Eyes…on fire. Head. Pounding. Why?

     Come on Adam. Use your brain cells.

     Hangover.

     With a groan of protest to greet the hellish light of...afternoon, I roll onto my stomach, reach over the end of the of the couch, and jerk down the blinds.

     Absence of the light leaves space for other details to assault my senses. The scent of stale pizza and the sound of a herd of rhinoceros snoring being the chief two. Peeling open one eye, I glance round my living room to locate the source of the snore. From where I lay with chin propped on the couch cushion, I see the gory remains of a late-night composition fest with Matteo, music writing buddy and perpetual leech since freshman year of college. Grease speckled sheet music paves a path to my desk where Garage Band is still open on my lap top. Ravaged pizza boxes flecked with topping crumbs occupy both counter and coffee table. And just past the thicket of beer bottles I glimpse the man himself. He’s lying in the recliner, his mouth hanging open and ruining his normally enviably handsome features, his socked feet dangling with a single naked toe up-thrust for public view. In the center of his chest is the best proof yet that I spent last night drunker than Cooter Brown. Matteo’s cat is coiled in a furry heap on his chest. The fat, flat faced, one eyed, reeking heap of fur is the spawn of satanic imps and a rabid skunk, and we mutually loathe one another. I would never have allowed that thing into my apartment sober. The cat is the source of the snoring and a stomach-turning odor that’s starting to drown out the stale pizza stink.

     My wrist shivers as a calendar notification rings through on my watch.

     PARTY. WOOLWORTH BUILDING. 7-10PM.

     Awe, hell.

     The burden of the starving artist who refuses to get a degreed day job is the never-ending cycle of odd jobs you take to pay the bills while you wait for your genius buddy with the smelly cat to write a damned hit. I have a frigging serving gig tonight, and some horrible dusty bell in the back of my booze fogged brain says I might have offered to let Matteo work said gig with me.

     I palm around on the couch and catch hold of a throw pillow, then fling it at Matteo’s head.

     I miss and hit the cat who awakes with a snarl and sinks his claws into his owner’s chest.

     “Mother of God!” Matteo screams as he jerks awake. The cat hisses and clings harder, necessitating Matteo pry loose its toes one by one. “What did you do to Chet?” he asks.

    “Threw a pillow at him. I’ve got a party to work tonight. Take the demon cat, and find another place to crash,” I say.

Matteo whimpers as he lifts away one bloody claw. “Hey, you said I could work it with you. Black shirt and slacks right? I brought them—“

     “Do you have someone who can ‘sit’ that hell-spawn?”

     “That’s not fair, man. I need the money.”

     “You’re not leaving it in my house.”

     “Chet’s a good cat—“

     “I don’t care how many jazz legends you name him after. He’ll piss on the carpet and shred the couch, then Julie will dump me.”

     “Man. You owe me this. I’m the one who got you hooked up with the agency in the first place!”

     The furball hisses and licks his claws.

     “That thing’s not staying here,” I repeat.

     “I’ll take him with us.”

     “Are you nuts? Where will you put him?”

     “Don’t worry about it.”

     My watch buzzes again. I don’t have time to keep debating this.

     “Fine. But that thing is your responsibility.”

 

#

 

     It’s a good two hours before the party starts, so I’m hanging in the kitchen with my head inside of a freezer.

     “Is that your vulture impression? Cause all I see is your shoulders sticking up above the fridge,” says Matteo.

     “You’re just jealous that you’re too short to reach the freezer,” I say.

     “Eat me.”

     “No thank you.”

     He sighs. “When does this damn thing start anyway?”

     “Seven p.m.”

     “And of course it’s so swanky we can’t even sneak an appetizer.”

     “Says who?”

     He scoffs. “Says the fact they’re serving fish eggs. Look, I gotta make a phone call. Enjoy your stint in the freezer.”

     As he walks away, it occurs to me that I haven’t called my girlfriend today. I shut the freezer and duck out a side door. Thumbing through my recent contacts swiftly yields her number.

     “How are you today, oh tender goddess?” I ask.

     “Very well, thank you. Just finishing my Chemistry lab. You?”

     “Exercising grand restraint not to vomit up my toenails.”

     “Uh oh. How hungover are you?” her dulcet tones answer.

     “I’m relatively certain my spit could pickle eggs.”

     I can hear her wince. “And do you have a song or a decent lyric to show for all your efforts?”

     “No idea. I’ll have to check the lap top when I get home.”

     The fact her reply is a patient exhale instead of a stream of nagging about how I’m too old to be getting that drunk would be part of the miracle of why we’re still together.

     “Please just tell me you didn’t let him leave Chet,” she adds.

     “Nope. The sentient drain clog is not in our apartment.”

     “Thank God. We’d probably lose our lease over the smell alone.”

     As I open my mouth to agree with her, the subject of our conversation creeps into view. His imbedded stink wafts into the air ahead of him so palpably it should be riding in on a cartoon greenish cloud. But the stink is driven from my attention by a detail that spawns a slow horror in my gut. Chet is licking his maw to clear the fur of a speckling of tiny black balls clinging to the whiskers.

     “Julie, I gotta call you back,” I say, thrusting my phone into my pocket and racing back to the kitchen.

Upon the counter open cans of roe stand empty, only a handful of stray eggs littering the counter attest to the former contents of the metal containers.

     Oh my God.

     I race back out of the kitchen and scan the ballroom for Matteo. My idiot friend is lurking by a curtained window and flirting with another server. I cross the room, grab him by the shirt collar, and drag him to the stairwell where I pin him against a wall.

     “Your damn cat ate the caviar!”

     “What? He’s a stupidly picky eater! How would even know he could eat the caviar—“

     “IT DOESN’T MATTER, MATTEO! If they find out, they’ll not only fire us, but they’ll probably dock our checks and we’ll be in debt for thirty pounds of fish eggs for the rest of our natural lives!”

     Matteo clutches his skull. “Shit…shit, shit! What are we gonna do?”

     “First, I’m dropping the demon cat off the roof, then I’m gonna kick you after it,” I say.

     “Adam!” the shout comes from my pocket. We stare at it for a second before it clicks that I haven’t hung up my phone from calling my girlfriend. 

     “Yes! Yeah, sorry, honey. We’re in a bit of a crisis over here—“

     “I heard. Can you get a hold of a fruit or vegetable juice that’s the same color as the fish eggs?”

     “What? Uh, yeah. Maybe. Why?”

     “Because I think I can fix this long enough to get you through the finger food portion of things. Get the juice and hide the evidence Chet ate the roe!”

     My buddy and I look at each other and then head to the kitchen. The cooks appear to still be working on more elaborate hors d'oeuvres, so we gather up the open roe cans and sneak them out of view. Matteo in the meantime takes a detour to the nearest corner grocery from where he sends me frantic pics of various juices before settling on some swamp-colored crap that looks about the right blackish hue. By the time he returns, my girlfriend has arrived with a mixing bowl and a baggie full of white powder.

     “What the crap is that?” I ask.

     “Calcium chloride. Remember, you caught me in chemistry?”

     “Meaning?”

     “Meaning one of the uses of calcium chloride is the spherification of liquid.”

     “Meaning?”

     “Meaning I add this to that, and it turns the juice into squishy balls.”

     “That look like caviar,” says Matteo. “Julie, you’re a genius. Will you marry me?”

     “No point. You’re going off the roof with the demon cat, remember?” I say.

     “You two shut up and start filling those cans.”

 

#

     Once all the food is laid out, Matteo and I surreptitiously rearrange it so the trays full of “crackers and roe” are at the back and less conspicuous. Thankfully, sodium chloride is salty, so the fake roe even kind of tastes like fake caviar if you cross your eyes and pray.

     If anybody complained, it never got back to us, and we made it out of the building without being saddled with an exorbitant fish egg debt.

 

#

 

     Back home, I collapse onto my couch and my girlfriend curls up beside me. I wrap my arms around her and plant a kiss atop her head.

     “I don’t know what I did to end up with a brilliant woman like you, but I swear you’ll never have to pull my ass out of a sling like that ever again. What can I do to make it up to you?”

     “Forbid Matteo the flat?”

     “Done. That emo has-been will never write a decent folk song anyway.”

     “Except—“

     “Except what?”

     “I already listened to the track. It’s pretty good,” she says.

     I narrow my gaze. “Good enough to forgive the cat?”

     “Maybe.”

     “Don’t care. I’m never speaking to him again.”

     “Right.”

     Hug your girlfriend. Ignore your laptop. Turn on Netflix. Ignore your laptop. Drink your beer. Ignore your—

     “Go listen to the track before I buy a cat.”

 

The End.