The Van Burens

One summer, Jerry and I decided it was time to change music forever.

No one asked us to. No one was waiting. But we both just felt like the world was ready—you know, for something worse.

We weren’t exactly a band, but we had the two most important ingredients: a name and belief.

We called ourselves The Van Burens.

We’d never played a show, never rehearsed, and—honestly—the only people who’d ever heard our music were each other.
But we had songs.
Not good songs, mind you.
The kind of songs that really benefited from a lack of witnesses.

Still, we believed in those songs completely. Because when you’re twenty and clueless, confidence sounds a lot like talent.

And that’s what led us, one fateful summer weekend, to a borrowed house, a borrowed studio, and a cat who would ultimately destroy our musical dreams before they even started.

The house belonged to Jerry’s older brother, Rudy.
Rudy was generous, trusting, and maybe a little too casual about handing over his home to two untested musicians.

Before leaving, he gave us the keys, pointed down the hall, and said, “Studio’s in the guest room. You’ll figure it out.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added,
“Oh—and just watch out for Nemo.”

We laughed.
He didn’t.

When we arrived, the “studio” turned out to be a converted guest room—tidy, organized, perfectly fine. It had a desk, a couple of mics, some foam on the walls, and the faint promise of greatness. It was the kind of space that made you want to say things like “Let’s lay down a track” even though you had no idea what that meant.

It was perfect.
Until Nemo showed up.

Nemo was Rudy’s cat. Though “cat” feels misleading.
This was a miniature warlord.
Stark white, eyes like green laser pointers, tail flicking like a metronome of evil.
He didn’t walk into rooms. He took ownership of them.

He sat in the doorway and stared—not curious, not playful—just… assessing.
Jerry tried to pet him once. Once.
Nemo hissed, swatted, and left a mark that looked suspiciously like a signature.

We found out later he once held the neighbors hostage in their own home.
Like, they literally called Rudy and said, “We can’t leave the bedroom. Nemo’s outside the door.”

So yeah—not a normal cat.

That first night, every time we’d step out of the “studio,” there he was. Waiting.
Sitting in the hall, motionless, like a furry bouncer.
We’d take one step and he’d hiss.
Take two, and he’d swipe.
By the third attempt, we just accepted our fate.

We were two grown men, trapped in a guest room by a ten-pound cat.

We tried to fight back. Strategize. Outthink him.

• Jerry threw a Cheez-It to distract him. Nemo didn’t even blink.
• I lobbed a sock down the hallway. He followed it only far enough to make us think we were safe. We weren’t.
• At one point we attempted a two-man extraction mission to the kitchen for Dr Pepper. I made it halfway before Nemo launched himself at me like a furry missile.

By Saturday, we were rationing snacks and whispering like fugitives.
At one point, Jerry whispered, “Maybe he just needs to know we respect him.”
And I swear, for a moment, we both considered trying to reason with the cat.

By Sunday morning, the dream was dead.
We hadn’t recorded a single note.
Our grand debut had devolved into a hostage negotiation with an animal that didn’t speak English and clearly hated our music.

That afternoon, Rudy and his wife, Heather, came home.
We thought their arrival would break the spell. But even they moved cautiously—like people reentering a house that had recently been haunted.

Rudy opened the door, saw Nemo sitting in the hallway, and said, “Hey, buddy,” in the same tone you’d use with someone holding a knife.
Heather just nodded, the look of someone who’d already made peace with her captor.

We packed quietly.
Nemo watched from the windowsill, tail flicking, perfectly calm, as if we were just the latest in a long line of tenants who’d misunderstood the terms of the lease.

And that was the end of our first and only recording session.

We didn’t quit The Van Burens that day. Technically, the band’s still together.
We’re just… on an extended hiatus.
Still waiting for the right moment—
the one where we finally make it out of the guest room.