Short Story Mimi Goes To Harlem

Mimi Goes to Harlem

I was lying in a pool of blood. It was my own. Deep gashes on my face and neck were gurgling. The rhinestone collar I wore did little to protect me. I was becoming faint. In the twilightbetween life and death, I pondered how this had happened. I wanted to turn the clock back, reverse time, and start over. Somehow, as I drifted further away, everything became clear. It was a sparkling April morning. The sweet fragrance of the blossoming Linden trees filled the air. Women and children, in their Sunday attire, gathered at the Bethel Gospel Assembly. On 120th Street and Madison Avenue, the melody of birds rang out like a choir of angels. A sense of comfort wrapped around me like a warm blanket. What could possibly

This heritage goes back to the beginning of the sixteenth century. I am female. Small, friendly, elegant, of fine bone structure, with a temperament that can be, at times, high-strung. I am distinguished from other dogs by my beautiful butterfly ears, thus the name Papillon, which is French for butterfly. My ears are of the complete upright variety. I have an abundant, silky and flowing coat. The history of my breed and its long association with royalty, befits me. Marie Antoinette was led to her death by guillotine clutching an ancestor of mine. So you see, I was destined to be, if not an empress, an empress’s possession. My story, however, does not follow a fairy-tale script. Born with questions to my pedigree, I was considered illegitimate, and sent off for 135 adoption. Ironically, the kennel I was shipped to was the one my father had occupied in the big city. It was rebuilt a few blocks from its original location. There are many ups and downs in my journey and I will tell them as they transpired. But first, before going any further, let me introduce you to the people who took me in, giving me both a home and a name. They called me Mimi, and this is my

The future would burden her with hard learned lessons. Renaldo’s opinion of himself was more assured. A cabaret operator, he considered himself an impresario. This enabled him to mingle with the Jazz musicians he admired and the aficionados he suffered. His love of food and its preparation classified him as a gourmand. As an occupational perk, he honed a talent for telling stories and evolved into a glib raconteur. Peppering his conversational speech with colorful and risqué expletives offended some of the woman he courted. He liked the shock value, and thought it impressive, so he kept up the practice. It also gave him street credit with the combos he hired and its usage increased with the size of his audience. As a hazard of his occupation, he drank too often. Though he grew up middle class, living in a brownstone, in the heart of what was generally considered a lower incomeneighborhood, he relished the fact that his imbibing, cursing and carousing, made him “one of the