Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 4: Part 1

Tucker texted me the next day. He wanted to take me to lunch, to make up for practically shoving his junk in my face the previous night. I glanced at the manuscript on my computer. I was in the middle of a hundred-thousand-word novel about Edward Cullen as a chef, a common trope in the fanfic world known as "Chefward."

It was my third Chefward of the week.

"Meet you at noon," I texted back.

We met in the Fandom House lobby and he greeted me with another of his stiff bearhugs. "Sorry about last night."

I tried to tell him it was okay, that I'd enjoyed the chopped salad, but he would hear none of it.

"Dandelion was a drunk mess," he said. "I lost my temper. It's just...it's just the damn kids. Nobody ever told me that being a parent would be so stressful."

I nodded. I couldn't even begin to imagine the responsibility of having kids at our age, even if you never saw them. "Where do you want to eat? There's a Chipotle just around the corner. Of course, since it's lunchtime, it will be packed."

He shook his head. "Chipotle, Dick? What are we, still in college? This is New York. We're going to Shake Shack out in Brooklyn."

"I think there's a Shake Shack a few blocks away, over on—"

"The one in Brooklyn is better," he snapped, cutting me off.

"I don't know. That sounds pretty far..."

"Nonsense," he said. "If I don't have you back in an hour, you can kick me in my baby-maker."

I didn't entirely trust him, but he knew the city better than I. We descended into the nearest subway station and caught a train to Penn Station, where we transferred to the L. I glanced nervously at the time on my cell phone. Twenty-five minutes had already passed since leaving Fandom House.

"Put that thing away," Tucker said. "Enjoy the ride."

I stashed my phone and leaned back in the hard plastic seat. The train was deserted except for a few poor, homeless souls. Above the gray walls and spasms of bleak humanity hung a colorful ad featuring a middle-aged man in a white lab coat.

"Having clear, beautiful skin has never been easier," the man—a certain "Dr. Zeckleburg M.D."—proclaimed. "Only takes a few minutes to apply. Approved!" Dr. Zeckleburg's drooping, darkened eyes peered down on me from the faded advertisement, brooding over the solemn dumping ground that was the New York City subway system. I looked sideways at an elderly woman several seats over. Her eyes were closed. I wondered if she was asleep or dead. New York was indeed a very different place than back home.

I ran my fingers over my own cheeks, which broke out occasionally. Did I need "tighter, firmer, younger looking skin" badly enough to undergo a "non-surgical THERMAGE procedure"?

Tucker jumped up as the train screeched to a halt. "This is our stop."

He was out the door before I could question him. I looked out the window at the station name. Bedford Avenue. I bolted after Tucker and caught up to him sprinting up the stairs. We emerged from the subway. We were in Brooklyn, but this wasn't his posh Park Slope neighborhood. There were too many flannel shirts, too many beards, too many vinyl shops.

"Where are we?" I asked as we passed an artisanal pencil-sharpener.

"Williamsburg," Tucker said.