Miss Kitty

Miss Kitty - Prologue

...an explanation...

Within a dark shelf, in a forgotten utility closet, is a storage box. I know what's in it: a bit of shame. Everyone should have a small shred of shame in a box, in a closet. It forces memory to mark that we're human.

As big as the company I work for: with all of its staid facetiousness, human-ness is frowned upon. Shrewd survival is law. The storage box reminds me that law is finite. Insipid shame is forever.

The box figuratively holds within it a moment in time. It holds a...it holds Miss Kitty. A series of embarassments that make up a few scattered notes, some favored yellow pads, dried flowers, a notebook, a mix tape. They, with fading memories, make up Kitty - a solid moment of my history. A textbook...

Tonight I hold back from digging behind the dried sponge mop, the drying rags, the uneager light of a single dull light bulb. I do allow myself to think on it everytime I break it off with another one. I'm sick this way.

As always: it goes on for no longer than four months. I'm not looking into anything serious, I'm only 33, I say. I'm actually 35 and keep forgetting.

She is typically hitting 30 and has the glossy look in her eye by the end. I loathe that look: it reminds me of my mother and it just...when a woman gets that look, I see the hidden grays, the lines that soon will be wrinkles. The settling.

Look: I'm being honest here, folks. I'm not saying I'm perfect. On the contrary: I'm the biggest asshole I know. I try. I really do. I tell myself to be fair. I look in the mirror and see the same hidden grays (not so hidden, anymore), the soon-wrinkles. Lord, I'll be the first to say that it's not them. And, I'm not lying when I tell them that.

And, gah, the mediocre way I go about it - it disgusts me. I'll pull out a cigarette from the same pack I bought a year ago - three are gone. Pour a glass of red wine. Tonight it's raining - and I can't enjoy it either.

It all goes back to the box. The poems, as garish and ham-fisted as they were, at least were a portent of the 20 years to follow. She was the one I adored, wanted to pull the moon from the night sky, couldn't imagine myself with. And she was the only woman I ever let get away. I used the pseudonym in case it fell into the wrong hands (remember high school?) and it stuck.

I finished the cigarette much more quickly than I thought: it must have been dry. I clicked quickly away from '52nd Street' hit "Rosalinda's Eyes" and hit JT's "Sweet Baby James" before letting the soft tapping of the California rain lull me to an uneasy rest.