“How…old exactly are you?” The pause between the first two words of his question conveyed the real, unspoken question.
“I’m of age.” I replied, giving a thin-lipped smile and adding, after a pause of my own, “In some countries.”

I couldn’t help noticing the chair that he sat in across the desk from me was subtly elevated compared to my own. I guessed this was a power play he often employed when dealing with those he saw as his social inferiors. And boy, was I his social inferior.

Getting in to see him had been an act of bravado driven by desperation. I had conceived my plan several days before and rejected it as silly nonsense, but the last two days of near starvation had pushed me to trying anything. Well, anything but what a girl in my situation would usually have to do.

His bank has two security guards on the door – necessary to keep the likes of me from getting in – but I managed to evade them by waiting until one was talking to a customer and then rushing in when a gaggle of people offered a barrier from the other’s view. Moments later I stood at the reception desk in the grand hall of his bank, a bare-footed waif in stained clothes. The man at the reception desk looked like a prince compared to me. I looked like a beggar. It’s a popular look these days. Since the stock market crashed, begging has been the only real growth industry.

“Look,” I had told them, a manic grin on my face as I tried not to focus on how insane my plan was, “just let Mr. Dervish’s secretary know that a young lady of reduced means is here and is hoping to get on his calendar.”

That didn’t work.

However, loudly proclaiming for all to hear, “Look, let him know I’m Mr. Dervish’s daughter from his first marriage. The one to the airhead heiress that he scr*wed over on alimony.” did.

Honestly, I’ve no idea if Mr. Dervish has ever been married or had a daughter, but I’m banking on the man at the reception desk having as little idea as me. Or at least not being willing to take the chance.

That brazen act had led to a call up to Mr. Dervish’s secretary. And his secretary meeting me. And now me meeting him.

And now I sat across from Mr. Dervish – multi-million/gazillion whatever -aire. Rich guy. Totally old enough to be my pops. Not bad looking. But most importantly: Rich guy.

My proposition to him had been…unusual. That he had heard it out and not had his security guards toss me back out on the streets meant that he was at least sufficiently intrigued to allow me to keep talking, though it may have been more about seeing where the sales pitch for my crazy offer would go than any actual interest in taking me up on it.

“Look,” I said, “Girls on the street talk. They talk about clients and their…interests and preferences. One who used to be high class but had come down in the world spoke about what a nice gentleman you were.” He narrowed his eyes at my allusion to his use of call girls but, hey, he had agreed to see me and hadn’t kicked me out yet so I continued on, my lips dry, “From what she told me you might…” I paused to consider the best phrasing, “…appreciate the qualities of a younger female.”

“So, you are…” he responded.

“Young. Yes. Young.”

There was a moment of tension between us, and I folded first.

“S**t. Yes, I’m still in my teens. But you don’t have to worry.” I lied, “I’m nineteen.”

I exhaled. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. “I’m nineteen. I just look younger. Put it down to genetics, or poor nutrition, or I don’t know, my mother being cursed by a gypsy when she was carrying me. I look younger.” Bleak smile. “Much younger.”

If he didn’t believe me he chose not to show it, but I might as well have claimed to be twice that age for all the likelihood of it being true.

Mr. Dervish looks at me. A petite blonde girl. Very slim because a lack of access to food makes you that way, and short because, well possibly the same issue or, well, who knows. I’m young, but look younger. And feel so much older.

I give him a smile. It is probably too wide, too manic, the grimace of someone who is teetering on the edge of Hell and willing to do almost anything to avoid plunging in. “Look, age isn’t really an issue here, is it. I’m not offering you the chance to, well, y’know, f me.” (Yes I don’t actually say the f word, just f), “I’m offering something different.”

He looks at me. Like, leans in across his desk and looks me straight in the eye. ” Yes, the opportunity for me to ‘adopt’” (yeah seriously, I can hear the quotation marks in his tone) “you as my pet?”
There is a bleakness in my smile that definitely radiates out to my eyes, but I reply with an oh so perky, “Yep!”

Here’s the thing, that thing about the high class call girl who’s fallen on harder times, that’s not entirely true in so much as I totally made it up. Oh, there are many women selling their bodies living in my Hooverville – that’s what we call our shanty towns in honor of our great President who has made this country what it is (broken) – and heck I’m sure some used to hock their bodies to a better quality of johns before the work broke them, but I try not to go near them. I try not to go near anyone in the encampment except when the churches or other good folk are spooning out food and then I’m there in line getting some thin stew that’s not enough to live on, but enough to stop me from dying for at least another day. And, well, I don’t know what Mr. Dervish’s taste in women is but he’s wealthy, and wealthy can buy what it wants, and it always seems to be younger.

He stood, indicating for me to stay seated as he walked around his majestic desk of a highly polished dark wood, taking a piece of candy from a porcelain dish as he did so.

“Do you like candy?” he asked, unwrapping it. I nodded and replied in the affirmative, though I could barely remember what it was like to have some. I probably haven’t had any since before daddy died. Since before my whole existence collapsed into horror.

I reached out my hand to accept it from him, but he tutted and told me, “No, no, no. Pets don’t eat like that.” I lowered my hands to my lap, and then, at his instruction, put them behind my back. Opening my mouth I accepted the candy from his hand as he offered it to me like one might offer a treat to an animal. Then he patted my head. “Good girl.”

The candy was sweet and took me back to happy memories of what seemed so long ago. And tainted those memories.

As I sat there, Mr. Dervish loomed over me, looking down his nose. I raised my head to meet his eyes, unsure if his gaze was one of critical assessment or contempt, but after a moment had to lower my gaze, too aware of my lowly station in life. As he turned and walked over to a cabinet, I looked down at my dress, so drab, so dirty, so frayed, and past that at the carpet of his office, so much cleaner. The carpet made of finer material than the clothes on my back. The only things I possess.

Listening to him pouring himself a drink – no doubt a fine quality alcoholic drink in a high quality glass – I saw the gulf between us. It was the gaping chasm between the haves and have nots that had grown wider and wider since the stock market crashed three Octobers ago. People like Mr. Dervish had the wealth to survive the crash and grow back more prosperous on repossessed properties and from charging higher prices for the goods that had become scarce. People like the ones who lived in the Hooverville where I made my bed had not been so lucky. They had lost homes, lost jobs, lost hope. It was the same with the alcohol that Mr. Dervish sipped as he stood appraising me. Since Prohibition started, legal alcohol sales had ceased, but the wealthy still had their stores to draw upon and, through contacts and money, would somehow never run low.

“Oh course,” he said, as if to himself, “if one were to adopt a pet, particularly one that had been a stray, then one would have to be very, very selective. After all, if one purchases a pet from a breeder, one can expect a certain quality, but a stray? Well a stray may have picked up bad habits from its time roaming the streets. And that most certainly wouldn’t do. No, no, the pet would owe its owner so much for their kindness in adopting them. Why, yes, I dare say one would expect it to be utterly faithful to its master for rescuing it from its dire circumstances. Utterly devoted and obedient lest it find itself cast out again.” He looked at me sitting there, my hands still behind my back. I’m sure he could feel the shame radiating from me. My existence as a human so terrible that the life of a beast would be a step up. Several steps up. He walked over to a pair of double doors, through which I could see a small balcony overlooking the grand hall of his grand bank. A place for a king to look out over his kingdom. He stood there a while while I sat silently finishing the candy, the first food to cross my lips today. And fed to me like an animal.

Mr. Dervish turned back towards me. “Well it certainly is a…unique proposal.” he mused. “A human pet, and quite a charming one too. Tell me, what’s your name?”

Before I had finished the first syllable he shushed me down. “No. No, that would be wrong. Strays don’t get to name themselves, to remain who they were. No, no. Who they were before they get adopted is unknown. A lost past. The owner gets to name the pet and what they were before is tossed away.”

I sat quietly as he paced a little, his finger to his lips, crooked, as if he was in deep thought. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, “I would need a name for you – if I adopt you that is – a suitable name for a pet. One that I could call out and no one would think I was summoning a human, a person. A name that only a pet would have.” He paused, then clicked his fingers, “I know, I will call you Twinkle! Yes, Twinkle, that’s it.” He looked at me again, “If I adopt you.”

“I’ll answer to Twinkle if you adopt me.” I meekly replied.

“Oh Twinkle,” he said, warming to his new name for me, “Twinkle, stand up.” I obeyed, “Now kneel down.” I obeyed. “No, no, I didn’t tell you to take your arms from behind your back.” he gently chided and I returned them back behind me.

He walked over and stood directly in front of me, not a foot between us, the closest we had been so far except for when he fed me. Standing, I barely reached his chest, kneeling my face was at a level with another part of his anatomy. He stood there for what seemed an age and I felt my face get redder, felt like I couldn’t breath, fearing that my greatest dread was about to be realized.

But he just reached over to the desk. Selected another piece of candy, unwrapped it and held it above me, just out of my reach. I knew what I had to do and strained my neck to reach it, hearing him chuckle at my inability to get the sweet treat. “Patience, Twinkle.” he told me and I stopped straining, acting like the well trained pet that I had to be. After a moment he lowered his hand and popped the candy into my mouth. “Good girl, Twinkle, good girl.” he praised me, ruffling the hair on my head, and I beamed back to let him know I was happy for the praise and the treat. That I was a good little pet. Good and faithful and obedient and ready to be utterly devoted to his every whim if he would adopt me. Give me a safe home to live in. And food to eat. It would be a deal unworthy of the basest person who still had hope. But I didn’t have hope. I would cast off my whole existence as a human and become a beast in exchange for shelter and an even partly full belly. For food and shelter and safety I would learn to be the most loyalest of pets, ready to do whatever my master required, and delight in his praise. I would become Twinkle.