Later that evening, I ended up at Dawson’s new place, Alex’s mid-sized Colonial. Alex was out with his buddies, enjoying a minor-league baseball game at Fairbane Field. Dawson loathed the sport and invited me over for pizza, wings, beer, and an evening of unpacking his moving boxes.
We manhandled a few of his knickknacks and placed them around the living room while I told him about my visit with Cane Mercer, leaving no detail spared.
He held a seated, porcelain cat in his right hand: faux rubies for eyes, faux diamond collar, upright tail, hideous beyond words. Aghast by my nonfictional tale, he said, “You are Mr. Clueless. The guy wanted to get with you.”
“He wasn’t. The guy had no interest in me.”
Dawson called me an i***t and added, “Are you kidding me? Cane flirted relentlessly wit
