My cat Maceo knows how to play the drums. If you�re quiet and if you have a friendly face, he might play for you, that�s the kind of cat he is.
He�s Egyptian. Maceo couldn�t catch a mouse if you laced one with catnip and tuna and put it on a silver platter with blinking lights and a sultry tabby on top. You don�t think of Egypt as a catty place, but think Pharaohs. Think tombs. There�s ways to tell what�s important to a person. What do you think is worth dying for? When you�re buried next to your cats and they find your wife three doors down, well, then your actions are speaking louder, you know. And all that stuff.
I hated Egypt when we got there. All the people were shifty and they never took their eyes off me, even on the streets. It was like they were all alone in a room with one TV, and I was the TV. I used to walk the streets with my hands in my pockets, five fingers on my wallet and five on this little knife I got as a present. I couldn�t use it, but it was a mental thing, me vs. Cairo. My dad brought me there. He was actually researching a book on Pharaoh Saunders, the jazz musician. But the music I heard on the streets was all alien and weird, it had no beats. Nothing like home, where my dad kept a double bass and a drum kit for musicians who passed through. I used to sit on their laps. Now I was spending a lot of time just walking on my own, around the city. Around Cairo.
