Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 1: Part 3

After some Googling, I discovered the only thing my English degree qualified me to do was work in publishing. My parents agreed to finance my East Coast excursion for a year, which I figured would be enough time for me to secure a real job as whatever it is people in publishing do. Based on my willingness to work without pay, one of the big New York publishers—Fandom House—hired me as an intern.

When the big day finally came, I hugged my father at the door. He handed me a rectangular white device about the size of a phone. The screen took up only a third of its face.

"It's a first-generation iPod," my father said. "They don't even make these anymore."

"For good reason," I mumbled. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"It's for listening to music. I loaded it up with all of my favorite songs—there's a little Alicia Keys, some Train.... When you have a kid someday, you add yours and pass it on. It'll be like a family heirloom."

I muttered a barely audible thanks. Perhaps I could find an antique store in the city and pawn it.

My mother embraced me next, crushing me with a powerful bear hug. "I'll...miss you...too," I choked out, coughing for oxygen. An x-ray would later reveal she'd cracked three of my ribs. Despite the pain, I would miss her. Who was going to cut the crust off my PB&J sandwiches?

Once I arrived in New York, however, I was too busy to miss the comforts of home. There were plenty of other things to occupy my time...other things like drinking. 

I wasn't alone in my love of alcohol. 

All of us drank too much. That was the tune of the times. These were the years just following the Great Recession, when the economy had begun to rebound. Just when you thought the stock market had hit a record high, along came another record day to blow it out of the water. The parties were bigger, the liquor cheaper, and the twerking looser.

The tempo of the city quickly wore me down. When I returned to the Midwest less than a year later, I was disgusted. Disgusted with myself, disgusted with everyone. There was only one person exempt from my disgust.

Or rather, one feline.

Jay Z. Catsby.