When I opened the carrier in my apartment in Boston, Lil Bit ran into the bathroom and curled up behind the toilet into the tiniest black ball of floof imaginable, where she remained for about two days. She could easily have been mistaken for a stray pube. I have a friend who has a name for tumbleweeds of hair on the floor. She calls them “muffice.” Isn’t that great?
I refused to call her Lil Bit because it made me sound like a five-year-old, so while she was under my care I renamed her Ms. Bit. It tells you she might be single, which I liked.
Honestly, she was the most annoying young cat I ever met. All she did was knock things over. It got to the point where I had to remove everything from every surface, unless it was heavy enough to be safe from being pawed off a ledge. She’d approach an object and then look back at me to make sure I was watching, smirk, and wink before she swiped it off.
Ms. Bit was the only cat I actively disliked. I found her smugness insufferable. She’d strut about, proudly displaying her anus for all the world to see. Her anus was a light gray. It resembled a swollen gray balloon knot and it was constantly mocking me, whispering maliciously, “I’m going to fart while you’re eating dinner.” Its bloated, sickly pallor practically gave itself a name: Graynus.
My friends went apeshit for Ms. Bit. They loved her and sang her praises. They said, “What a face!” “She’s a munchkin!” “I’d purchase a townhouse from her!!!” Meanwhile, Ms. Bit continued haranguing me. She was small, as we have established, yet she had long legs, like Meowmi Campbell. One of my favorite party tricks was to say, “Ms. Bit! Do your model walks.” I would then reach under her belly, lift her to her full height, and glide her along the floor, her little legs reaching longingly downward to solid ground. On her face, one could clearly read her “CURSE YOU, HUMAN!” expression.
Her long dancer’s legs created a problem, though. While using her litter box, she’d stand on tippy-cat-toe and shoot her urine over the side of the box. I swear she did this on purpose. I’d spy on her as she got into the litter box. She’d rear up to her full height, then tremble as she forcibly ejected urine in a shot-put arc over the side of the box. I was forced to purchase a litter box that had sides high enough for a cheetah.
I gave Ms. Bit a series of nicknames that are befitting: Senator Bit, District Attorney Bit, Lieutenant Detective Bit, Demoness, Nachtmare, and Satan.
After three months, I called my mother and told her, “OK, it’s time to take your cat back. She’s driving me crazy.”
“No, thanks,” my mother replied coolly.
I was livid, but not livid enough to try to find her a new home. Something was happening between us. Think of Ms. Bit as the Beast and me as Belle. There may have been something there that wasn’t there before.
I began to warm to Ms. Bit’s eccentricities, and that ice-cold weasel knew it. She began to curl up on my lap as I read a book. She slept (while continuously passing gas) beside the mouse pad as I composed pop music. She helped me fold the laundry and taught me how to do my taxes.
Ms. Bit became my child. And I owe one great accomplishment to her. On my first date with Dan, aka Milk, I regaled him with tales of Ms. Bit. So effective were they that Dan was crying with laughter for an extended period of time. I thank Ms. Bit for essentially “sealing the deal” for me. Bless that little befurred matchmaker.
Ms. Bit lived to be nearly nineteen, and though she has now passed, I was convinced she was immortal. I had noticed some changes in her old age, though. She had found her voice. My little Christina Aguilera began wailing at six a.m. for food. Her meow was broken and sounded like a fork in the garbage disposal. She moved slowly and her fur displayed pluckable tufts. I could tell which parts were ready to be pulled because they stuck out slightly. I had a neurotic compulsion to pluck the tufts, which was somewhat deranged. She had ceased to use the litter box. We had reached a compromise in which she used pee pads, like the ones used to train puppies. But if I went away for too long, she’d take revenge dumps wherever she liked. She had approximately two teeth left in her odiferous mouth. I’d leave dry food out for her all the time, which she swallowed whole. Her true love in life was Smooth Loaf canned cat food. Smooth Loaf comes in many flavors: chicken liver, salmon face, turkey neck, horse hoof, and walrus nipples. If Ms. Bit lived for one thing, it was her beloved Smooth Loaf.
An elderly cat is much like an elderly human. I loved the old bat, but she wasn’t living a terribly happy life at that point. I watched her slow down to the point where she lost all control of her bowels and was walking around in obvious pain, wincing and limping with each step. I stuffed the little witch into her carrier and took her to the veterinarian, who delivered the sad but unsurprising news that she was dying from kidney failure and possible colon cancer, and that it was time for her to be put to sleep. Standing outside on the sidewalk (pandemic protocols did not allow pet owners inside the vet’s office) while my beloved Nachtmare was being released from a long, happy life, full of snuggles and Smooth Loaf, I asked myself some questions: Are pets worth it? What do they teach us about ourselves?
I have come to the conclusion that caring for something, whether human or animal, is always worth it. Having pets has taught me horrible things about myself. I am selfish and cruel, but I do have the capacity to change. And I think it’s easier to learn about yourself from relationships with animals than relationships with humans. The ethics are simplified. Did you provide? Did you love? Did you accept? Did you sacrifice?
With the passing years, I try to treat people the way I learned to treat Ms. Bit: with love and understanding. This way, when I’m finally put “to sleep,” I won’t hate myself in the afterlife . . . or whatever.
AL
In 1998, a new boy joined my dance studio. His name was Al and he was a year or two older than my friends Kurt and Jordan and myself, who were all fourteen. Al was a charismatic, openly bisexual guy, which fascinated me because I had yet to come to terms with my burgeoning sexuality. He loved to laugh, had a flair for drama, and was seemingly stoned at all times. He wore a silver ball-chain necklace, a look usually reserved for grungy skateboarders. His teeth were bright white, and his hair was fashioned into tight twists, which he absently re-twisted while he emphatically spoke. His face was home to inexplicably persistent specks of glitter—not purposefully applied glitter, but accidental glitter. Perhaps he moonlighted as a teenage drag queen or was often just returning from a club. He sang everywhere he went and dreamed of Broadway stardom.
Al lived in Bridgeport, Connecticut, with his mother. His house had a completely furnished basement, where he’d often host parties at which one could drink forties of Olde English malt liquor, smoke cigarettes or blunts, take ecstasy, and hook up with whoever was interested, all while dancing and singing along to Destiny’s Child or TLC. These basement parties attracted people from all over southern Connecticut.
At one of Al’s parties, I met a quarterback from Easton, a neighboring town. The quarterback was a stud in classic late-nineties/early-aughts fashion, with spiky frosted tips and a chain necklace peering out of an Abercrombie & Fitch button-down. Later that night, when Al turned off all the nights, the quarterback and I proceeded to hook up right there on the sofa, surrounded by others who had also found hookup partners. I wouldn’t kiss him, though. He was the first guy other than Kurt and Jordan I had hooked up with. My fears were beginning to manifest in a real way. Was I gay? At that point, I hadn’t really ever kissed a guy, and I hadn’t ever had anal intercourse, despite Kurt’s best attempts to deflower me using my stepmother’s perfumed hand lotion, which only led to an extreme burning sensation in my anus. Fire in the hole! As long as I wasn’t kissing boys or having sex with them, I was straight . . . right?
During another one of Al’s parties, Kurt and I sneaked up to Al’s bedroom. We were naked and enjoying ourselves when Al burst into the room screaming, “You’re always sucking each other’s dicks!!! Why not MINE?! Is it beca
use I’m BLACK?! You’re both RACISTS!!!” He was on drugs. I know now that Al was on drugs much of the time. My teenage eyes didn’t recognize the signs, though. He was wildly erratic. I know he saw a therapist often and missed rehearsals frequently for unknown mental health reasons.
After his diatribe, Al seized my testicles with one hand, his long fingernails filed to sharp claws, digging into my scrotum to the point of breaking skin. It felt as if the pressure would rupture one of my testicles. With his other hand, he pressed me down and shouted at me. He put his mouth around my penis and began to bite down, hard. I tried to push him away, but he clamped down harder with his teeth and his long, pointed nails. I honestly don’t remember what Kurt did. I just remember thinking that we were too scared to move and that I was in physical pain. Finally, Al released me and abruptly stormed out of the room.
We all remained friends, because teenage boys from Connecticut weren’t taught to talk about difficult, real-life situations. I did my best to put it out of my mind afterward. My ability to compartmentalize trauma is one of my gifts.
A few years later, I received a call from a friend that Al was found hanging from his bedroom ceiling fan by the cord of a hair dryer. I desperately wanted to feel surprised, but I couldn’t muster it. Al was incredibly special, but he was haunted. Sometimes, horror just follows someone you love. Sometimes a bit of that horror rubs off on you, and you wear it at all times, like an outfit you can never change. We have to learn how to be good at accessorizing; otherwise horror is all we see when we look in the mirror.
Stranded in Casablanca: The Pussycat Dolls Musical
by
James Whiteside
CHARACTERS
JAMES: An American ballet dancer, trying to get home to New York City. He’s hungover from a late night out.
JAMES’S IPHONE: JAMES’S iPhone. Duh.
DAN’S IPHONE: JAMES’S boyfriend Dan’s iPhone.
AGENTS, CLERKS, WORKERS, etc.: Airport, hotel, and bar workers. All played by same man and woman.
ENTITLED RAGE: An Indian businessman prone to fits of rage, trying to get to Boston for work.
CRYING GIRL: A daddy’s girl who can’t stop crying. A valley girl, spoiled brat, and genius.
QUIET LADY: A quiet lady.
SWEATY WHITE GUY: A nice guy who can’t stop sweating.
BRITISH TWINS: Corpulent British twin sisters who curse a lot.
PREPPY: A tall, handsome British man who works in wind energy.
OLD COUPLE: An old couple.
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN: A crude, misogynistic ship officer.
RUPERT: An Irish dancer who was the reason for JAMES’S hangover. Played by same man as PREPPY.
Act One
Scene 1
LONDON GATWICK AIRPORT. 4:01 A.M. CHECK-IN COUNTER.
JAMES, a tall, skinny, bearded homosexual, hurries up to the check-in desk for British Airways. He is dragging two suitcases behind him and keeps tripping on the wheels, as the handles aren’t long enough for him.
AIRPORT MAN 1
Check-in is closed.
JAMES
’Scuse me?
AIRPORT MAN 1
Closed at 4 a.m. You’re too late.
JAMES
It’s 4:01. Are you serious? My flight to New York is at 7.
AIRPORT MAN 1
I’m deadly serious. We take one minute very seriously here at British Airways.
ENTITLED RAGE, a portly Indian businessman with gorgeous hair, begins walking in tight circles behind JAMES and huffing and puffing.
ENTITLED RAGE
Perfect! Absolutely fucking PERFECT! FUCK! SHIT! AAAAAARRGH! CUNT! FUCKING CUNT!
JAMES turns around in horror to view ENTITLED RAGE, flailing about in a tizzy.
AIRPORT MAN 1
Sir, if you can’t calm down, I’ll have to call security.
To JAMES:
You’ll have to speak with the help desk in order to rebook.
He points to adjacent help desk. JAMES gathers his two large suitcases and walks over to it, face dark.
JAMES
Hi. I need to rebook my flight to New York City as soon as possible. I’ve got a very important campaign shoot for American Ballet Theatre’s Eightieth Anniversary brochure. You see, I’m a principal dancer and am therefore very important. Hundreds of elderly people will be wondering where my picture is when they receive their brochures in the mail. Old people go absolutely mad for the mail. I mustn’t miss that shoot! The elderly need me!
Sirens blare and the lights shift. JAMES launches into opening musical number, a check-in desk rendition of “When I Grow Up” by the Pussycat Dolls.
AIRPORT LADY 1
OK. You’ve come to the right place. I’m your lady! You’re in luck! Gee whiz, are you in the right place at the right time!
JAMES hands her his US passport.
Well, as you’ve booked through a third party, we won’t be able to waive the flight-change fee, and you’ll need to pay full price for a new ticket. Aaaand it’s Thanksgiving weekend and there aren’t any direct flights to New York City for a full week. If you want to get back, you’ll have to do multiple connecting flights. Is that all right?
CRYING GIRL begins moaning behind JAMES in line. She is a petite woman in her mid-twenties with a tear-streaked face that displays unbelievable tragedy. She is speaking on her mobile phone.
CRYING GIRL
Daddy, it’s insane here! Everyone’s insane! They wouldn’t even let me check in! Can you believe it?! I’m at the help desk, which should actually be called the FUCKING BITCH DESK!
CRYING GIRL begins to weep uncontrollably.
JAMES
OK. What are my options?
AIPORT LADY 1
Well, let’s see. You’ve come to the right place. I’ll get you set up. Might even be a better flight!
Her fingers clack cheerfully on her keyboard while she looks up periodically to perform a manic, saccharine smile at JAMES.
Here’s one! And check-in ends in an hour, so that’s perfect!
Frowns at her screen.
Oop! It’s gone. Better act quickly if we’re going to save the old people of New York City! OK, here’s another one! But it’s $47,000. Will that do?
JAMES
Wincing:
It’s a bit high. Anything cheaper?
AIRPORT LADY 1
Let’s you and me have a look-see. Ah, yes. Fancy going through Japan? Hmm, probably not. Ah, OK. Here’s the one! I’ve got you going from London to Casablanca to Boston to New York for $1,600 on Royal Air Maroc. We must act fast! There are a lot of weeping twenty-somethings with daddy’s credit card in line behind you.
JAMES
Yes, OK. I’ll try to get a refund for the other flight.
Hands AIRPORT LADY 1 his credit card.
AIRPORT LADY 1
Excellent. Aaaaaaaand you’re all set. Here’s your boarding pass and you can check in back where you tried and failed before. Thank you for choosing Gatwick Airport and do try to be here approximately thirty hours in advance next time.
JAMES walks to the check-in desk.
AIRPORT MAN 1
Ah, back so soon?
JAMES hands AIRPORT MAN 1 his passport and boarding pass.
Two bags? OK, that’ll be $300. Let’s just make sure they’re under seven pounds each.
JAMES hoists them up onto the scale one at a time.
Sorry, sunshine, but they’re both overweight. Too fat. Chubby. Chunky. Corpulent. That’ll be $900 extra per bag.
JAMES hands AIRPORT MAN 1 his credit card begrudgingly.
Blackout.
Scene Two
AT ROYAL AIR MAROC GATE. 5 A.M.
JAMES texts his boyfriend, Dan, back in New York City.
JAMES’S IPHONE
They wouldn’t let me c
heck in. I’m literally going to explode. Everything was sold out because of fucking Thanksgiving. Now I have to fly to Boston via Mofuckingrocco. It’s 5 a.m. and my flight is at 11 a.m. I have six hours to wait. I am very depressed and my funds are depleted. And I’m still drunk.
JAMES looks around at the gate and sees ENTITLED RAGE and CRYING GIRL sitting across from him. ENTITLED RAGE is snoring loudly and CRYING GIRL is on the phone again.
CRYING GIRL
OMG. I can’t even. Can you even? I mean, can anyone even?! The man at the desk literally was a dog. Like full dog. Ugh, he was legit barking. I was like, “Can I check in?” and he was all, “BOW WOW! WOOF! NO!” Ugh! I’m never leaving the States again. London is full of poison dog people! I am so fucking mad at Jassica for taking the later flight. I begged her to fly with me and she was all, “That’s too early. No way, Jose!” Serves me right for having a friend named Jassica.
Blackout.
AT ROYAL AIR MAROC GATE. 9 A.M.
More travelers have arrived and are sitting, scattered about. There’s a morning airport din.
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