My neighbors were right in a way… I was new to living in a chronically poor area. That’s why they kept making jokes about “rape kitty” in reference to my first year on the East Side block – the time I shocked a few sleepy apartment complexes with an attack scream, holding nun-chucks, and finding a cat in heat where I thought I was going to fight a rapist. I was out in only my underwear and boots too.
“Have you even heard a cat in heat?” someone would ask as half the room howled with gin soaked laughter.
“I’m telling you, it sounded like a person crying for help,” I explained for the eleventh time futilely.
“Riiiiiight. Haha… and… and how long did you stare at the shoes?” someone shouted from the right side of the room?”
“Hey you weren’t there. I was there. I was maybe 3 feet away around a corner and it sounded like a person crying.” I said, crossing my arms as if my comment would halt the discussion.
The left side of the room spoke up. “I know! You were right there! And you couldn’t tell! Ah! Haha.” The room howled again.
“Fine, fine… I’m just saying, any of you would have thought the same thing.” I said.
The legend of rape kitty grew preposterous in its retelling. Sometimes the kitty spoke. Sometimes the story had sequels where I would come rushing to the rescue of a fondled frog or molested Chinese crested. It’s been awhile since my friends from the old neighborhood and I connected. They’ve moved on, shotgunned around the region.
It’s too bad. Because I found this: