His father looked aghast. Alfonzo interrupted himself with a new rush of self-recrimination. He unspooled all the things he imagined Luis wanted to say. The academy was never meant for him. He should have listened. He should have gone to dental school.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to devote myself to work now. I’m going to try to piece together a respectable life. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I’m sorry I failed.”

“They’re crazy,” his father growled. “They wouldn’t know smarts if it spit in their eye.”

“They don’t seem to recognize their lack of recognition, Dad.”

“I know your mother loved that you were a scholar. She was so proud, no matter what.” Luis coughed and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m no good at this.”

Alfonzo stared at his father’s half-eaten grapefruit until it vibrated.

Mitchell and Alfonzo had tickets for the Akida Kombu show that night. The llama promised it would be good for Alfonzo’s depression to shoot the breeze, listen to a genius, maybe smoke some ciggies afterward.

“Cigarettes obviously aren’t good for you, but spiritually isn’t it better to smoke with friends than to eat carrots by yourself?”

“Who says I want to live long anyway?”

“Attaboy.”

They debated bars. Wolf Whistle used to be good until it was discovered by actual wolves; all those claws and teeth made Alfonzo nervous. He suggested Sun Bear, but according to Mitchell it had closed, supposedly because the landlord jacked the rent. The place was now dark, with a torn FOR LEASE sign on the door. A shame. The Dark Ship was workable for a couple of beers. The White Rabbit might be good for after.

“Lots of snuggling in the dark corners,” Alfonzo objected.

The Rusty Knot was around the corner from Vivi and Alfonzo’s old apartment.

“Too many memories.”

“You’re picky. We simply need somewhere near the venue.”

They settled on the Hawk and Eagle Tavern, which looked much the same as all the other places but was quieter. Its only downside was his suspicion they were getting charged inflated mammal prices, but that had to be stomached.

Inside the wood-paneled room, surrounded by birds who ignored them, Mitchell regaled Alfonzo with Kombu mythology.

The dog musician recorded prolifically but rarely performed anywhere. This was due, they said, to the strain of sea travel from his island, but it must have also had to do with the politics of the sea. Kombu was a high-profile pro-sea land mammal. The last time Kombu had come to North America, animal control detained him at the port of entry for weeks. According to reports, this was because of visa issues, but his fans knew SERF sympathies made Kombu a target for harassment. In an interview, the dog intimated he’d been forced to sign a document promising that while in the country he would only play music. No “political activism” would be tolerated.