighbor.
Chester is not hip.
Chester does not want to be hip.
Chester is content with the hoary grey haze of age.
Chester has no desire to return to whippersnapdom or slip into leather skinny jeans. (Jeez, Chester, the runway’s moved on to dramatic flares anyway, sighs Felix.) He’s simply content to be blanketed in love in the great indoors, finally free of a nasty cancerous lump he brought to Tabby’s Place.
Chester wears comfortable sweatpants, pulled up 4″ above his belly button. Felix wears ironic chapeaux, and insists that you call them chapeaux.
Chester listens to Hank Williams. Felix wants to make you a mixtape of his dubstep friend Hank Da Skank.*
Chester is trying to figure out this edgy new website called MySpace. Felix is worried that SnapChat may have peaked. (Their neighbor Raja, by the way, is just sitting on the couch posting her original poetry to Tumblr, as usual. And, yes, of course it’s about the boys.)
Chester doesn’t give a whiff if the world passes him by, as long as love stops to smooch him.
Felix…well, Felix can actually agree with that.
The one thing that will get Felix away from that water is warm hands, warm voices, the warm “now” of love.
Funny, ’cause that’s the same one thing that shakes Chester from his semi-senile slumbers, rousing his rapture and his songs and his impeccable English. (No, really.)
So as different as the aged oldster and the aging hipster might seem, they’re perfectly matched. They want the same thing, whether they’re reaching for it through studied cool or carefree dorkdom.
So it’s no surprise to see them snuggling. Yes. The sunshine boys have made common cause when it comes to almost-cuddling.
Eat your heart out, lobby; it’s the lounge that’s looking a lot like love this February.
*Which is actually Dobro‘s stage name, but you didn’t hear it from me.