The Last First Time

By Mary Rogers

Romance writer Winnie Galley doesn't know that her really bad morning is about to lead her to the time-traveler of her dreams.  Sherman Bedford's been searching for her life after life, trying to right his fatal screwup of 1817.  He's hunted her through the aftermath of the Civil War and the wilds of Woodstock.  So has her best friend with potential, reporter Will Carson, more determined than ever to win her heart this time.  Can Sherman make a success of 2017, or will Winnie doom him to try yet again for the last first time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Rogers
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201751500

Book preview

Chapter One

Sherman

Once more into the breach.

The breach was exhausting.

Sherman was here and now, but when is now? It wasn’t quite the crazy question it seemed, although it had taken him a few ‘nows’ to figure it out. He—Sherman Bedford, born in New York in 1789, was alive over and over again—always the same, always the age he was when he was first thrust into the void he had come to call The Nothing. That is what it was. He had no memories of anything in these prolonged periods and only remembered his first and original life, and the ‘nows’ that came after it.

The only constant was that she was here, giving him another chance. I will find you, he said out loud to himself, mostly to see if he could hear his own voice. I am here. You are here, and I will find you.

Yes, Sir. I am here. You have found me.

The issuer of the statement was Thomas. The only constants were the business, the house, her, and Thomas. He never really knew what would happen when he first became aware, so he tended to move gingerly. Last time he was back, they would have called it ‘Trippy, man!" Who knows what they would call it today, if he even knew when today was. This time, when Thomas answered he jerked his head around. I guess nothing happens. Hmmm. Good to know.

I see. How are you, Thomas?

Very well, sir. Will you be wanting your meal, soon?

He was hungry. How did he always come at just the right time, and how did he always know he was hungry? Yes, Thomas, I will.

After a moment, he spoke to himself, to her, to who or whatever was in control of this. Here we are again.

Yes, sir. Here we are again. He looked at Sherman expectantly. When Sherman said nothing, he continued, I’ll see to your meal now. He headed downstairs.

Sherman had to remember that butlers were trained to be unobtrusive. Quiet. Stealthy. All good qualities, of course, unless you’re just back from whatever void he was in. Stop talking to yourself, Sherman. No one answered. Good.

He turned his head to the dressing room he was seated in. He saw that the clothes were all different, thank God for that. Last time, he could not believe the clothes in his closet. While these were still going to be different, the colors did not look shocking.

Each time he was back—he was back to win her. Each time he was back, he failed. He figured he returned until he got it right. Just how long would he have to get it right, and what would happen if he finally failed for good?

Unaware what Thomas did or did not know, this much was certain: he was always there when Sherman ‘awoke,’ he would never seem surprised, and behaved as if he had just seen him instead of his having been conjured up as he had been (had he been?). He never implicitly said that he was aware of the circumstances of his situation, but it finally seemed to Sherman that asking Thomas might just get that question answered. Why had he never done so? He should do it today.

As Thomas appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches, Sherman decided to take the gamble.

Thomas, he said.

Sir?

We need to talk about this situation, Thomas. We need to stop pretending that this is not happening, or that this is normal. We need to stop acting like you are bringing me dinner after just seeing me at lunch.

Thomas went about his work. He finished with the tray and replied. Lunch, sir.

Pardon me?

Lunch, sir. It is lunchtime. It is your lunch, and the last meal I served you was breakfast. He moved to Sherman’s side to pour the tea.

I see. Sherman didn’t know what he could expect from this exchange that was different, but he had hoped that Thomas would be the key to this time being the last time. His hope was dashed almost before it had fully formed. Ah, well.

Thomas poured the tea. I last saw you when I served you your breakfast.

It seemed the cup would never fill. Sherman nodded. Of course.

Thomas finished pouring and looked at Sherman. I last served you breakfast forty-seven years ago. He smiled. Welcome back, Mr. Bedford. We have our work cut out for us.

Wide-eyed, he could only stare. Was that an acknowledgment that he, Sherman Bedford, was indeed some form of time traveler? That he was here before, and was here over and over again, over the course of hundreds of years? He could not help it. When he looked up, he was seized by the most uncomfortable feeling that he might weep. Thomas seemed to understand and put a comforting hand to his shoulder.

It’s all right, Sir. We shall endeavor to get you up to speed. Much has changed, sir. Much has changed.

Indeed, Thomas. I cannot imagine. He took a moment to collect himself. "I have given that up because I never could have imagined the things that have come to pass."

Yes, Sir. Time waits for no man.

Or does it, Thomas?

No. It does not. He set out some silver. Some men, however, can outwait time.

Sherman smiled.

When you are finished with your lunch, we shall begin our preparations. It is 2019, sir. Again, so much has changed.

All I can say is thank God those changes did not include you, Thomas.

Indeed, sir. He moved to the side of the room and held up a small black plastic item with many buttons on it. Pointing it at the large flat black box thing on the wall, he pushed down his finger on a button and turned the box to life. It was a television.

Remarkable!

Yes, sir. I will leave this on for you to check the news of the day. This is a channel called CNN. Cable News Network, I believe. You will need to watch this a fair bit.

What channel is it?

On our service it is channel fifty-seven.

There are fifty-seven channels? Good Lord, what is on all of them?

There are over a thousand channels, but we only get about one hundred. Then there are the music channels.

Who could possibly watch so many channels? You watch music? Concerts? Performances?

Some. Mostly it is hearing it with pictures or information about the performer or the piece.

I have much to learn.

Yes sir, Thomas replied, but I have faith that you will get it all in hand shortly.

Thomas, Sherman said, Bronwyn?

"In good time, sir. As we are now in accord on how this works, you know she will be here. It is up to us to bring her here" he replied as he indicated the immediate surroundings with a sweep of his hand.

Would it be impertinent to say I live for this?

Thomas smiled. No sir. Just accurate. I will come back later, and we will begin.

With that he left the room, and Sherman had a new appetite, and a new attitude. He would get the chance again. He would meet her again, and he would win her. He would make this the last first time.

Chapter Two

Winnie

I t’s Sunday, Darcy . Have some pride and stop begging. Instead, her cat acted with prejudice, and Winnie figured sleep was like Elvis. It had left the building. Mr. Darcy could always be counted upon to be the first one awake due to his ravenous hunger. And because of this hunger he felt it incumbent upon himself to make Winnie Galley join the land of the cognizant as soon as he did. Purring while covering up the usual suspects for respiration—her nose and mouth—it was get up and feed him or never breathe again. Winnie made the choice to live.

Padding over to the kitchen to make tea, she turned on her computer to see what was going on. One e-mail stuck out.

Call me when you get this, re: 30-day notice. Signed, R. Dennis – Owner

It gave a phone number. She was prepared for this, but it was different to know it was coming than it actually being here. Putting his kibble in his china bowl—a cat named Mr. Darcy deserved Royal Doulton—she began her day. This horrible wretched day.

"Kale, Darcy! I blame it all on kale! Mr. Darcy looked up at her but didn’t seem to care. You’ll care when I have to move you again, just wait." He kept that serene and all-knowing face turned her way, but she could tell it was only to make her feel better. He turned back to his food.

It was Sunday morning for heaven’s sake, and only 8:00 am. Darcy, he said to call when I got this. She checked. It was sent eighteen minutes ago. We have to give the landlord thirty-days-notice whether we are going to stay in this apartment or find another, which we will have to do.

Darcy didn’t look concerned.

She began dialing the number on the e-mail and thinking she must be getting old; this year went faster than she remembered. It felt like she had just finished moving in, but it was eleven months later. She could stay, but the apartment wasn’t rent controlled, he had jacked the rent way up. NOLITA was very desirable. Someone would want it and be happy to pay. This meant showings, and her having to keep the place super clean, and be available to be here when they showed it to people who could afford the extra that she could not. What does it mean, Darcy, that moving day is always April first? Maybe a fifteen-month lease next time? The phone connected.

Richard Dennis.

Brusque. Hello, Mr. Dennis, this is—

Yeah, I have the ID, kiddo. So, I see you got the e-mail. Great. You know, I’m downstairs, I could come up.

He didn’t waste time. Um, can you give me fifteen minutes or so? I need to shower quickly and get dressed.

Sure, sure. I’m down here with the Bensons. Just text and I’ll come up.

Okay. See you then. She headed for the shower, mentally taking a quick look around for what she needed to clean.

She was ready in twenty minutes. She texted, and the knock came about five seconds later. What? Was he waiting at the door? Sheesh. She opened it. Mr. Dennis, come in.

You know about this next year’s rent, right?

No small talk, no ‘How are you.’ Yes. I wanted to talk to you about that.

I really can’t talk, kiddo. I have five tenants reporting they’re moving out, six if you’re in that number. I have over ten people who responded to the ad, so I need to get this going.

She was stunned he didn’t seem to care a bit even if it was only for show, but not really surprised. You put an ad in already? She shook her head. I wanted to ask you if you can maybe lower that increase to one fifty? It will hurt, but I can do it. I can’t see how I can do two hundred.

Yeah, that’s real estate in New York, kiddo. I figured that for you, young, single, artist—

Writer. I’m a writer.

Sure, sure. Creative type. Income not too steady, right? I wish you good luck, but I’d like to start showing this next week, as per our lease agreement. Want to sign here?

She considered trying again, but he was rocking back and forth. He looked like he had plenty of things to do and was late for every one of them. Instantly, she knew it would do no good. In shock, she leaned over and took a calming breath. She signed. She didn’t think the pen was back in its cap before he hit the door.

Good luck, kiddo. He stopped and looked around. DUMBO is super-hot right now, not far away, easy access to town. You might like it there. I have a building, it’s got a lot of people want to see it, but you’ve been a good tenant, he looked some more, kept the place up. I can even slide the security deposit over, maybe give you a hand with moving. My brother-in-law has a truck. Give him a fiver and he’s good.

Fifty dollars?

Cute. Five hundred, kiddo. Let me know. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be full by next weekend. He said this over his shoulder just before the door closed. It was shut before she could have answered anyway.

By 8:30 it was done. She locked up behind him and sat down. Her life just took a major detour in less than an hour.

She was here before NOLITA was NOLITA. Back then it was just north of Little Italy, not the vaunted NOrth of LIttle ITAly that it is today. Now those six simple letters of the alphabet had the power to make the financially well-off New York renters and buyers swoon, and wanna-be renters and buyers despondent. She had been here since she was a teenager, but now it was full of young Hollywood, older celebrities, new money, and a handful of people like her - born or raised but not able to pay thirty-five hundred a month for a minuscule one bedroom of indeterminate repair. Not if she wanted to eat. Prince Street is certainly priced for one, Darcy. He appeared unmoved by this information.

She made a decision to use the dreaded kale as a bellwether for her next place. "We will call it ‘The Kale Scale’, Darcy. Whenever a place is getting trendy, you could spot it with the amount of kale in the markets, on the menus, in the smoothies. The more the kale, the hipper it is, and the hipster crowd is like the plague of locusts in Egypt were. Like the Kardashians. Darcy seemed interested when she said that name. Ugh. Even you like them, Darcy?" She shook her head. Kale was like the Kardashians. It has bad taste, gets all over things and places it doesn’t belong, and you can’t get away from it no matter how you try.

She had noticed a severe upturn in the amount of Pug dogs and French Bulldogs around the neighborhood walked by people wearing fedoras. That, too, was a warning. Then came the cats-eye sunglasses, the multi-colored hair, the lumber-sexual look – a general tendency to dress like you lived in the Pacific Northwest when you were, in fact, in the center of Manhattan. It’s probably the bleed-off from Brooklyn, Darcy. Like feather and arrow tattoos.

She gave Darcy one last pet and picked up the paper. Checking the obituaries for someone who died in a good neighborhood, she found nothing. We’ll have to go the hard way, paying a real estate rental company. It was an ugly fact of New York living: if nobody died in or moved away from a good neighborhood, you were stuck paying a rental fee. I’m barely ahead, Darcy. He soldiered on with his eating. Sure, she could get something for less, but she might have cockroaches you could put a saddle on.

To supplement her income, she took side jobs; editing, articles, the odd pamphlet or brochure work. It kept the wolf from the door and allowed her to bank a little, too. Maybe one day own a place of her own. Briefly she thought of New Jersey, and shuddered, imagining it would be a little like death. Death without good pizza. Perhaps this lack of her favorite basic food was what made it so affordable.

Maybe Brooklyn? Was DUMBO the answer? Great pizza, but would it signal her giving up? No. Brooklyn is awesome, but this is home. It was Manhattan or bust, but why did that feel so literal?

8:40 am. She made herself another cup of tea, sat down again with The Times in her lap, and waited for Mr. Darcy. Darcy never disappointed, and he sat right on her lap across the paper she needed and began to purr. Considering 9:00 am the earliest decent hour to begin calls on a Sunday morning, she had time for her tea, for Mr. Darcy, and to consider what was next. Only one way to find out, right Darcy? He didn’t answer her, but he never did. He stopped his grooming to glance at her with his enigmatic gaze. If only you could talk. You always look like you have the answers. Winnie thought more on that. Or a hairball.

Moving on to the situations and help wanted, she almost passed one by, but her eyes came back and she read it more fully. She passed it again, but was unavoidably drawn back to it. The strangest feeling came over her, like she had to call - compelled to check it out. She didn’t think too much of it because she had always had feelings here and there about things, and she was usually right. While not everything could be checked, as far as she knew she had never been wrong.

It didn’t matter. In just a few minutes she’d call and have her answers herself. Darcy stared some more, then began his grooming again, and she waited with a growing sense of anticipation. "Remember, No Kale, Darcy. AND NO KARDASHIANS!

Chapter Three

Sherman

Y our tea, Mr. Bedford . Your breakfast will be ready as usual. Will there be anything else for now?

Not just yet. Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be waiting for answers to our advertisement, perhaps you would check on me later.

As you wish, Mr. Bedford. Thomas gave that half-bow and left. Now he would wait.

Staring at his telephone would not make it ring, but he did it anyway. Telephones. The world was so advanced. What would be next? Flying cars? Speaking by thoughts?

At his own thought, he turned around and away from the family portrait gallery on the study wall. He might be crazy but speaking by thoughts had already been done. In fact, he thought, it would soon begin again. It always did.

In this instance, his phone-staring was rewarded with a ring. Knowing that this was the way it was done now, he started to pick up. He turned back to face the gallery almost as a dare, but they all looked the same. More confident, he turned around again so that he wouldn’t be able to see them as he spoke.

"Young man..."

Did you call him young? He is over two hundred years old! Humpfff...

"He is only twenty-eight... plus." This started a tittering from behind him.

He answered just before the fourth ring ended, where it would be transferred to some unseen recorder. Good morning.

He turned back toward the gallery. It seemed they would have their way if he faced them or not.

"That is the way! Respect your elders!"

Sherman could not help it. He rolled his eyes.

Did you see his eyes? Humpfff! Perhaps he needs the alienist and the ophthalmologist! Someone else snickered again. Yes. He was indeed crazy. Going there, or already arrived, but then, this entire affair was crazy.

They are called psychiatrists now. Aliens are from another planet.

He put them and their jokes out of his mind. This could be the time he would make things right; or it could be any call. He kept hope though. One thing he could count on was that they would meet again. That was how it had always worked, why would this time be different? Because you need it to be. How many chances will you get?

Hello?

Good Lord, someone was speaking.

Hello? the woman enquired again.

Good morning. May I help you? Much better.

Waiting that brief second for the person to speak, a fraction of a moment even, he felt a frisson of electricity. The hairs on the back of his neck raised slightly, he understood that something out of the ordinary was happening. He hoped. He thought he had given it up, but he prayed. Please. Let this be her. For years of experience, hope, faith, and loss, he prayed. You could call it practice, but he knew it as penance.

Hello. I’m calling about your ad in the paper. It says you’re looking to share a home here in the city in exchange for some writing for a personal project, a memoir and history of sorts? Will you tell me something about what you’re looking for, and what you need?

Right to the point. Not as gentle a greeting as he was used to, but time, if not him, marched on. He could taste the anticipation when she spoke. This woman was connected, if not her, she was close. This call would get him to her.

Hello? she asked again. She must think he was crazy. Well, that was a fluid distinction.

I am here. I did put the advertisement in the papers. I do have an opportunity for someone to share this home in exchange for the writing project that I have in mind. I am sure you have many questions, so let me tell you a little about this situation, and then you can decide if this is something you are interested in. If so, we may pursue a dialogue on the matter. Do you care to hear the details?

All right. That will be good, thank you.

Sherman felt that little churning in his stomach. He was excited now, although he worked to keep that out of his voice. If this was the one, his one, he needed to take it slowly.

This is a private home. It was built for my family in 1801. The home is free standing, a corner on the park. The property is large, and private. You would have use of it, along with the galleries on the first, second and third floors. Pausing before he went on, he gathered courage.

Despite sharing this house with me, it is quite large, with many common rooms that mean you can choose to have privacy without being shut in your rooms.

Rooms, she said.

There are two rooms that would constitute your private quarters, along with your bath.

Two she said. Or is that three? My specific areas would be two rooms. These rooms are mine, and not part of the common areas of the home? she repeated. This was something he remembered, if indeed it was her. She was the qualification type. His heartbeat quickened.

That is correct, unless you count the bath and dressing room adjacent to your actual bed chamber. The other is your sitting room. The common rooms include the chef’s kitchen, the dining room, the library, the music room, the parlor, the—

I would have a bed chamber, a sitting room, as well as a dressing room as my own rooms. You said dressing room, is that right?

Yes.

I see. The parlor. she said, The music room. These are common rooms? He heard a faint note of humor in her voice. Is there a conservatory?

Pardon me? he asked. A conservatory? Well, not a conservatory as much as a second parlor, but in the past, it was a retiring room for the ladies for after meals, and the gentlemen would retire to the south parlor.

Three parlors. Good. Is there a ballroom, perchance?

Now he distinctly heard the humor in her voice. Her voice sounded so much like his Bronwyn, only this woman was distinctly making fun of him. Him - or his house. Either way, she was enjoying this, he could tell. Yes. There is. It has not been used as such for a very long time, but yes – there is a ballroom.

Oh, my.

That was all she said. ‘Oh, my.’ What was he to make of this? Is there something wrong?

Not if I was Miss Scarlet and this was Clue, there isn’t.

He remained confused. Ah, Miss? I am afraid I do not understand. Clue? May I ask what I have confused you with?

With that she let out a snort. I’m sorry. I’m... sorry. I just thought that this was beginning to sound like the board game, you know? Clue? Where Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlett, Professor Plum, all the characters go from room to room, to identify the killer? What the killer used? In what room? Like – I suspect Mrs. Peacock, in the Hall, with the candlestick, remember?

Absolutely not remembering and catching on that this is one of those things he should know – a cultural reference, he covered. Ah, well, we did not play that particular board game, I am afraid. It sounds like fun, though. Did it? Why would you want to track down a murderer in someone’s home? As a game, no less?

I am trying to remember if there was a gallery in Clue. Was there? Oh, you didn’t play that. I don’t think so, but I’m going to play that again really soon, it was fun! Why don’t you use contractions?

Now utterly off kilter, Sherman was silent for a moment before repeating dumbly, Contractions?

Yes, contractions, she went on, like you’re for you are, and it’s for it is. Your speech is so formal. Are you from here? Maybe not New York, but are you from America? I can’t quite place your accent, but it’s American - but not. It’s definitely not New York. Maybe you went to school in England?

What had this to do with a house? No, I am from New York. That is, I’m from New York. I was born and raised here and attended school here. Over two hundred years ago.

I’m sorry, I couldn’t help asking. I write books about the Empire period in New York. Maybe an Edith Wharton type thing you would recognize? Either way, I try to write my characters to sound like you sound; only I have to work at it. Here you are, talking like I work to write. Funny. Your house. Is it a brownstone?"

She changed topics like the wind changed directions. A lot. Yes, it is.

An original New York brownstone, wow! I usually have to get invites to my friends’ houses who rent in one, and then I only see their apartment section of it.

He had to work on contractions, and home jargon, but it did not escape him that she wrote about the time that he and (if it was her) she lived in. Yes, well, we were educated by many professors from England. Perhaps my speech reflects that, and perhaps I refer to common rooms as they would have. At least that was true.

What is a gallery?

I am... he paused, I’m sorry, a gallery?

Yes. A gallery. In your home. What is the gallery in your home?

Ah. This one he knew. Actually – it is outside the home. A porch. You call it a porch nowadays. Feeling culturally proficient he added, A stoop. You may call it a stoop."

I never heard a porch called a gallery in New York, that seems southern.

He was about to answer as she went on.  

...but I’m perverse enough to want to know, what period of time do you think this will be for, and what exactly are you needing done? Are you looking to just have an organizer, or a ghostwriter, or do you have the bones of your work done, and just need a good editor/clean-up person?

Here was the sticky part. Please do not hang up... How was he to make it accessible while not scaring her off? If this was her, if this was indeed his Bronwyn, she was sharp. He needed to keep her on this telephone and interested in talking. I haven’t finished. There are some points which would make your living situation free. Your services would be less writing and more...

Excuse me?

What did he do wrong? I mean I need more than writing services from you. I need...

Wait just a minute. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but there is no bartering here for my ‘services’. Your ad explicitly says that you’re working on a history and memoir, and that you need a ‘creative type’ - your words – to help you to organize and to make it come to life. I don’t know what your version of ‘creative type’ is, but only my professional – and by professional – I mean my writerly skills, are for sale, and if you think...

Miss, I do not mean to ask anything untoward of you, and if you’ll just hear me out, I will explain. Will you please take a moment to listen to me about what I am looking for? He heard an intake of breath, signaling either a new bout of indignation, or a decision to stay talking or hanging up. He waited. She said nothing. That was a good sign. She was someone who wasn’t intimidated by silence; feeling the need to fill the open air with speech was not acceptable.

Go ahead, please, Mr... Um... I don’t believe I ever got your name.

Amazed at the feeling of relief flooding his veins, he spoke. Bedford. Sherman Bedford.

Sherman Bedford, I recognize that name, where would I recognize your name?

With that he knew. When she said his name, he felt it. His name on her tongue, like syrup it flowed, like starlight it lit the air around him. It was magic to hear. It filled his ears then his entire being with a sweetness and a longing he would have loathed to admit long ago. Anyone else could say it, but only she evoked that response. You would recognize it because we are each other’s history. Another chance to make it right had been accorded to him, either by God or whatever misery-maker was in charge, but he meant to get it right.

Are you someone who is famous here for something? Are you an artist? A writer? An actor? Are you in government? Have a recent scandal brewing?

My family has been here since the Colonial Days, and there are some areas in New York history that we have dabbled in. You may have heard of the family.

Bedford, New York? Up in Westchester? she asked. Are you from that Bedford family? Bedford Industries?

Yes.

Oh, my goodness! I was born there!

Sherman knew when life was giving him another chance. He would take it, and he would use it. He would make this right. May I continue?

Okay. I assume that if something were majorly wrong with you, I’d have heard about it somewhere. I’m going to check, by the way. Either way, please go on.

Relieved, Sherman fought to remain calm. I would be asking nothing but your professional services to help me get my work completed, and while it will be like a memoir, it’s more the role of my family business in the founding of the country, and their place in history. I would ask that you help in the role of the Bedford family from the start of the nation to the current time, with less emphasis on the current time. It had taken a bit to figure that one out, and he hoped that it would intrigue her. Nothing in the way of remuneration from you for the home. It would be for a period of one year, I suspect, or that is what I believe that I need to get this project off the ground, around work and other obligations. It could go longer, but I will commit to you for that period, and I hope you would stay if it is not completed in that time. I suspect that you will be able to work on your other projects as well. That will probably be good for your other projects. If that is not good enough, I will add a stipend for you.

You would add a stipend? A salary?

Yes. For that you will be helping me do my writing and have the use of the house. It would effectively be your home. The staff would be at your disposal, which they might actually appreciate as I am their only charge. You would have Cook, Emma, who runs the house, and Paul, who is my driver. He can take you where you need to go when I am not using him. Thomas, my man, would be happy to be of service to someone other than me. Does this sound amenable?

My ‘man’? what does that mean, ‘your man’?

I think long ago, he would have been a butler.

You have a butler?

He runs my home, my staff, and in a small way, Thomas runs me as well.

So he’s Mr. Carson on Downton. Got it. I’m sorry, did you say where you’re located?

Who is Mr. Carson-on-Downton? He sounds more like a village in England. You will have a key to the park, and...

Gramercy Park? Holy Maloney! Gramercy Park? I’d have a key to Gramercy Park? That’s like, the last private park in the city. You can’t rent a refrigerator box in Manhattan for less than a grand a month, and if what was in that box had an ice maker and French doors, it’s a minimum of two.

I do not...

I have a cat. And I can’t drive.