Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 1: Part 2

We didn't own any pets, but oh how I longed for one! A dog or cat would have introduced a little excitement into our colorless household. 

Alas, it was not meant to be. My mother hated dogs, because one had bitten her face off as a child. Cats were out of the question as well—my father was allergic to them. Every time he saw one, it would cause him to break out into obscenities and kick wildly at the poor creature. I once suggested he see a doctor for an antihistamine, and he started kicking at me. I guess he was allergic to children too.

But back to books. My love affair with the written word continued long past Huck Finn. In high school, I read all the classics: Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catching Fire (Hunger Games Trilogy, Book 2). 

When it came time for college, there was only one school on my short list: the University of Iowa, home to the venerable Writer's Workshop. I didn't want to write at the time, but in my mind the campus was a mecca for book lovers. My parents were understandably wary about sending their only son to a public university, but after I purposefully bombed my SATs—thus ensuring no Ivy League school would touch me with a hazing paddle—they relented.

During my first week on campus, I learned firsthand why Iowa had such a stellar reputation amongst men and women of letters: It was one of the heaviest drinking schools in the country. There was whiskey in the drinking fountains and scotch in the taps.

It should come as no shock to the reader that I fell madly, wildly in love with alcohol. My four years passed by in a blur. The only substantive reading I did during my time in Iowa was of the labels on my beer bottles.

When I moved back home, my parents asked if I had any plans for the rest of my life.

I did not.

They made it clear that a lot had changed in four years. It's like that old saying: You can't go home again, because your parents have become swingers and they've been using your bedroom for their bi-weekly key parties.