I was now running over twelve miles a day. I ran more than I slept. Running was the one thing I still felt I could control. I could say I was going to run fifteen miles when I left the house and do just that.
Once I even ran all night. When I stopped just outside the carport the next morning to tie my shoe, Puffy ambushes me from out of nowhere, snagging a hunk of flesh from my index finger before dashing away to hide, shivering, behind the monkey pine.
Which is just about the time when I hear a rustling from inside the Little House. I peek in, and there, next to the riding lawn mower, is the smallest alligator I’ve ever seen on dry land. It’s not tiny by any means, capable of doing some sort of damage, but probably not to me. Mind you, this sort of thing happens all the time on the Gulf Coast. Every member of my family has posed for a snapshot with at least one errant gator, which is crazy considering we’re some distance from the river, but the timing here is damned near awesome.
“Heeeeeere, Puffy, Puffy,” I call out, crouching low to reach her on her own terms.
Puffy eases out from behind the tree, weaving, growling.
A genuine smile starts at the core of my being, a joy at being alive in times of heaven-sent spontaneity.
“You want some of this good stuff, Puffy?” I hold out my hand, pretending I’m eating something beef-tinged and yummy.
She puts her right paw forward but takes it back before it touches the dirt.
I hold out the imaginary contents of my hand in Puffy’s direction. “Yeah, you want some of this stuff,” I say, pretending just how tasty it is.
She responds more enthusiastically this time. One of her ears even twitches.
“Goooood stuff, Puffy.”
Still crouched, I open the Little House door behind me and toss the make-believe food inside.
Like the entry of the gladiators, the ugly little motherfucker sprints over the threshold. Slamming the door behind her with a whoop, I plaster my back against the frame, laughing like Vincent Price in one of those Roger Corman films from the sixties.
Crashes and bangs reverberate from inside the Little House as Garrett, netting dead leaves from the pool, calls over the fence. “Is everything okay over there?”
I offer up a weak, transparent, “Yes, good!” I can hear imaginary crowds cheering for me and all I’m doing for mankind in this singular moment in time. One giant leap for bad dog-haters everywhere. I clasp my hands above my head—World Champion.
I can see Garrett go back to skimming.
“Here, Puffy, Puffy, Puffy.” I can just make out Jewel Ann’s crackly voice as I look over and catch a glimpse of the old lady standing on her front porch with a broom. “Heeeeeeere, giiiiirl!”
More crashes and bangs from inside as I jam myself even harder against the door.
Jewel Ann looks directly at me, goes back to her sweeping, then looks at me again with genuine concern in her face. “HEEEEEERE GIRL!”
Eat my turds, lady.
A furry paw makes a quick, pleading motion under the crack of the door between my feet.
Shit. Not such an unpleasant paw without the ugly-ass face attached to it, I suppose.
Damn hell. I glance back across the road. Jewel Ann is no longer sweeping or calling. She’s just looking at me. Like I’m evil incarnate. Which I’m not. But her shit-eating ugly-ass dog is. Crap, I don’t even think alligators like dog. I just wanted to see what it would feel like to drop something into hell’s mouth and watch it try and squirm its way out. Or not. That’s the thing about hell’s mouth, you never know.
I bask in my victory one last second before I grudgingly open the door a few inches. Puffy bolts out of the carport like gunshot from a .22.
Opening the screen door for her beloved pet, Jewel Ann waves appreciatively just before she attacks a spiderweb over the porch light with her broom. Smiling, I wave back like the world-class champ I am.
* * *
The flat, white package I take out of the mailbox bears a striking resemblance to one of the First Baptist Church yearbooks I’ve collected with the rest of the bills since I’ve been home. But upon closer inspection, I see the parcel is addressed to me. Easing myself down on the battered silver culvert by Blue Cove Road, I tear into the box. A brightly colored hardback titled Know Your Lures stares up at me from paper bag wrapping. On the jacket, the silhouette of an old-world fisherman reels one in. I pull open the front cover; no inscription from the sender.
I hold the book close to my nose and sniff hard. To my disappointment, it doesn’t smell like Joe at all, only a slight new book scent. A car passes, waves, I’ve no idea who. I close the book and hold it flat out in front of my eyes, squinting from the side so the title bleeds into nothingness, like a clean, colorless landing strip.
Looking at the book on the pillow next to me in bed that night, I go back and forth on what the gift portends. Since Joe didn’t sign it, this might be his way of bringing some good-natured closure to the whole thing. It was swell. Take care.
But as I’m drifting off, I’m thinking of the first night I spent at Joe’s. What a fool I made of myself. Lying on the ground, drenched in beer. And he’s directly over my face. Can you breathe? he asks—
And I wake up with a jolt. Like a visitation from someone still among the living, the pseudo-dream leaves me feeling like a wartime amputee who still feels pain in the limb they’ve lost.
I’ll have another chance with Joe. I’ve no idea when it will come. Maybe six months, maybe five years, but I know without a doubt I will. It may not even be a good chance. It may be the shittiest chance anyone ever got. But I’ll have it.
Turning off the bedside lamp, I’m out again before my head hits the pillow, and he is situating a pillow behind my head and a blanket over my beer-soaked body.
“Okay, brother?” he says.
I nod and pull the blanket over me like a squirmy toddler.