The Leopard McCauley
Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Gisselbrecht Hyena
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its publisher.
The blaring howl of a police siren knifed through my belly like a plague from the busy streets below, outside my bedroom window. I turned groggily from under the sheets of my small queen sized bed to my left and glanced anxiously over at the clock on my nightstand. 4 AM. I stood wearily on shaking feet and ambled out of the small studio sleeping quarters of my apartment to my lavatory for a quick shower and all before donning my favorite lavender hoodie and old worn pair of long cut, Carpenters jeans passed down from my father about three years or so ago before his passing on to his new chosen life. As one of the very few young leopard females or other Africana native species currently running a gig down at the local cleaners downtown, it was most certainly and highly unlike myself in all the sense to ever dream of being the slightest bit late; let alone the more than many repercussions that would arise, aside from just simply being given the usual pink slip, compared to most other certain workmates. I padded my way over toward the door on the pink pads of my naturally bare feline feet, as even way up in this day and age of 1955, it was still a hell of a lot more than a forepaw and a leg just get decent shoes; at least in this part of town, that didn’t look like the equivalent of Swiss cheese or were still from the civil war era of completely non-existent left or right. “Ehh, Rosie!” A familiar alto voice sounded from below the rickety staircase, as I gingerly inched my way down. I rolled my eyes comically at the ever so nostalgic appearance of my old cubhood groupie and compadre, Kyra Nordstroem smiling warmly and half smug, as she leaned lazily back against the frame of the little plate glass window; munching mightily here and there on a few bags or so of beef jerky. “Heh. Damn Haiti Lady.” I scoffed in mock indignation, slapping hands with the crocodile in usual morning greeting and condolence. “How are things poppin’ down at the shop now that old, Mr. Charlie nearly got us shut down for Al Greening the hell outta that one prick who spit in his face over using starch for that little Sherlock Holmes trench coat of his?” “Slow,” Kyra responded, gulping down yet another whole bag of jerky. “But, still fortunately business all as usual. Now, speaking of which, we should really be getting down to the B&O depot right about now. With the way things are boilin’ down in the street and all, this little business of ours ain’t gonna stay entirely African owned for very long; especially if were hella late.”
Rosa Louise McCauley didn't exactly get to enjoy all the more finer things of what we hyenas and other African species up to the current generation now deem the simple life or in new generation slang, "The Thug Life". As a cleaner at one of Tuskegee, Alabama's most likely one and only African species owned businesses downtown smack dab in the middle of the fall season of mid 1955, she has her work pretty much cut out for her in the midst of what would very soon be one of the hardest struggles of equality and civil rights all to ever take place in the history of America and quite possibly the rest of the world over as well.