Cover

Acclaim for Matthew Klam’s

SAM THE CAT
AND OTHER STORIES

A Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize
An Esquire Best Book of the Year
A New York Times Notable Book
A Kansas City Star Book of the Year

“Like the stories of Salinger and Cheever, these will doubtlessly be remembered as a chronicle of their time, place and class. Few short story writers are funnier than Klam. Few are so horribly true.”

—Esquire

“The first piece of Matthew Klam’s fiction I ever read was so good I almost passed out…. I can only compare Matthew’s writing to long letters from male best friends— the kind replete with matter-of-fact, naked, sometimes vulgar details about life, love, and women.”

—Claudine Ko, Jane Magazine

“[A] smart, absorbing collection.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“A good writer creates characters whose motives and emotions reflect our own dark secrets. A great writer makes us wonder about our life choices; we squirm as if our own lives were the subject of the book…. [Klam] has an uncanny knack for crystallizing the truth about relationships.”

—USA Today

“Entertaining and skillfully constructed.”

—The Washington Post

“Klam’s stories are so witty, assured, and damned entertaining…. Klam nails what it means to be a heterosexual man in America today.”

—The Austin Chronicle

“Some silliness is necessary just to get through the hard knocks of life. Klam’s writing is fresh. He uses foul language, takes chances and gets into the dirty corners most of us would rather hide with a rug. Sam the Cat is his first book. It will earn him fans waiting for more.”

—The Seattle Times

“Unnervingly dead-on.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Funny, surprising and often fearless, these stories mark a strong debut, and promise better things ahead.”

—The San Diego Union-Tribune

“Ruthlessly insightful…. Klam has a major bead on women.”

—Harper’s Bazaar

“The frank sexuality and emotional honesty of these stories originally sparked a debate at The New Yorker about whether they were fit to be published in that august magazine. Luckily for us all, wiser heads prevailed. This collection is a treasure.”

—The Washington Times

About the Author

MATTHEW KLAM

SAM THE CAT
AND OTHER STORIES

Matthew Klam is the author of the acclaimed short story collection Sam the Cat. He is a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, a PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize, a Whiting Award, and a National Endowment for the Arts grant. His writing has been featured in publications including The New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, GQ, The New York Times Magazine, The O. Henry Prize Stories, The Best American Nonrequired Reading, and The Ecco Anthology of Contemporary American Short Fiction.

Title Page

Dedication

THIS BOOK IS FOR LARA COX

SAM THE CAT

WHAT YOU REMEMBER about an old girlfriend is perfect. Even the horrible parts are fine. Especially when you don’t have anything else going, the memories of her are lethal. In my office I have an ad from a magazine hanging above the desk. It’s of an old girlfriend who is a model, and I’ve been thinking about her for days. It has been a long time since our paths have crossed, and for that I humbly thank God. But I think if I had her here right now I’d marry her.

All of my girlfriends wore their hair the same way—long and straight, with bangs in the front. They all liked sex, they were all good-looking, they liked the same kind of music I listen to—Rolling Stones, Little Feat, the Who. They all kept up with me, drinkingwise. They all had their own cars.

What was wrong with any of them? Paula was small and dark and depressed and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Sarah was a ski instructor, too full of herself; she pissed in the bed when she drank. Irene had a knowledge of the New Age and did aura paintings and collected herb-tea boxes. Holly’s eyes crossed when she got tired. She was chunky and slept twelve hours a night. Boots had an interest in anal sex but acted lazy and as unimportant as a secretary. I went out with a Japanese girl, Makiko, who threatened to break up with me if I didn’t carry a clothes dryer up four flights of stairs to her apartment. And I dated a fashion model named Ann—the one in the picture—who was actually bald because of a rare disease. Was I asking too much? I wanted real love. Where was that loyalty and trust? Where were the laughs? Under a rock? Inside a chocolate-chip cookie?

I wanted real love. Not a replay, not the same thing over and over again, not the same dinners, that same let’s rent a video tonight. I wanted love and everything—cut flowers, her wearing a beautiful dress, lingerie, seeing an incredible band, blow jobs in a convertible. Going to Africa for Christmas—you know, the finest champagne, meeting movie stars together, amazing parties with a see-through dance floor. How many times do I have to hear myself explain this?

In the picture above my desk Annie is modeling a leather motorcycle coat without her wig, totally bald. The weird thing is that we went out for almost a year and I never saw her without the wig until I opened the magazine. One time she asked if I wanted to see her with it off, and I said no. See, because her wig was what first attracted me to her. She looked so incredibly hot, dancing in a tank top with this gorgeous long black hair, and what a nasty little surprise when I find out it’s somebody else’s hair.

I get this feeling looking at the picture of Annie—a warm, sour sensation under my sternum. I know what that feeling is: that I did something wrong, and the reminder of guilt is deep and uncomfortable, but it’s more than that. Because when I look at her eyes, staring off the page and looking at me but not seeing, I almost want her back. It’s not a joke. I’d do anything to get her back. If she called me on the phone right now, I’d drop to my knees and I’d cry.

“Sam,” she’d say, “would you be my boy?”

She’s just starting to smile in the picture—that amazing wide mouth of hers sliding open, her eyes pointed down like she has a secret. I need her to want me again. Then, once she says I can come over, and later looks up from down there with those big brown eyes that drink you in, I’ll want to get out. And I won’t want to see her or talk to her or listen to her voice on the phone.

What is that, Sam I am? I ask you: Is it love? Because if it is love, the world needs a little bit less of it.

You know what? I fucked her. She’s done, she’s dead now, so fly away. I did Ann and her sister and their fat friend. Ann went to Germany on an important assignment. She wrote me postcards from the Hofbräuhaus. I called her friend up on the telephone, we ate moo-shu pork and drank and had sex with my pants pulled down on the lawn beside my car.

Hairless and tan, rich and slutty—for all her unique traits, Ann does not hold a candle to Louise, my most recent girlfriend, the only person in my life I’ve ever truly loved. Louise seemed to really know me and, despite that, wanted to be with me. But she is party to the situation I am currently avoiding, and so I make do with the perfection of memories. I know what’s going on—it’s all a big cycle. I’ve had a girlfriend since I was in second grade, and I’ll probably have one until I croak. The problem is, despite my current confusion, which I’m coming to, I love, love women. I like to see them bark for me. That’s a joke. I love having a girlfriend. All they ask for is a normal degree of fidelity, and then they’ll let you do whatever you want to them. Anything. You can have them bent sweetly over the back of the sofa with their gorgeous ass in the air and they won’t say a thing, because the truth is everybody digs it and just needs the excuse of love. I get myself into all kinds of trouble, all that rubbing in the dark. Rubbing and rubbing in all those beds next door to a church or over a health-food store or in the back of her mother’s house. I bet if you put them end to end, I’ve rubbed my hand across bare stomachs from here to Estonia and back. They give the word and it’s a free-for-all. If I were a girl I’d fuck ten guys a day. I swear. I’d never want to be a girl, though, for they have the worst deal in history.

You are looking at the original hopeless lover. I love it all, the first few phone calls, her hair in a bandanna, getting drunk together the first time, seeing her teensy underwear. The normal pit in your stomach is replaced by a whirling feeling. Then those beginning-couple weeks together, where you’re sort of thinking about it no matter what else you’re thinking of. There’s no ruminating about what to live for when the alarm goes off before work in the morning. You find a long hair of hers stuck to the sleeve of your suit, and you hold it up to the light. For the next ten minutes you are stoned, picturing last night. You take her to a really fancy restaurant for dinner, you go shopping together, you go on double dates, you decide whose house to sleep at. You call her on the phone and then call back—“One more thing …” One evening after another is righteous. It’s nice. You’re her boyfriend now, nobody else calls. She starts to talk rotten about her old boyfriend. You meet her friends, you meet her family, you say what your kids will look like, you think about marrying her.

I love being in love. I’m so in love, I’m so in love. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m in love with. I’m in love with the love drug.

You walk into a supermarket or a restaurant, your girlfriend goes in first and you’re looking at her ass. And you say to yourself, “Isn’t that the most beautiful ass? That’s mine. It’s beautiful.” Like it’s going to save you. An ass isn’t going to save you. What’s it going to do? Hide you from the police? Call up your boss when you don’t feel well?

•      •      •

MY GIRLFRIEND LOUISE and I went to a party—mostly advertising people I knew through work. It began late and followed a long day where all I wanted was a simple meal in front of the TV. But I knew I’d hate myself if I missed it. Things happen at parties that your friends talk about for weeks, sometimes for years. You can’t miss them. You can’t get in on a great joke after the fact.

The party was held in a refurbished warehouse. There was a band in one corner, guys carrying trays of hot hors d’oeuvres, and a cash bar. They had a hateful mime walking through the crowd. I was mad at myself for going, disappointed at the turnout, and pissed that I’d brought Louise, because she didn’t know anyone. When people asked about work I explained that the Mafia had hired me to do P.R. I acted like a prick to let them know there were better places to be, but at the same time I was forcing out jokes and clever observations because I wanted everyone to like me. That’s why I go to parties. Anyway, people like you better if they think you don’t like them.

Louise and I started bumming cigarettes off people. If they said yes we’d ask for four. And then she waved hello to this girl who was heading up to the bar. I couldn’t see her well because of how dark it was, but she stood over six feet, with silky, jet-black hair just above her shoulders and hanging around her face. She had on blue jeans and a T-shirt, a high, tight athlete’s ass, small knobby shoulders so that she was almost cocky-looking, but very skinny with those sharp hipbones that you can feel right under the bikini. It was too dark to see everything.

I wanted to have a chat with her. “Louisie,” I said, “when you go to the bathroom I need you to check my phone messages.”

“O.K.,” she said, and I handed her some money. She left, I went hustling up to the bar, wangled over to this chick, whipped on my best head fake and grin, and it was a man.

He had some high cheekbones, he wasn’t broad, maybe he could be one of those handsome, pretty male models you see in Calvin Klein ads. I don’t know—I’m not an expert on how guys look. Yes, right, a basically handsome guy. Up close, though, I saw that he needed a shave. He probably had had sexual relations with Louise sometime in the past—that’s why she waved.

He was a skinny dude with long hair, that’s all. Not a woman.

When Louise came back I told her—not that I went running over there but that when I saw him out of the corner of my eye I thought he was a chick. We screamed. I’m such a turkey sometimes I don’t know why the hell girls go out with me. That’s the real mystery.

I am a fantastic lover. I’ve got to give me that. There are only two things about me that females don’t like: the fact that I sing when I drive—admittedly, I’m not a musician—and my skiing. All the girls I know ski moguls well—really solid bump skiers—and I try to turn in the swells and lose my downhill line. I have thick hair, I’ve got a car that stinks from new leather. My skin, my body—that’s all decent. But I get ridiculed on bumps, and the way I sing gets mistaken for a joke or an imitation of someone dippy, when in fact your car is one of the few places besides the bathroom where you can sing the best songs the way they were meant to be sung. They all think my singing is terrible. Screw them. (I did.) You sing in the car because it feels good, you can’t help it, and because you know the fucking words. Everyone I’ve gone out with—it’s like a secret tradition they pass down from one to the next behind my back—laughs, then puts her hands over her ears, and after a while gets huffy or angry when I sing. I confess I’m not a professional, but I’m at least trying. You know, I wish I had some say in what traditions they pass from one girlfriend to the next.

What is it with me, though? I mean, I lie, I fuck whoever will let me, I can never remember the name of her best friend, and I hate to dance. I will, I do often, I volunteer, but it makes me sick, and I end up sweating too much. I come off with my shirt soaking, probably because I’m so out of shape. I attract a crowd of people who can’t believe how bad I am. Like the worse I act, the more they want to be around me.

By the time Louise and I left the party, the liquor had done things. I kept running into the curb on the way out of the parking garage. I went home and shut my eyes and tried to sleep, except there was this guy, the guy who looked like a chick, walking around the party in my mind. I watched him walk up to the bartender, I saw him reach into his front pocket to get money, and I saw how his round butt stuck out a little—somebody stop me—and I was horny, so horny I couldn’t believe it. I kept thinking about it and squeezing my legs together. Just his butt in his jeans. I’m like tingling. I actually wanted to whack off to him. See, in my mind he was sort of a woman, but—What do I want to say here?

I made myself fuck Louise. I didn’t want to—and she was the very picture of unconscious—but I had to. I’m a man. Any man would do the same. The next morning over coffee and cereal, I asked her how she knew this guy, what was his name, where did he work. Now what? Was I all of a sudden gay? I went to sleep one night and woke up a homo?

Put yourself in my place. I had to clear my head. I had to forget. The next weekend I went away on business, and the one after that Louise and I and two other couples borrowed a friend’s cabin for a quick getaway. We drank the liquor, made a pizza with psycho mushrooms, Vicky and Tom’s dog got run over and killed, the waterbed Louise and I slept on somehow got punctured, and the night of the bathing-suit contest Tom left the Jacuzzi on and burned out the motor. The cabin was a short drive from the city, though. Sixty-five or seventy miles north on the interstate.

A few days later we were having drinks at Sid’s Rat, short for Rathskeller, and the guy—his name was John Drake—came in. He was a housepainter. He ran his own company, and he also played in a band a lot. Louise knew him because her old roommate had some connection to the band.

“There’s your friend,” she said, and we both laughed. Louise waved hello and offered him a seat. I shook John’s hand. We talked about the usual bullshit. Louise mentioned his band, and he said something about it going O.K. He seemed like a pretty cool guy, very normal-acting, with pale, light-blue eyes. Maybe he was half South American or something—his skin was a light-caramel color. His face was what you’d call angular, and when he smiled his face changed, since his teeth were perfect and very white. His hair was thick and straight and shiny black. I realized then that I’d seen John around before: he plays hoop at the rec center where I play hockey. Our leagues meet Tuesdays and Thursdays in the rink downstairs. I’ve seen him outside the gym.

John had to leave. We met some people from an ad agency I’d never heard of. They taught us a game called Upchuck, which uses dice and shots of Cuervo. Just as I started to get the hang of it, my leg became tangled in a bar stool and I fell down and chipped my tooth.

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