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CHASE
My pussy is anti-social.
Don’t be crass. I mean my pussy cat.
He’s a sphynx, so basically a hairless pussy. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of jokes there. They’re all funny. But that isn’t the point.
Right now, the point is I’m sitting on a bench in Central Park watching all these beard-growing, man-bun douchebags score with the ladies all thanks to their playful puppies jogging up to everything with boobs. Boobs encased in wonderfully tight and revealing Spandex. And I’m stuck with a hairless cat that refuses to budge from under my hoodie.
Yes, I put my cat under my hoodie. What would you do with a hairless cat on a cool spring morning? Let him freeze his hairless balls off? You’re heartless.
Anyway.
You might be wondering what a thirty-five-year-old heterosexual man is doing with a hairless cat. I wonder that every morning when I wake up to his wrinkly butt in my face at the crack of dawn.
Pun intended.
Truthfully, he’s my ex-girlfriend’s cat. Well, I got him for her ’cause she was crazy allergic to everything. Ownership had been iffy until she gave me an ultimatum—marriage or it’s over.
I chose over.
She tried to backpedal real quick, but it didn’t work. Especially as I’d found out she was banging my business partner. When confronted, she broke down, saying I’d forced her to cheat on me. That I had commitment issues.
Commitment issues? Hello? I bought you a cat.
Also, I hadn’t been the one with a side piece. And my business partner? When you stoop that low, you better sure as shit know that I’m taking said cat. Hairless or not.
So now here I am, trying my hand at rebounding with Mike Hunt, the sphynx.
See what I did there? Yeah, I know. Not very mature. But considering my ex had named him Fluffy, which I thought demeaning rather than ironic, I think Mike Hunt is an excellent upgrade.
I hunch over and talk to the bulge under my hoodie. This causes a few passersby to give me the side-eye.
Whatever, keep jogging, man-buns.
“Listen, Mikey. You’re not doing either of us any favors right now.” The wrinkly ball of skin burrows deeper. “Okay, you asked for it.” I fish my phone out of my back pocket and start an online search for cat sweaters. This is what my life has come to. Buying sweaters for hairless pussies.
God, that’s depressing.
But just as I’m about to PayPal an entire wardrobe for Mr. Hunt here, my phone vibrates, and my father’s name flashes on the screen.
Not “Dad” or “Father,” but his legit, legal name: Stanley W. Moore. That should give you some clue as to how close we are. Or aren’t, as it were.
Since my outing today seems to be a lost cause for all types of pussy, I slide my thumb right and answer. “Stan.”
“Chase.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your cheerfulness on this fine spring morning?”
“Jesus.”
I love riling the old man. It’s the only thing he’s ever let me know I’m truly good at. Gifted even.
“Shareholders’ meeting at noon today,” he barks into my ear. It’s the same tone he’s used with me since I was a kid. When I accidentally (on purpose) blew up my science fair project by mixing too much vinegar and baking soda. When the police brought me home for toilet papering the principal’s house. When I got caught in tenth grade with my hand up Megan Dumphrey’s blouse in the janitor’s closet. It’s even the same tone he used when I graduated high school with a 4.0 GPA, was voted valedictorian, made varsity soccer all four years of high school, and went on to graduate at the top of my class at University of Pennsylvania on academic scholarships.
Growing up, I quickly learned that no matter the situation, I’d be thought of as the flunky, the spare, the good-time kid. So why not act like it? Way more fun than trying to please the perpetually disgruntled Stanley Winston Moore.
