I said to Dakota, “What should I write a story about?”, and he said, “Write about the time Sookie got out.”  So, based on the very true story of when I lived in Greenpoint and Sookie escaped for three days, this is “Bartosz and the Cat.”

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Bartosz and the Cat

Bartosz was already running late, his paint-spattered boots smacking a staccato beat against the steel plates on the stairs, when he saw the cat, sitting under the stairs, her eyes wide and stupid.  He remembered the face and the red collar from the flyer slipped under his door— “Lost Cat,” his daughter Kasia said, in her loud, clear English, “oh, Papa, ktoś stracił kota,” she translated into Polish for him.  “Dziewczyna numer cztery.”  He only nodded, grunted, “Hmmph.”  The girl in number four. Why Cas had rented to an American girl, who could say.  Probably she could pay. Greenpoint was getting more expensive by the month and, with one of those Brooklyn girls in, Cas would probably get greedy and see how much more he could charge.  

And now her cat was missing.  Except it wasn’t, because there it was, sitting under the stairs.  

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