Pete nodded his dark head. “A fine evening, Mr. Schrödinger. Good of you to join us,” he formally greeted me with a bad British accent. Murphy, who lived upstairs in the frat house, stared at the three of us blankly, not remembering that our fake IDs used names from our respective majors. Murphy didn’t need id. If you were six-six, bartenders assumed you were legal.
“Happy birthday, man,” I said to Boomer with a raised shot glass. From the glassy eyes of my tablemates, they were well ahead of me in the celebration.
“How’s it hanging?” Boomer asked back, wiping his dirty-blond bangs from his eyes. The guy perpetually needed a haircut, but the look fit him.
“Not bad, not bad. Cat’s dead though,” I said casually. Pete snorted his beer, and we all cracked up, except for Murphy who looked perplexed.
“You had a cat?” he asked me. “How’d it die?”
Pete burst out laughing again, but Boomer was a bit more kind. “Murphy, you know … Schrödinger’s cat?” he half explained. Murphy smiled and nodded, although I don’t think he understood.
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