First I'll be needin' yer full name, honey. It's for my confidential records. Lord knows none o' the girls actually uses 'em.

*thinks it over for a second* Yeah, all right. So long as it stays confidential, I can’t see the harm in tellin’ ya that. Go on, write down Kathleen McElroy… that’s little c, big E… Harding. You got that? Alright, now cross out McElroy. I won’t be usin’ that name anymore, you can bet your life on that.

So what do people actually call ya? An' why?

People call me Kathleen Harding unless I know ‘em real well and then, to me friends, I’m just plain old Kit. It’s a… it’s an old childhood nickname of mine, one I never grew out of. *narrows her eyes a bit* And it’s Kit. Not Kitty, not Kitten, not Cat. As you can see, I ain’t got four legs and a tail but, go on, call me Kitty if you want to see me scratch.

Age an' birthday? Just estimate if ya ain't sure, hon.

*relaxes a bit now that a new question has been asked* My age? Good Lord. Didn’t anyone ever tell ya that it ain’t proper to go about askin’ a lady that? But them’s the rules, I see. My birthday was back on November 17th and I turned…*sighs, then makes a big display of countin’ on her fingers* I just turned seventeen. Means I was born in 1882 if ya can’t do the math.

Now you's gonna give me a physical description. Height, build, hair, eyes, the clothes ya wears--everythin' down to the last freckle, ya hear? *gives you a sober look* If one o' my goils goes missin'...well, it pays to be prepared, I always say.

What? Ain’t your peepers workin? *shakes head while glancing down to get a look at herself* Well, I’m much shorter than I’d like to be, barely passed five feet, and it’s obvious I haven’t been eatin’ much since I left Ireland. Can’t say I’ve had much of an appetite, and the food here ain’t much better—and I was livin’ in a village still hurtin’ from the Great Famine. My eyes are blue, real blue, like the sea, and my hair… let’s go with mud. It’s brown. You can’t get any browner than mud, right? No freckles, no scars, nothin’ out of the ordinary. Folks used to tell me I was nice lookin’ and all but I won’t be havin’ that anymore. *scowls*

I have two skirts of my own: a brown one with a crooked hem that I sewed meself and a black one that’s turnin’ grey in some spots. I’ve had ‘em so long I won’t part with them and they go fine with just about any shirtwaist I can get my hands on. On account of me bein’ this short, my shoes have always got a heel on ‘em—which comes in handy, I tell ya, when a customer might want a little more than an evenin’ paper.

(Note: Kit has pale, porcelain-colored skin and strikingly pretty features that she does her best to disguise with dust on her cheeks, and thick wavy hair that looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush in ages; she’s very touchy when it comes to her appearance as she’s desperate not to do what was expected of her: ie, coasting through life based on her looks.)

I know you'll be sellin' papes, but are ya doin' any odder kinda work? If so, I gotta know about it. *gives you a sharp look* Yes, even that.

*laughs out loud, the first sign of good humor coming from her* Oh, if my da was dead, he’d be spinnin’ in his grave just to know you’ve been talkin’ to his only girl ‘bout something like that. Nope, it’s strictly sellin’ papers for me. My hands are too clumsy for machines or needles and I ain’t got the patience or the discipline for a life on the stage. No, sellin’ papes and hawkin’ headlines, that’s good enough for me.

What's yer personality like, dearie? Sweet, grumpy, shy, outgoin', overly fond o' the boys? *smiles* It's all perfectly fine here in Greenwich Village.

Me personality? I woulda thought you’d got a good idea ‘bout it from this silly little interview already, but if you insist… now, I could tell ya I was sweet as pie, a soft touch like you’re prob’ly expectin’, but if there’s one thing I ain’t, it’s a liar. ‘Cause, while lyin’ sure sells papes, there’s a time and place for everything. *pauses, waiting for you to disagree* Me, I don’t have time for liars, or fools either. As for how I am, I was a fine girl once but when the good Lord keeps knockin’ you down over and over again, ya gotta learn when to stay the heck down. That doesn’t mean I give up—I just like to think I know when to pick my battles, right? I say what’s on my mind, do what I like, and pray that none of it ever catches up to me. You only live once. Jim—one of my old… my friend, he taught me that.

Now, there are them back home who said I looked like a saint but acted more like a sinner, that I acted like I do ‘cause I’m lookin’ for Heaven’s attention and will get it by usin’ the Devil’s language. I just think that none can help how we’re made and just ‘cause I look like a damn doll, it don’t mean I have to sit around and be gawked at. So I got a thick skin, so they think of me as defensive, so what? I ain’t any different from anybody else I’ve met in this grand new world. *huffs * Thank the Lord for Greenwich Village, I say. If you’ll still have me, I think I might just fit in here after all.

(Note: Despite the harsh front she presents, there’s a desperation there that draws people in to feel sorry for her instead of getting angry. Kit doesn’t understand it, either, and just wishes most of the world would just leave her as alone as she feels inside.)

Now, most o' the Village is real keen on the arts. Got any special talents I should know about? If ya sing, dance, act, draw, paint, write, or sweep a stage, I guarantee the goils'll find ya some extra work. *winks* You can tell me about any non-artistic talents while you's at it.

I guess you could call my voice a talent, if ya wanna. See, I got an ear for sounds and can just about mimic anything I hear. Accents, mostly, though I can do a couple different bird calls, too. One minute I can sound like I do now, like I’ve been born and raised here in the city, a native girl to the core or *slips into her natural Irish brogue* I can sound like the wee lass I was, fresh from the old country. *switches into a soft lilt, the hint of an Italian accent* Mostly, when I’m out sellin’, I try my best to pass for Italian blood ‘round these parts because it helps with the sales, yes?

Any ghosts hauntin' ya that I should know about? I don't mean the kind that supposedly haunts the attic--I mean the bad things that follow ya from yer past, or the bad habits ya just can't seem to shake.

Now, if I had anything hauntin’ me—and I ain’t sayin I do, mind—then I wouldn’t worry ‘bout those ghosts chasin’ me all the way across the Atlantic and into a place like Greenwich Village. As for bad habits… *reaches behind her and with a soft twang and only the slightest of ruffles from her shirtwaist, emerges holding a single hand-rolled cigarette* … you won’t hold a puff or two against me, would ya?

Who ya know in the area, hon? Friend or foe, I wanna hear about it. An' have ya got any fam'ly left?

Family? Yeah, sure, I got family. There’s my da, he’s still alive but I left him in Village Leitrim and I hope he’ll stay there. I got a brother too, Gideon, but he’s livin’ with da. Me ma, God rest her soul, she’s been dead for a coupla years and, I tell ya, there ain’t no truth to the village gossip sayin’ I’m what killed her. *crosses herself* Then there’s Uncle Charlie. He lives here in Greenwich Village which is why I’m here. He’s a little… funny, da says, and we both agreed I’d be better off lodgin’ with girls me own age than stayin’ with him like my da wanted. You heard of the Black Rabbit? That’s Uncle Charlie’s turf, if ya catch my drift.

As for friends, I’m still findin’ me way around here. I haven’t been in town for longer than a handful of months and, ya see, I’ve never been the sort to make friends easily. Enemies, too. I guess I just don’t like dealin’ with others so much.

Seein' anyone special, dear? *smiles slyly*

*frowns in response to that smile* No, I ain’t. *crosses her arms over her chest* Are we almost done here?

Now, last of all, baby, I need ya to tell me why you's here. Where'd ya come from, an' what kinda life did ya have before?

You want to know why I’m here? That’s easy. I’m lookin’ for a roof over my head so I don’t have to stay with my Uncle Charlie and his friends from down at the Black Rabbit. I can pay my way, pay lodgin’ and everything. *shows a handful of copper pennies* Ain’t that enough? I really hope so.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Profile By: Stress

E-mail Address: stressie@gmail.com

Character Song: Behind Blue Eyes by The Who