Russell Brand steps out of the fog, carrying a tuna-fish sandwich. He winks, takes a big bite and says, ‘Ba doo boom boom boom boom boom…’
Startled, I awaken.
I check the clock.
It’s become clear to me that the musical cats in the attic are no respecter of time. Squeak Toy, the all-cat band out of Northeast Minneapolis, having lured me, with gin and lime slices, into renting it to them with promises of cash and coat-tail fame, is practicing.
I can hear them up there: Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, on violin; Stumpy “Lucky” Strikes on drums; Ignatz D. Katz on upright bass; and a large, long-haired cat on piano introduced to me only as “Hairball”.
I sit up, put my glasses on, reach for my cell phone.
“It’s very late,” I write.
The ping informing me of a return text is surprisingly quick. “no one uses punctuation anymore pearl”.
“No one spells out “punctuation” in a text. Shut it down for the night!”
“pearl! dear old old pearl. its not even midnight”
Desperately clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, I sigh and give it one more shot. “Liza, what do we do on Saturday mornings?”
“I would, and I shall.”
Saturday mornings: where the amber-colored light of the weekend lays on the hardwood floors and the half-and-half is poured into garage-sale china saucers. Liza Bean Bitey loves that little spot of cream, licks it carefully from her whiskers and staggers, dairy-saturated, into the living room, where she settles down onto a spot of sun-warmed floor and closes her eyes, smiling and Buddha-like.
There is the sound of raucous laughter from the attic, and shortly after that, the sound of padded feet on stairs.
I fall back asleep, where Russell hands me half a sandwich.