Tibi
23/02/26
The stage was bare, yet to be set. The crowd would not be here for another two hours, but when it did, they would be in for something magnificent. Tibi walked in on his performance space with the cadence of a rockstar. He sniffed the air, and his nostrils were filled with the all-familiar smell of stale piss, dust and refuse. The morning sun illuminated the lichen-spotted groundstones, and the faded blue of the grafitti on the surrounding walls. Tibi spun on his feet, and his long, fuzzy tail curled high in the air, like a gymnast posing before a spectacle. He could feel this was about to be best performance of his career. This would be the one - the one that brought him the recognition he deserved, and all the fortune that came with it. This time tonight he would be bidding adieu to the streets that did not deserve him. Oh, what a thought! But first, he had to think about the atmosphere. He turned on the padded balls of his feet, and his clawed hands framed the space before him. He closed one yellow eye for focus. What was it to be, this masterpiece? This magnificent performance? This jewel of his early career? It had to be something fitting, something that embodied his story, his hardships, his betrayal. Yes - oh, of course, yes! This was a punch and judy performance. Of course it was! A punch and judy show about one poor creative’s ascent to stardom. Yes, of course. It had to be moving, inspiring, jaw-dropping. It would be the greatest show ever seen, so great and touching that all the little children and their parents would throw their riches at him out of desire to see such a tale come true. It was also highly fitting. A punch and judy show could be performed by a single, talented performer. A performer such as he, whose treacherous crew had abandoned him and his vision. The audacity of it: ganged up on and left to survive alone, walked out on for the promise of a fancy dinner. How fickle they were, how terrible. No true performer would do such a thing, no true creative like Tibi. It was to be fate - he grinned to himself - that only with their mediocrity gone would he be launched into stardom. He simply shone too brightly and in their jealousy, they’d held him back. Tibi got to work. Striding over to his ‘stage closet’, he dragged out the structure on wheels that was his booth. With difficulty, mind you. This was not the sort of a task that a directeur créatif should be doing, but Tibi saw it as the price of isolated excellence. He dragged it to the centre of his stage. To the point just next to the stairs down from the station, where rich onlookers could see him as they descended. He whipped a cloth from his pocket, and dusted down the booth’s stripes, so that their yellow shone bright. Really and truly it needed a good clean, what with the grime and the mildew. It would add to the heartfelt appeal though, Tibi thought. He hastily - wishing not to sully his fur - wiped the dust and debris from the booth’s curtains. And he fished an assortment of puppets from a pouch in the interior. As always, the choices were limited. But a true creative only needs their talent and imagination. He picked two puppets - the prince and the rich man. He took a cloak from one of the other puppets and stuck it on the prince. Most importantly, Tibi would need to brainstorm - bring his creative vision to life. He spent all of two minutes thinking about it - before deciding that the performance of his life should be a true story from the heart. His own story. The story of a cat named Tibi, that very day, who’d been abandoned, left to starve, who poured his heart into his performance. And the performance was so great that a kindly rich onlooker noticed, and told Tibi he would be the most famous cat in Onaa. Happily ever after. He’d have to give his puppet a different name, of course. The first of the sightseers were passing by. The early bird crowd. Tibi knew not to bother with this lot. Too sparse, and usually too wary to listen. Normally, at this point of the morning, all the other beggars and performers would have arrived and would be trying their hardest to get a looking from the early bird crowd. Not as of late though. As of late, most been drawn away to the new homeless resource center on Cobalt Street. Tibi pitied them. A couple remained, spread sparsely. They did not bother Tibi, for they knew his status as the King of the station-side performers. Tibi spent his time in wait by beautifying himself with his comb and his pocket mirror. Brushing his fur away from his handsome face, smoothing it in all the right places, covering the scabs and the pockmarks. He flashed his teeth, practiced his most charming smile. As he did, he had found the dull ache of the Cravings coming back. His pockets held only a handful of coins - he had checked, thrice - not enough for a fix. But, Tibi told himself, it wouldn’t be for long. Just enough until he got his handsome fortune today. Just until the evening. He began the show just after the 8:40 train came in and people began pouring down the steps above. ‘Come one! Come all!’, he said, ‘to the greatest show of your lives! Settle down for, the magnificent, the fantabulous, the Fatcat and the Golden Beggar!’ And seeing a few individuals slow on their paths to look, he rushed behind his booth and his curtain. He got a drumroll going with a can and two chopsticks, ending in a strong, tense snap. And at last! Tibi drew the curtains drew back, and the show began. ‘It was a dark, cold night,’ he hissed, ‘and nothing stirred, not even a mouse’ With two flimsy levers, he pushed the cardboard cutouts of a town into frame. ‘In a quiet alley, with none but the frost and the rats for company, lay a poor, humble man’. He took his prince-puppet, and with a flex of his wrist, made it lay. ‘Through no fault of his own, this was his bed, and he had not a penny for even a pillow’ From his position under the frame, Tibi had a secret looking hole onto his viewers. Where was the interest? The intrique? He had a meagre crowd today. It just wouldn’t do — he needed to work them harder. ‘The wind HOOOOWLED’, he boomed, earning a few turning pairs of legs in front of his peephole. ‘And the poor man shivered. He looked to the stars for company. And he said-‘ Pause, for dramatic effect. The puppet sat up, and reached one hand to the sky. ‘Stars aglow, stars delight. Stars above that shine so bright! I wish, I wish, to survive tonight. I beg only one chance, to prove my plight.’ He saw a few children crowd closer. Here we are, children he could work with. ‘I wish, I wish with all my heart… that the world should see my art. I beg of you, stars above, let me give you my greatest show. Should I disappoint, I will gladly go’ Tibi saw a few small, round eyes. Drooping, fattened, ice-cream-stained lips. And yet, also - scoffs, from their parents. His crowd wasn’t growing to the proportions he would like. A couple were walking away. He continued as long as his patience would allow, conjuring up flower prose galore, and dastardly evils. But at some point the Cravings began to nag. Not severely, but enough to threaten problems if they weren’t addressed within the next few hours. It was beginning to ruin his mood, and his perseverance. Nevertheless, Tibi continued - more dramatic, more flamboyant, to draw in the little ones and their delicate emotions. He pointed out members of the audience, he got them to cry out in support for the poor Beggar. But the engagement was meager, and the cries were half-assed. At some stage, midway though the play, he decided Punch and Judy alone wasn’t working. He came up with an entry point, a segue — and he leapt from behind the booth to take up the role of the Beggar, doing his best to survive before the performance of his life , where he would bargain for one… last… night. He played the role of a miser, who tempted the beggar’s friends to evil. He played the role of the leader of said friends, who all gave in and left the Beggar on his own. The story quickly grew confused, convoluted, and slightly contemptuous as Tibi tried to turn his feelings into engagement. He played now the role of the Fatcat. He mimicked the pompous walk, he eyed the imaginary beggar with an imaginary monocle. ‘I say, young man. Why are you singing?’, Tibi said in a low, hearty voice. And again, he switched sides to play the humble Beggar, looking innocently up from his kneeling position on the floor. ‘I sing to live another day, kind sir’, said Tibi, in the meek voice of the beggar. ‘Well, young man’, said Tibi as the Fatcat, switching sides again. ‘Give me your best song. If you can move me with one song, you will never know such a sad, pitiful existence again’. The climax. Tibi made his eyes large and round, and he looked to the sky, clasping his hands together in mock prayer — and he poured his very heart out into a serenade to the stars themselves. He warbled and screeched at such a volume that passersby far down the street turned to look. He sang to his audience, who oft seemed to clear their throats or avert their eyes. And he finished in a rising crescendo that had him standing tall, tail high. He heard the clink of coins in his donation mug. A fairly meager clink, by the sounds of it. There was a happy ending, of course. The Fatcat raved about how amazing the Beggar’s performance was, and offered to take the Beggar back to his mansion, and told the Beggar how we would perform for royalty. The Beggar was so good and so talented, that he got a mansion of his own, and he married a princess, and became a rich and handsome prince. This was the moment, then. The rapturous applause. The rain of money. The requests for encores and autographs. Tibi waited in anticipation. And when the crowd offered a lazy clap, he began with the bows and the ‘thank you’s. At last he eyed his donations - a handful of coins and note or two. What was this? Was this the thanks for his efforts? Where was the praise Tibi deserved? Where the gods waiting to trick him, waiting to see if he’d give up at the last hurdle? No. Oh no, Tibi would not be fooled. As the crowd began to disperse, he picked up his donations can and rattled it, waving it in people’s faces. Holding it down for young children, who tugged at their parents for a coin but were quickly swept away. The Cravings were strong now. It was only when the very last of the crowd had started to leave that Tibi finally boiled over. ‘Oh, poor Tibi!’, he yelled after them. ‘Is this the thanks he gets? Poor Tibi the Beggar, who slaved away for free to put together such an amazing performance for you all? Have you no eye for a true artiste? What cruel, terrible people! I deserve more than this! Someday you’ll see this show in broadway and WEEP when I refuse to sign your autographs!’ He performed the same show two more times that day - convinced that this, too, was a test and that perhaps it was not his first performance that would get him fame. But they had netted the same response. Perhaps even less, as the Cravings were gnawing at him now and by evening his performance was aggressive and agitated. As his last crowd dispersed, a familiar face remained. Creps. Tibi would not speak to him. ‘Good show, mate’, said Creps. His tail was low and uncertain. ‘I don’t talk to traitors’, said Tibi, counting his earnings, his tail waving angrily. ‘You don’t have to talk to me, but at least listen, alright?’ Tibi scoffed and pretended he was happily alone. ‘The shelter really isn’t so bad. Hell, we’ve got beds now. And showers. First hot shower I’ve had since I can remember. We’ve had three meals today. Three. Meals, Tibs. It’s like- my point being, there’s no shame in getting help. And I know- I know things ended on a rocky note, but all I’m sayin’ is there’s always a bed waitin’ for you if you want it.’ ‘Are you saying I can’t make it out here? Because, as you can see, I’m doing far better than I ever did with you amateurs in tow. If you lot need handouts, that’s your problem’ He knew deep down it was a lie, but it was so deep down that Tibi’s conscious mind barely acknowledged it. ‘I’m not saying nothin’, just- look, I brought you dinner. Consider it a peace offering or something’ At last he could see that Creps had something in his hands. A paper takeout container, holding something that smelled — he sniffed inconspicuously — hot, and fatty, and comforting. It seemed to awaken stomach pangs and dizziness in Tibi that he’d been in blissful ignorance of. It reminded him of the Cravings, and how he had to catch his supplier soon if he wanted a fix. Creps held the container out to him. Tibi sneered. ‘Who do you think you are?’ And he turned back to his booth, packing it away. Not long after, he heard Crep’s distinctive footsteps fading into nothingness. Tibi dragged the booth back to his ‘stage closet’. He needed to go find his dealer. He needed a fix, he had the money now. The hunger would have to wait, he could sleep that off. Perhaps he could weasel a free meal out of some tourist later. As he turned, Tibi noticed the distinct shape of the takeaway container in the middle of the walkway, along with some plastic cutlery and a napkin. Creps was long gone, nowhere to be seen. It pained him, it wounded him, but Tibi picked it up, and he tucked it under one arm, before quickly making off to St. Peter’s Street to meet his saving grace. He emerged ten minutes later, with a significantly lighter pocket and a new bag of Serenity. He squeezed it in his furred hands, all the way out of town, to his sleeping spot in the heath outside Pond Farm. And then at last, knowing he would be undisturbed, he settled down for the night. The food was good and hearty, and would keep him satiated for a whole day. He licked every single morsel of sauce out of it, and figured the carton would make a good donation pot — until he thought about where it came from, and chucked it into a bush. First favorite part he saved for last. He poured the contents of the small bag under his tongue with fervor, and sighed with relief as he swirled it around and it began to kick in. Oh, the sheer relief. To feel nothing but contentment, life’s greatest pleasure. Tibi was alright now, he was clear-headed. He would get a good night’s rest, and be perfectly rejuvinated. And then, tomorrow, when he was still in good shape, then, he would perform the greatest show of his life. Yes, then. How silly, to think the Fatcat and the Beggar was his best work. Ha! No, definitely not. Tomorrow, he would show the world who Tibi the Showman was. Tomorrow. And he drifted off into dreams of riches and fame.