My Year of the Racehorse by Kevin Chong

towards us, then hops back.
    â€œShe’s pregnant, you see?” Randi says as she crouches down to the cat, who just looks fat to me, and reaches into her shoulder bag for a handful of cat food, which she scatters onto the pavement. The cat reads the kibble on the ground like a menu before gobbling it down. “She’s always starving when I see her, so I save her some of my own cat’s food. We’re getting to the fun part of my route, where we see all my animals—all the dogs.”
    I figure I have time to meet her dogs, but then my dad calls.
    â€œAre you at home?” he asks.
    â€œNo, why?”
    â€œI’m at Kal Tire, buying new tires for myself right now,” he says. “If you come down now, I’ll buy you a new set.”
    â€œI’ve got to go,” I tell Randi, who’s still crouched over someone else’s cat. “I’ll walk with you another time.”
    THE NIGHT AFTER my first mail route with Randi, I sleep easy and hard. For this deskbound hermit, being outside, exposed to fresh air and other people, is in itself exhausting. I need the alarm to wake me up for an 11 AM meeting the next day. While I’d rather be at the track, I have a coffee date with an editor who’s back from a work furlough; he’s convinced that he’ll keep his job if he loses ten pounds and is midway through a cleanse in which he consumes only honey in water. Out of solidarity, I lay off the piece of banana bread he buys me.
    Luckily, I have work of my own right now: a profile here, a couple of book reviews there, and also some teaching. Any day, I can stop looking for employment under the “Adult Gigs” category on Craigslist. Later, in the afternoon, I do a hotel-room interview with an American rock star who’s playing a concert the next day to promote a new album inspired by the Iraq War and his divorce. I’m not a fan of the rock star’s work—too much yowling—and haven’t prepared well for my interview beyond a cursory Google search.
    Before leaving the room to get a latte, the publicist tells me we have an entire hour. The piece, for a men’s lifestyle website, is to be only four hundred words long and, twenty-five minutes into our conversation, I have all the quotes I need and have run through my list of questions. Slouching on a cognac-coloured leather couch with his feet on the coffee table of his sitting room, the rock star is shorter than I expected but amiable, answering most of my questions with stifled yawns, then apologizing twice for his jet lag. He’s gracious and articulate, but wears his own skin gingerly, as though it’s been worn raw by handlers and concert photographers. I have friends from high school who would swoon at this opportunity; here I am, killing time. I watch him smoking American Spirits as I flip through my notes and eye the fruit plate by his canvas sneakers.
    I lamely attempt to draw out our conversation.
    â€œUm, anyway, I like your lyrics a lot,” I say. “Especially on ‘Speed of Sound.’”
    â€œDude, it’s actually called ‘Spreadsheet of Clowns.’”
    â€œOops, your lyrics are very personal. At times, they almost read like journal entries.”
    â€œReally?” He pulls back one corner of his mouth; the rest of his face pinches into a scowl.
    â€œSorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I misspoke. I don’t mean to say—”
    â€œIt’s okay, dude,” he says, waving back the cigarette smoke in his face. “It just reminded me of this time I was backstage at a Katrina benefit concert. Tim Robbins and I were listening to a very young, very confessional singer-songwriter, and I said to him, ‘That’s what diaries are for.’ And Tim said, ‘That’s what locks on diaries are for.’”
    My guffawing is strained. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I start. “I meant to say it in a way