Hooked On A Feline

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The stage set up at the end of the marina parking lot was in darkness, and there wasn’t enough light from the stars and the sliver of gleaming moon overhead to make out anything, even though we were sitting just a few rows back. The crowd spread out across the pavement on lawn chairs and coolers had gone silent, so silent it seemed as though we were all holding our breath. But underneath that silence I could feel a faint buzz of anticipation, like the current of energy in the air just before a thunderstorm hits.

And then a clap of wood on wood, one drumstick hitting another, counting off the beat—One! Two! Three! Four!—cracked the quiet. And all at once there was music: the sound of a raucous electric guitar; and the crowd went wild. Beside me my friend Roma was grinning, bouncing on her canvas lawn chair, her dark eyes shining. She leaned sideways, bumping me with her shoulder. “That’s Harry, Kathleen,” she said in my ear, “which has to mean—”

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