Animals had been granted limited citizenship in 1996 after the infamous Parrot Uprising in Miami Proper where a flock of bilingual macaws unionised and successfully sued for workers’s comp.
By the time I met Cletus (CHIP#VYK44), things had settled into an uneasy hierarchy of Vessels.
Tier 1 Vessels were strictly human (though some, mostly Water Siphoners, got downgraded).
Tier 2 Vessels were “domesticated vertebrates of proven emotional intelligence”.
And Tier 3 were goldfish, hamsters and reptiles that couldn’t hold a decent conversation
(although determining what was “decent” was a point of contention).
Cletus’s cats were municipal employees, assigned by the Department of Social Balance to monitor single men living alone.
They were there for “wellness checks” but everyone knew they had a penchant for judging.
They could still talk, of course, but rarely did in front of us unless it was work related.
Mostly, they communicated in passive-aggressive gestures like stacking unpaid bills into neat piles, sighing dramatically at unpleasant smells, bringing you dead birds because they assumed Tier 1s were unable to feed themselves, and refusing to look at you if they thought your outfit (or face) was ugly, that sort of thing.
I’d met Cletus through the Bungee Line, where most Tier 1 Vessels advertised their singleness.
The Bungee Line was threaded through the State like an artery, pumping State Messaging and Promotional Ribbons alongside its main cargo, singles provials.
Any Tier I Vessel could stuff their dating profile into empty red vials.
4 short lines (3.5×3.5 in) of State mandated yearning, rolled tight as cigarette paper.
Limit One per week, you were allowed to pluck a red vial from the line.
If the handwriting didn’t turn you right off, you could beep the number and set up a date.
No pictures.
No doodles.
All text.
You had to be clever how you humble bragged about your qualifications, work promotions, and special talents.
Had I the choice to list 4 lines of anything on a piece of parchment meant to be seen by a future potential domestic partner… qualifications, work promotions and special talents would not have been the first things that came to mind but, what could I do…
Hence the cleverness, depending on what you really were trying to convey.
I’d been at the grocer on a Sunday when I’d heard an especially noisy vial rattle past me overhead on the line.
I wasn’t looking for a partner, but I felt compelled to catch when I’d looked up and saw that the vial was red.
Red and calling to me.
A future lesson to be learned, I was sure.
Our first two dates had been pleasant enough, but it was our third that stuck.
Cletus greeted me at the door wearing Spiderman boxers and a light blue button up shirt.
Since the ‘Underwear as Outerwear Movement’ had gained traction in the early 2000s after a controversial study found that pants increased social anxiety by 57%, this was how most Y Tier 1 Vessel singles dressed on home dates.
His house smelled like bougainvilleas and Fancy Feast, which was also standard for a Tier 1 monitored dwelling.
The cats (eight of them), all State-issued, did not come out right away.
He’d told me previously that there were a lot of them and me, being allergic, thought a lot meant at most three.
So, when I only saw one grey tabby with a municipal badge (#F4668) clipped to its collar, sat in the middle of the living room, I laughed.
“I thought you said there were a lot of them.”
“We’re on break,” the grey tabby informed.
“They get unionised lunch hours,” Cletus explained.
After showing me his collection of action figures, a true shrine of plastic heroism that spanned the entire wall of his living room (the Spiderman boxer choice made more sense now), he introduced me to a game called Iacoba.
It’s box was purple with a giant red sun rising up over some prime (possibly alien) land, three silhouettes stood at the crest, daydreaming of conquest, no doubt. Under the title in silver leaf lettering was a smaller tagline that read “Barter, Build, Begin Again”.
The aim was to score the most points by either building municipalities, establishing Statehoods, having the longest fence or biggest military presence.
A game about empire* (without guilt!), which was why, perhaps, my fingers tightened around my tokens.
Cletus would play earnestly, I knew that much.
He’d play with the distracted focus of a man who’d never had to defend his homeland.
While, I…well.
My ancestors whispered in my pulse.
I would win, of course.
The cats began to come out one by one to witness.
First, a huge orange one (Badge #F9240), a loaf of fur that slid off the fridge, tummy first.
By turn three, a soot-faced tortoiseshell (Badge #F7284) and a white kitten (#?) with mismatched socks had settled next to the sofa, their pupils dilating with each of my aggressive barters.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The way their tails twitched when I claimed the last Victory card said everything.
This one plays like she’s settling a blood debt.
Cletus just grinned away, his smile a bridge between our worlds.
“You’re really good at this,” he said like I hadn’t inherited strategy as a birthright.
His love for the game hadn’t been ironic enough for my liking and anyway, I loved playing god.
He smiled so genuinely.
Definitely not a competitor, I noted.
After our second glass of red wine, he picked up his state mandated guitar (officially: “Bachelor Bonding Tool”) and sang an acoustic version of Baby Got Back to me with the sincerity of a man who had never once questioned his life choices.
I laughed.
Some of the cats exchanged glances.
“Oh no,” muttered the grey tabby, “He’s doing the thing again.”
I wondered what “the thing” was and realised that maybe I shouldn’t of laughed, but before I could blink, the world tilted.
One moment I was watching Cletus continue to croon Sir Mix-a-Lot’s greatest hit, and the next, all eight cats had risen on their hind legs and huddled together in a ‘town hall’ meeting about me.
“She’s pretty resistant to Class 2 SLGs,” said a scruffy looking Siamese (Badge #F1343), flipping through a clipboard of municipal codes.
I frowned.
SLGs were made by the Department of Emotional Engineering to facilitate “interpersonal harmony”.
They weren’t technically legal post-2020, but were still easy to get a hold of for “personal use”.
Class 2’s were notoriously potent, so why they’d brought up my resistance to them was odd, to say the least.
“We could escalate to Phase 2,” suggested the tortoiseshell.
“No, no, just…give her the pamphlet,” sighed the grey tabby.
A folded piece of paper slide across the room toward me.
“WELCOME TO THE AURITANIA MUNICIPAL DATING INITIATIVE!” It read.
“You have chosen to pair up with Tier 1 Vessel participant (Cletus, alias Brad) for a State-sanctioned romantic evaluation.
Please comply with all feline directive for optimal social harmony.”
I looked up.
The cats began to hop in place.
Cletus was still singing.
He taught middle-school shop class under the alias Brad because, let’s be honest, no kid was going to let him live down being named Cletus.
‘Brad’ had been chosen from a 1997 yearbook he’d found in the school basement belonging to some long-gone teacher whose students had scribbled ‘Best Teacher EVER’ and ‘NEVER CHANGE’ in the margins.
“Cletus, usually comes with a lot of connotations,” he explained.
The cats nodded.
This was clearly a well-rehearsed trauma.
The orange one even patted his knee with a fat paw, which, coming from a municipal employee, was basically like a standing ovation.
He finally set the guitar aside, accompanied by my enthusiastic applause.
And then, he brought up the meat fridge.
It wasn’t just a meat fridge.
It was a man-sized meat fridge he’d inherited from his grandfather or something.
A hulking, industrial relic that lived in his basement.
“I’ve always wanted to get inside,” he confessed, looking at me longingly, “But you need a spotter. For safety…”
The cats groaned in unison.
“Not this again,” muttered the large orange cat.
“Last time he tried this, we had to file an incident report,” said the Siamese.
Cletus ignored them, “Just think,” he whispered, “We could be pioneers.”
I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but did start imagining an alt scenario: the door sticks, the latch breaks and I have to explain to the State Militia why a man I was on a third date with is frozen AND dead in his own home meat fridge.
The tabby began to draft a liability waiver.
I started to feel like the walls were breathing, like the pamphlet in my hand had melted into liquid silver and the letters were swimming like minnows.
That’s when I knew.
When it hit me like a theatrical spotlight, the sudden, unshakable knowledge that Pedro (CHIP#VYK109) – have we not talked about Pedro?) had drugged me!
Not with malice, just with the clumsy affection of a best friend who’d rather sabotage than share.
I’d known Pedro since we were kids.
We’d hung out before the date and he’d given me a “good luck candy”, pressing it into my palm like a communion wafer.
It had been of gummy consistency, now that I thought about it, of the Class 2 SLG variety, apparently.
Pedro hated when I dated.
Not because he wanted me, but because he wanted me his.
Not in a bed, not in a kiss, but in the way a lighthouse belongs to the sea.
That’s just how it was with us.
We had the energy of opposites that perfectly compliment each other, enjoying the thrill of feeling whole.
Once, when we were 8, Pedro carved our names into the metal of a recess bench after I joked we’d be ‘old blokes’ one day.
He’d misheard me, thought I said ‘old ghosts’.
The next morning, I found him scratching out the names entirely.
“No. We stay” he’d muttered.
The Siamese locked eyes with me and suddenly we were telepathic.
Her voice in my skull was all paperwork and disdain.
The SLG was definitely hitting.
“Cletus is a 35-year-old Tier 1 Vessel with Tier 2 social instincts. You’re a 30-year-old Tier 1 who puts considerable thought into looking effortlessly cool. You’re going to hurt his feelings.”
I looked at Cletus (Brad) again.
Blessed with a name so unfairly maligned that he’d probably spent a lifetime compensating for it with Super Hero charm and the kind of smile that made you forgive minor crimes (like owning a man-sized meat fridge).
The grey tabby flicked it’s badge, “As per Municipal Code 4, we must terminate this pairing due to incompatible…vibes.”
Cletus’s face fell.
“But the fridge!”
“—is a workplace hazard, how many times have we mentioned that,” interrupted the tortoiseshell, sliding a pink slip across the floor to me.
I excused myself and waved (for lack of not knowing what else to do) to the cats and stumbled out the door.
The cool night air nicely complimented the SLG still humming in my veins.
I walked home.
Outside my cottage, Pedro was sat in my garden, like a gnome.
I’d almost expected him to be there.
“Told you,” he said, offering me a piece of real candy this time.
I took it, the sourness cutting through the last lingering grips of chemical manipulation.
“You could have just asked me to stay home…”
Pedro shrugged, “Where’s the poetry in that?
Ghosts don’t ask. They haunt.”
I DATE FOR THE PLOT 
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