I sat at the computer staring vacantly at the screen. My bank account was down to a few pennies, and I figured if I stared long enough a healthy balance would suddenly appear. I hadn’t worked since March 2020, when the pandemic ended the world we once knew. At that time, I had a show ready to go into workshop and another one optioned for Broadway. Between then and September 5, 2021, the cats and I lived nicely off my Social Security, union pension, and Pandemic Unemployment Assistance (PUA). When the PUA ended on September 5, we lived from then to April 2022 on my savings. When the savings were gone, I thought, well, things will soon look up. Broadway’s reopening, and New York is moving again. My shows of 2020 will spring back to life, and I’ll start getting calls for other work.
Only . . . my phone didn’t ring, and I dragged my family through June on credit cards. I knew chances of work were slim for a while yet. Pops concerts were still filling their 2020-2021 contractual obligations, and I didn’t expect any calls for at least several more months. I had been trying to get a project to record significant musicals produced between 1900 and 1950 off the ground, but investors and philanthropists were reluctant to part with their cash until things settled down. Inflation was out of control. I was running out of cash, I was lying to three cats about how well we were doing, and I was frightened. There were anxiety attacks I tried to keep from the cats, sleepless nights, and a wish to never get out of bed. It’s hard to wait things out when you’re living on plates of fresh air. I was terrified.
This isn’t my usual treat, Thatch complained. Where are my salmon treats? I love them.
Amazon’s out of stock, Thatch, I lied to him. I’ll get more for you soon. At least you have your shrimpies.
I’m tired of this dry food, Annabelle said. Can’t we try something else?
Soon, Missy. As soon as my Social Security comes in, I promise.
So, there I sat, watching a screen showing a minimal bank balance. There was no television because Spectrum had turned off my service for being a month behind in payment, and I was reduced to lying to three disgruntled cats and wishing I could call the corner deli and order myself a cold bottle of Coca Cola.
Oh, God, do I hate my life, I thought. How many days do we have left before the Social Security lands in my account? Then I can pay Spectrum.
Daddy? What’s wrong with the television? Annabelle asked. I can’t get a picture, and it’s time for Hollywood’s Hottest Cats on the Kitty Channel.
I just checked the computer, Missy, I lied. Spectrum’s having issues. I’m sorry.
Come on, Annabelle, Thatch yelled, we can watch a DVD instead.
All right. She jumped off the table and ran to join him.
What the fat hell am I going to do? I thought.
And then the email arrived from London. It was from my friend Martin, and he had some work for me, if I were available.
Was I available? Does Donald Trump deserve a long-term prison sentence?
I answered Martin’s email at once, trying to suppress my enthusiasm and desperation. Yes! I wrote, I’m between jobs at the moment. Is this for your holiday concerts in December?
After sending the email, I gathered up the cats’ breakfast dishes and washed them. I then went into the bathroom and cleaned the little while Annabelle told me what I was doing wrong.
Martin’s return email advised me the work was for a November Broadway-West End pops concert, featuring my dear friend Kim Criswell and a few other names I recognized. He had a couple of charts he needed, and did any of the proposed titles grab my attention?
Yes, a couple did, I wrote back. I had a few more questions, and I needed keys for a couple of the songs, like where was I going to find the music for Which Witch? As a postscript I asked for a bit of money in advance.
Once the email was sent, I checked on the cats. All three sat on my bed watching Judy Garland skip down the Yellow Brick Road. I stood up. I had to check my supply of music paper. Did I need new HB pencils? I also needed to clean off my work table, which had become the home of anything – scores, books, magazines, mail DVDs, CDs – that I needed to put away.
This will keep me occupied for a while, I thought, as I sat down to get things in order. I sorted things into various piles, then I limped to the tea cart I used to carry things around the apartment, and began putting things away. As soon as The Wizard of Oz ended, Annabelle jumped onto my worktable.
What are you doing? she asked me.
Cleaning off my worktable, Missy.
Oh.
How was your movie, Missy?
I always cry at the end, she told me. If we had someone to play the Scare Crow, I could be Dorothy, Thatch could be the Tin Man, and Stella could be the Cowardly Lion.
What about me? I asked.
You’re the Wicked Witch.
I had no reply to that news, so I continued with my work.
So what are you doing? Annabelle asked again.
Well, Missy, I just got a bit of work, and I’m preparing to begin.
What kind of work?
Some pops concert in London for my friend Martin.
Oh? When?
Later in the year. November, maybe?
Oh, she enthused, do you think you could get them to hire me?
I don’t know, Annabelle; I think my friend Kim Criswell will be the headliner.
Well, write your friend – his name is Martin? – write Martin and tell him I’m available.
He’ll love this, I thought. Instead, I asked her, Do you have any demands I should advise him about?
Yes, indeed I want this in my contract: my name in type 50% larger than anyone else –
Annabelle Katt-Moore or Annabelle? I asked.
Just Annabelle. You know, like Madonna or Lilo or Yana.
Okay, Annabelle it is. Anything else?
I think I should open with “Chase Me, Charlie.” It’s Noel Coward, and they’ll lover me for that. Should I follow up with “Litter and Be Gay?
Uh, yyou know that’s “Glitter and Be Gay?”
Just a bit of kitty humor, you know.
Don’t you think Martin has his concert program already planned? He sent me a list of songs he needs.
He’ll change it for me.
Fat chance, I thought. Instead, I asked, Any more demands?
Let me think . . . I also want first class travel for me and my assistant, Thatch, a four star hotel, approval on menu, car, and litter.
I heard my name, Thatch said as he jumped onto my worktable.
That’s right, Thatch! For when I do guest star appearances in England. You’re coming as my assistant. Oh, Daddy, I absolutely must close the first act.
When do we go? Thatch asked.
When pigs fly, I thought. Instead, I said, I don’t know, Annabelle, you want bigger billing than Kim, and she’s one of my very dearest friends.
After giving me a long, cool gaze, Annabelle said, She will understand; all’s fair in love and billing.
The week passed more smoothly than I anticipated. The Social Security landed on Wednesday, and we had television again, Thatch got his salmon treats, and Annabelle fretted over her musical debut in the UK. Thatch, Stella, and I all suffered. She called her publicist-manager R.U. Fémos, and he advised her about various things she might do before her arrival in London, where she expected to make a huge splash. She loves R.U., who left Manhattan during the pandemic for his summer home in the Hamptons, and trusts him implicitly for his experience, knowledge, and his enthusiasm in representing a cat, something he’s never before encountered in his PR world. Now that his office was back up and running, Annabelle and he chatted at least twice a week. From our first meeting, he saw the eager-to-learn teenager hiding behind the Big Diva mask, and she made him laugh. I was grateful he was in Annabelle’s corner.
I had never sent her offer to star in London or list of demands to Martin, and I hated myself for letting her ego and ambition run away with her mind. I wasn’t intentionally cramping her style, but I was trying to keep her dreams and ambitions on a more practical level. The question was, since I was too cowardly to admit I had never contacted Martin and she had no concert work lined up in London, what on earth could kibosh her ambitions for international stardom and keep me out of the picture?
Trying not to look as though we were not eavesdropping, Thatch and I sat at the computer, noodling on the keyboard and trying to look occupied with other matters. Then a huge gasp from Annabelle made us drop all pretense of not listening in on her phone call.
A passport? she gasped. I need a passport? No . . . I’ve never had a reason to get one. I’ll talk to Daddy about it. Yes, yes, I will, I promise! Let me get a passport, and then we’ll talk about my contractual demand . . . really? Too demanding?
She hung up the phone and gave a wide-eyed Thatch and me a mournful look.
Annabelle? I asked. Missy, what’s wrong?
Did you just hear my conversation with R.U?
Before Thatch could say yes, I dove right in. No, Annabelle, why? I asked. Thatch and I were looking up a few words he doesn’t understand in the play he’s been reading. Our Town, I think.
Yes! Our Town, Thatch told us.
He’s confused by all the references to a time and style of living beyond his ken. Grover’s Corners is a completely foreign territory for him.
I understand, Thatch, she told him. I read that play ages ago. I still don’t understand it. Trust me: stay away from Thornton Wilder . . . and the Bible. It sounds like Shakespeare and makes no sense at all.
So, Missy, tell us what you and R.U. were talking about.
I need a passport, she said. I don’t even know what a passport is.
I know! Thatch exclaimed. It’s a government document to allow a person from one country to travel to another.
I can’t go to London if I don’t have one.\
Ah, I see, I said. I really hadn’t thought about that. Well, let’s go online and see if you can apply for one.
And so we did. It was hell.
Annabelle Felina Katt-Moore not only had no passport, she couldn’t even prove she was a US citizen. After two horrible, nightmarish hours out of Kafka, Annabelle was in complete despair, and that only deepened when she learned there was no place to apply for a copy of her birth certificate,
Is Donald Trump behind this? she asked me. Why is he ruining my life?
Passports have been in existence long before Donald Trump began ruining things, Annabelle.
Nope. He’s behind this. I’m sure it’s payback for our photo. Don’t you agree, Thatch?
I forgot about that! Thatch exclaimed. It was a good picture.
In October 2020, I had sent R.U. a photo of Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella in their “Cats Against Trump” caps and T-shirts, and he had submitted it to the newspapers. We got a lot of coverage.
It’s all going badly, Daddy, Annabelle sadly told Thatch and me.
Well, maybe things will work out, Annabelle, I said softly.
She began to cry. R.U. thinks I asked for too many things in my contract. I should have called him first.
Annabelle, you’re a little girl, I said. There’s still time in your future to conquer London and Paris. You’re still learning. I guess Kim Criswell’s career is safe.
Weeping profusely and threatening suicide now that her international career was apparently dead, Annabelle withdrew from us and retred to my storage area. Thatch, Stella, and I watched her enter her new summer home where her loud wails and curses at Donald Trump kept us awake day and night.
Annabelle? Missy? I knocked on the cardboard wall of her Bounty paper towels carton, Annabelle? You’ve got to come out and eat, Missy. Please, Annabelle. Thatch, Stella, and I miss you. It’s been two days now.
I want to die, she moaned. I have no reason to live. I was going to conquer London and become an international star! My dreams are dead. Who invented this stupid passport scheme?
Annabelle, I began.
I know it’s Donald Trump! It’s payback for that photograph R.U. Fémos got in all the newspapers during the election. After a pause, she added, I looked good in that photo, and I know it would have led to more work, except for that pandemic. My life is over. Just pull the sheets up over me. I’m going to die. Don’t forget me.
Annabelle, you’re not going to die, you hear me. You need to stop obsessing over a concert in England and come back to reality.
Which is?
A cat cannot get a passport.
Now you sound like Donald Trump!
Trump is not behind this, Missy. Really, he isn’t.
So you say. I know better.
Well, please, come eat something. You haven’t had a bite in two days.
No, I want to die. Just write on my tombstone: “Donald Trump ruined Annabelle’s life.”
At that moment the phone rang and I had to get up to answer it.
Hello? I asked.
Mr. Moore? It’s R.U. Fémos here. How’s our little darling? I wanted to check on her.
Oh, she’s miserable about that passport situation.
Well, I might have a commercial for her.
Oh, that’s good. That should perk our little star right up.
What? Annabelle called. What? What?
I thought that might cheer her up. Can I speak to her?
I don’t know. She hasn’t eaten or come out of her latest cardboard box for two days.
IT’S MY SUMMER HOME! she screamed from the storage area.
©2022, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 