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"Slack off, Porter," Clemmy says gruffly, signaling for the check as he was born to. Clemmy's the only person who children calls me Porter, which is not my last name but my first name, my children third first name if you want to get technical. I don't think they have a name yet for that. "Promise not to laugh?" I used to say cutely before spitting out my despised monicker, but I don't do that now since nobody does, not in New York City, not at children Katherine Anne Porter O'Shea. That name caused riots in Weatherford, Texas, where I was born, and stopped traffic in Fort Worth, where I was brought up. New Yorkers don't laugh because I might be a relative, and while I never say I am I don't deny it too hard either, not to these vampires, these suck-ups, these would-be slaves of literature. So now you know what ship Momma stowed away on when she brung me into the world and has been sailing on, come to think of it, more or less ever since.
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