with a new group text from dad

mom died; ten o'clock

The organizers were quite clear that the dress code, cocktail attire, was serious. Not to be boring, I selected a navy suit and paired it with a purple gingham shirt and gold tie then headed into the wilds of downtown Manhattan onboard the F train. My journey started with the young man seated next to me taking unknown pills from a clear glass container. The rest of the ride was uneventful and I arrived at the door of Sovereign House just a few minutes past seven. We were told the supply of print copies was limited and I made sure to arrive early enough to get one. I spent the next few minutes exploring the venue and it’s formidable library. Feeling lightheaded from a blood donation earlier in the day I took a seat next to a book case containing a boxed set of the Incerto. The presence of which I interpreted as a good omen.

Protip: Sitting next to the bookshelf provides an armrest and a place to put your drink

As the venue filled up I read the story Separation by James Tadd Adcox. A story about an abusive couple who can’t quite figure out which one is the abuser and which the abusee. Soon I made friends with another attendee who spoke frantically at times and had the same first name as me. Over complimentary glasses of wine we spoke with the couple sitting next to me.

The reading itself started a few minutes past eight and kicked off with Jordan Castro reading Skeeter, a story about a creep of a college professor and how he gets off in class. The story included a nice modern touch of describing the class’ group chat reactions. The line up went on with: A Warm Body by Sydney Hirsch; Winners, Losers by Ani Tatintsyan; Eager to Help by Calvin Atwood; David by Claire Donato; and Burning of the Bench by Daniel Matthew.

All of these stories were thoroughly enjoyable but the standouts for me were Winners, Losers and Burning of the Bench. Winners, Losers for its tight focus and repeated refrain “if you’re a loser for too long, you die.” I’m a sucker for a refrain in a story.

Burning of the Bench is a beautifully layered story setup as the author’s reply to a piece written about his family’s bench burning ritual by an ex-girlfriend. Of the stories I heard this is the one I most look forward to reading again to unravel the deeper meaning.

With the reading over and my new friend gone since intermission I made my own exit. Back to the F train. Which was more crowded now than it was coming downtown and slower, making local stops. At home I poured myself one last glass of wine and contemplated the cover painting, hole by Kuo Jun You.

For the tourist or the tourist minded take a stop at the Visitor Center Kiosk. There you will find the friendly staff of the Roosevelt Island Historical Society and an assortment of island specific souvenirs. I recommend Mandy Choie’s zine for a fun look at the island’s unique history and quirks.

At just two miles long walking is easy. For those wishing to travel faster two Citibike stations provide quicker transport. Keep an eye out for the many statues and interesting sights as you travel around.

Head north to find the island’s lighthouse. This fifty foot tall picturesque landmark makes an excellent selfie backdrop.

Head south to see the Four Freedoms park. Dedicated to the island’s namesake President Franklin Delano Roosevelt looms large of the space. Pay homage as you walk past his bust and marvel in the silence at the Room at the southern tip.

Once you are done enjoying the park head over to Granny Annie’s Bar and Kitchen and enjoy a pint or two of the house ale.

Around 3PM she comes out for a drink and a snack. This is a good sign I think and a chance to pick her up and check her out. I’m carrying her to the kitchen when she starts leaking. Urine is what I think at first. Caught by fear she is releasing her bladder. It’s happened before, will happen again, but not today. Today it is a thick pus containing indistinct chunks and blood. It smells awful and rotten. It feel slimy like mucus and has congealed chunks that spur a reflexive horror when I see them. I place the cat in the kitchen and close the accordion door that’s probably against fire codes.

The veterinarian. That’s who I need. They can fix her. Late on a Saturday my normal vet is closed. So is the back up. I find one that is open but they close in an hour and have no appointments until Monday morning. I’m given the number to an emergency vet on Long Island. They never close and no appointments are needed. Just show up, sick animal in hand, and they will handle everything.

My parents live near by and I enlist their help. In ten minutes we’re in the car heading south then east. Mom’s driving, dad’s riding shotgun, and I’m in the back with the sick cat in her kennel.

The place is just a nondescript building in an commercial park, distinguished by being the only building with lights on a Saturday night. The staff are pleasant in the same way all hospital staff are. The place feels like a high end hospital for people. Clean and well lit it offers sterile comfort while waiting for the vet. In these situations it is a good trick to go into a trance. Which is what I do and only wake when I hear my name called.

The doctor is tall, young, and agreeably pretty. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a tight bun. I have the image of her as an undergrad athlete before the serious work of studying animal medicine began. She confirms the very obvious infection. It’s not too bad but needs sedation and some deeper cleaning. Unlike human medicine she quotes me a price first. High but not as high as I expected. I agree and she leaves to get to work fixing my cat. The nice receptionist advises that it will be an hour or two and we might want to go out for some dinner while we wait. That’s what we decide to do.

Sitting down at Fanatico Italian Bistro, A strip mall restaurant next to an H Mart that I didn’t expect to see here on Long Island. I begin to feel some relief. We order pasta dishes. I eat all that my anxiety will allow. We talk about nothing in particular. Some family gossip and the approaching holidays. Soon dinner is over and the cat is ready to go home. We pick her up and I head home with some medicine and after care instructions.

Finally back home and the apartment smells of the rotten pus that has now dried to the kitchen tiles. The night ends with me scrubbing and cleaning up the aftermath. The cat must wear a collar to prevent licking the wound. Asa bonus it prevents her from going back under the couch.