Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 3: Part 3

When Dandelion and I went back inside, we found Tucker and Cordon sitting on opposite sides of the living room couch. She had her iPad out, and was busy reading aloud to him the latest Internet articles on the topics of the day—the words, the opinions, the comments.

Oh, God, the comments!

We sat down and listened to Cordon read a Salon column calling for an end to the baby carrot holocaust. It seemed reasonably argued—and gave voice to the voiceless carrot parents who can't stand up the senseless reaping of generations of their children. But Cordon read a Slate column next, in which the author took the position that we should stop eating carrots altogether, regardless of their age. Not to be outdone, the Huffington Post ran a slideshow titled "The Vegetable Genocide You HAVE to SEE! (PHOTOS)." Dandelion began bawling uncontrollably after flicking through the HuffPo photos—whether she was paralyzed with fear or happiness, I've no idea. 

I took her breakdown as an opportunity to glance at the time on my phone. Already past ten. I stood and excused myself for the evening.

"Leaving so early?" Tucker asked.

"But come," Cordon said. "We just passed the longest day of the year last week."

"It's been dark for hours," I pointed out. "I think the whole point of the long days is to take advantage of the daylight for as long as possible."

Dandelion perked up. "How many hours are in a day, Tucker? Twenty? Thirty?"

"I'm sure Dick knows. He's smart about these things."

"Well, I'm not a scientific man," I said. "If I had to guess, I'd say there's twenty-four hours in a day."

"And how many in a night?" Dandelion asked.

Cordon set her iPad down. "Does it matter? The night is young!"

"The night is young, but I am not," I said. I looked twenty-two, and was beginning to feel it as well. I had a decent buzz, but knew the longer I stayed the more I would drink. Skipping morning classes in college was tolerated and even expected; calling in with the brown bottle flu to work was frowned upon.

I returned to the Jersey Shore and sat on my backdoor steps, marveling at the unending party on the beach just steps away. I closed my eyes and listened to the cracking of beer can tabs and crackling of bonfires, the rhythms emanating from the clubs, the mating calls of guidos and guidettes echoing through the streets.

I opened my eyes and took in the sights of the tanned, liminal bodies writhing and fist-pumping on the beach. The silhouette of a solitary figure crisply dressed in a three-piece suit caught my eye. The man stood at the end of a long dock, his right arm outstretched in the direction of New York City, groping at it as if it were a gigantic bosom on the horizon. I couldn't see anything in the distance besides a bright red light that danced and disappeared at odd fits.

After a spell, he strolled back down the dock toward the mansion where the sickest parties occurred every Friday and Saturday night. The moon didn't cast enough light onto him for me to make out his face...but just as he disappeared through the immense iron gate that separated his courtyard from the beach, I distinctly saw the flash of a tail.