Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 5: Part 2

I followed Tucker and Lima a few more blocks until we reached a rundown flophouse straight out of a gangster flick. The windows were boarded, the tin roof rusted. A sign posted on the door gave us warning: STAY AWAY FOOLS.

"Looks like your hotel's been closed for a while," I said. "Now can we go find something to eat? I'm so hungry I could eat at Arby's."

"Nonsense," Tucker said, rapping on the door. "We stayed here just last week."

The door swung open, and a junkie who looked like a Walking Dead cast member stumbled out. "Any bags today?"

"No, we don't have any bags of smack," I said, brushing him away with the back of my hand. "Let's get out of here before we step on a needle and get AIDS."

Tucker grabbed my hand. "You don't get AIDS from needles, you get HIV. And besides, a little respect—this man is the bellhop."

I looked closer at the bum and his tattered, loose-fitting clothes hanging off his gaunt frame. Upon further inspection, the scabs on his face were nothing more than theatrical makeup. "Welcome to the Love Shack," he said grimly, "the finest boutique hotel this side of the East River."

He ushered us inside. The lobby smelled worse than a Danny McBride egg fart. I stepped in a wet spot—wet with what, I couldn't say, because I wiped my shoe off on a passed-out wino and dropped a dollar on him as a tip. Maybe he worked at the hotel; maybe he didn't. Who was to say?

As Tucker was checking us in at the front desk, he turned to me. "Hutchence or Houston?"

"What?"

"Every room here is modeled after a famous celebrity hotel death. The only two rooms they have open are the Michael Hutchence and Whitney Houston suites."

I thought about it for a moment. Neither choice sounded appealing. I just wasn't that big of a music fan, I guess. "What about Belushi?"

Tucker frowned. "You're kidding, right? You have to reserve that months in advance. It's the penthouse suite, and includes a mound of cocaine piled higher than Everest."

"Let's go with the Hutchence, then," I said.

The third-floor suite was indeed as filthy and disturbing as the rest of the hotel, complete with a bloodstained mattress. I pulled my phone out and ordered delivery from the nearest Chinese restaurant I could find on Yelp. I needed to find something to eat, and fast. I don't think I'd ever gone more than eight hours without food in my life. I was beginning to feel lightheaded, like how poor people must feel all the time.

I peered out the window and onto the street below. I fantasized about leaving the sordid hotel room for the outside world, and walking until I found a park to sit in and watch Mother Nature dim her lights on Brooklyn. Every time I tried to leave in my mind, however, something pulled me back into the hotel, as if with ropes. I was at once within and without, both ensorcelled and revolted by the inexhaustible choices that the city offered.

"Oh, yessss! Oh, God yessss!"

I whipped my head around and caught sight of Lima's legs wrapped around Tucker's bare ass. I looked away before I saw any more. "I'm going to the bathroom and cry," I said to no one in particular.

Turns out the restroom was really quite luxurious compared to the dilapidated state of the rest of the hotel room, based solely on the fact that there wasn't any freestanding vomit in the sink or tub. I couldn't sit on the toilet seat, however—there was just no way. Instead, I removed the top of the tank and climbed up on it. While I was leaving an upper decker, there was a knock at the door. Before I could answer, Tucker swung the door open. He had a stained sheet wrapped around his waist, and frowned when he spied me perched above the tank.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Did you order food? There's a delivery man at the door."

"I'll be right out. I'm making room for it."

"Take your time. Lima is banging the delivery guy right now," Tucker said, shutting the door.

By the time I emerged from the restroom, the delivery guy had come and gone (and come and gone) and a coterie of hipsters had arrived. I counted ten. There were more packed into the room, but I only had ten fingers to count them on. People in publishing aren't great at math.

"What were you doing, giving birth in there?" Tucker asked, now wearing the bedsheet like a toga. "You've been gone almost two hours."

"I was tweeting," I said.

Tucker shook his head. "That's more embarrassing than dropping a deuce the size of Queens. Anyway, some of Lima's friends have joined us."

A gorgeous redhead sidled up to me. "I hear you're from the Shore."

"I, uh, I'm renting a place on the beach."

The siren licked her luscious lips. "I was at a party there last weekend, at Catsby's."

I nodded. "That's what I keep hearing. I haven't met him yet."

Lima, who was milling about in Hello Kitty flannel PJs, held a palm out to me with a round, white tablet. "Have you met my sister Molly?"

I took the pill and swallowed it. I had been on MDMA just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon. The first time was a crazy night in college when I'd lost my virginity to an oak tree.

"A little party never killed anybody, right?" Lima asked, giggling.

"Except for, you know, all the celebrities this hotel's rooms are named after," I said.

Tucker grunted. "Why you gotta be so morbid, Dick? We're here to have fun. We're gonna be up all night to get lucky."

A hand reached around me and started unbuckling my belt. I turned to see a girl I'd never met before, a wicked smile on her face and pupils dilated to the size of basketballs. "What do you say, Dick?" she asked, slipping my belt off.

Not only would I not be returning to work that afternoon, but there was also a good chance now that I wouldn't return until Monday.

Eff it. YOLO, bitches.