“Sir,” said Thomas. “I would appreciate it if you would leave this nice young lady alone.”
He smiled kindly at the girl and noticed that her eyes, red and full of tears, seemed to whisper an unheard thank you.
Then her fist struck Thomas square in the groan. As he doubled over in pain, he looked up at her innocent face. It was red and full of tears.
“Fuck you, old man,” she said. “Mind you own goddamned business.”
“Fuck you, old man,” said the boy and he buried his fist in Thomas’s back.
Thomas fell to the floor. He felt the boy’s boot thump against his ribs. He heard a loud crack. Then he felt nothing. He touched his hand to the back of his head. It was wet. He wasn’t sure if it was blood or perspiration or if they had spit on him. He lay there—beaten and broken.
When the commotion settled and all was said and done, the manager attended to the defeated old man.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said in an unsympathetic voice.
“Makes sense,” said Thomas.
“And don’t come back, you do-goody old fuck,” said the manager as Thomas walked out.
“I could’ve done without that,” Thomas said.
But manager had already closed the door behind him.
Chapter 5
“One of the more interesting things about this industry is that every performer has her own name and her own reason for choosing it . . .”
“That’s one of the more interesting things about this industry?” said Kitty with a smile.
“Fair,” laughed the interviewer. “Regardless, each name has a special meaning. Tell our readers the significance of yours.”
“Well,” said Kitty. “I remember my grandma—she raised my brother and me when my mom was real sick. She always used to pray to St. Clare. She wore a St. Clare medal and had a St. Clare statue in her bedroom and when she died, St. Clare was on the Mass card. She was an important person in my grandma’s life and my grandma was an important person in mine. It just seemed to work.”
“And Kitty?” asked the man intently.
“Kitty . . .” she paused. “Now that’s a different story.”
“Different stories sell magazines,” said the man.
“My pictures sell magazines,” Kitty corrected.
“Fair,” said the man. “But Kitty,” he tried again. “Why Kitty?”
Had she been honest, she would have told him the ability to choose a new name really was one of the more appealing parts of working in the business. When she was born, she was given a name. She hadn’t had a say. Who asked her? Who said, is this who you want to be? Who said, are you ok with this? No one. No one gave a shit. No one cared that this wasn’t who she wanted to be. No one cared that she wasn’t ok with it. If anyone had bothered to ask, she would have said no from the start. She would have stopped before she even began. But no one asked. No one cared. And here she was.
Then she entered the business. When she agreed to do it on screen, she was given a new name. Better: she chose a new name. Kitty St. Clare. She was Kitty St. Clare. No one asked. She chose. She took St. Clare for her grandmother—the woman who raised her. The only one who loved her. And Kitty—she took Kitty for Kitty. The only one she loved.
Kitty was the neighborhood cat. She was a stray with black fur and a white belly. She had double paws and white whiskers and a small tumor that hung from her hind thigh and made her limp on the right side. She had matted fur and oval eyes and when she purred, her whole body shook. She never meowed and she never hissed and sometimes she would bring you a dead mouse or baby rabbit to prove that she was worth loving. She rubbed up against the legs of strangers and she let the neighborhood kids pick her up and carry her for blocks or put her in the baskets on fronts of their bikes and ride even further. She liked milk and she liked being pet and if you were having a bad day she would lick your boot until you laughed and felt better. She was a good cat and she went by the name Kitty and the neighborhood kids adored her.
One day—back before Kitty who does it on screen did it on screen, back before she’d taken the name Kitty in honor of her childhood pet—Kitty the neighborhood cat came looking for attention. It was just after Kitty who does it on screen’s mom got sick and just before Kitty who does it on screen’s grandma moved in and taught the children how to pray to St. Clare. It was then that Kitty the neighborhood cat came looking for attention. She purred and purred as Kitty who does it on screen rubbed her soft underbelly.
“Why you messing with that stupid cat?” asked Kitty’s older brother. “Ma said not to play with it.”
“She’s not hurting anyone,” said Kitty who does it on screen—just a girl.
“Ma said not to play with it. She said it’s a flea bag. She said it’s been making her sick.”
“Mom didn’t say that!” Kitty protested.
“She did too.”
“Did not.”
“Did too, did too, did too! She said it’s been giving her headaches and stomachaches and backaches. She said it’s the reason dad left and she can’t find a decent man and she’s all alone. She said it’s why her life’s shit.”
“No she didn’t.”
“She said she regrets the day it was born and that she’d like to hold its head in the bathtub until it can’t breathe no more just to watch it suffer like she suffers.”
“Stop! Stop it!”
“She said if she could she’d crush its ugly little face.”
“Stop!” Kitty shouted. “Leave us alone. We’re just playing.”
“Playing?” said her brother. “Playing?”
“Playing,” repeated the girl.
Her brother’s boot struck the unsuspecting cat and sent it flying.
“Playing!” he screamed as he chased it down the dead end street. “Playing! Playing!”
“Stop!” his sister cried.
He cornered the cat and booted it again.
It scurried off and hid in a nearby gutter.
After that, Kitty the cat didn’t come around as much. She became skittish and scared and she cried and hissed when the neighborhood kids approached. Worse, she would sit for hours and hours licking the same patch of fur until the fur was gone and all that was left was a swollen red sore where fur and flesh had once been. Then she would lick the sore until it bled and bled. Then she would lick the blood.
“Kitty,” said the man once more. “What made you choose the name Kitty?”
There was a long pause.
“Tell me your story,” the man broke the silence.
“I wish I had one,” Kitty shrugged. “I guess I just thought my fans would find it sexy.”
“That’s it?” said the man.
“That’s it,” said Kitty.
“Well, I’m sure our readers will agree. It is sexy. Very sexy.”
Chapter 6
The Ragged Urchin wasn’t