I hear scratching sounds coming from inside my apartment. I unlock the door and open it a crack. A scruffy head pokes out. Bruno. Martha asked me to watch him; she had to visit her grandmother in Florida. I nudge him back into my apartment and shut the door firmly so he doesn’t escape or, more likely, tumble down the stairs. “Hey, little guy.” He spins away to lick his genitals.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Kevin: “We’re going to Stripes Saturday. You should come.” Stripes is one of the newer bars on upper King Street. There’s always a queue outside the door. Worse, there is a red carpet for people to wait on, as if everyone is a sort of movie star.
I’ve never been to Stripes before. I’ve never wanted to go, either, nor have any of my friends. At the established bars, locals can expect to see a cousin, an old classmate, a friend’s little brother. That’s just the way it is around Charleston. But things are changing. We’re becoming strangers in our own land.
Stripes is a bar for tourists and newcomers, where our rank as locals goes unnoticed. Perhaps that’s why Dad and his friends value their membership at Battery Hall. Those males know one another; they’ve sniffed one another out, as did their fathers and grandfathers before them. And because of protocols and expectations, there has never been—and never will be—a fistfight at Battery Hall. Men do not make passes at other men’s dates or wives. No one gets sloppy drunk. Everyone’s polite; good manners rule. And while all that social structure feels archaic and suffocating at times, in the recent chaos of my life, the order lately sounds appealing.
“Thanks for the invite. Can’t. Dog sitting.”
Bruno paws at my leg. “What is it? Are you hungry?” Martha left a satchel for him on my couch. I dig around to see what’s inside: a couple of plastic chew toys, a pouch of dry kibble, and a letter with my name on it. That’s sweet.
Simian,
I want to be honest with you. I’m not actually visiting my grandma. I’m on tour with Stone’s Throw. They asked me to be their road manager. I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure that it was going to be a “thing” until recently.
Thanks for taking care of Bruno while I’m gone.
XO,
Martha
A manager? How on earth is she qualified? Her work experience is piecemeal, at best. She assists wealthy old widows with odd jobs, driving them to funerals or organizing their photo albums. Her longest employment stint to date was when she was an administrative assistant at a downtown hotel. Still, that’s not management. And with Harry’s band?
I’ve heard the term “blood boil” before, but I have never experienced it until now. I’m actually feverish. Some ice water should cool me down. Bruno follows me into the kitchen, his nails clicking like castanets. I open the freezer to find that the ice maker’s broken again, so I root around for an old ice tray possibly hidden behind frozen mixed berries and microwavable meals-for-one. I can’t find it, but there is ice—in the form of exploded beer cans. They’re the PBRs Martha brought over that fateful night. Poetic.
“Arrgh!” I yell into the frosty space, then slam the door shut, as if to lock up all the angst released from my scream inside the freezer.
Bruno is whimpering, scratching my legs. “Down, boy.” I brush him away. He yips, racing to the front door and back.
“Okay, you need to go to the bathroom. Hold on.” I change out of my work clothes and into some jean shorts and a tie-dye shirt.
Bruno relieves himself under the “No Parking” sign, and for a long time. When he’s finally done, Bruno tugs on the leash. He needs a walk. I let him drag me for a few blocks until we arrive at a pocket park near a cluster of brand-new town houses.
There, Bruno trots to a patch of grass. He arches his back. Shit. I forgot to bring a poop bag.
I scan the park, looking for something to improvise with. I search the perimeter, under the sycamore trees and behind a lone park bench. Nothing. Where is litter when you need it? I spy a trash can at the front of the other entrance. Maybe someone tossed an empty plastic bag. I lean over the top to sift through it.
“Simons?”
I look up. It’s Trip. I can’t see his face. He’s backlit, his silhouette rimmed by trees. Bruno starts to yap wildly, but I’m too stunned to hush him. I stand still, like a white-tailed deer fixed in a hunter’s crosshairs. We haven’t been this close since we were last in my apartment, before I called off the wedding. It is easier to ignore old feelings for him when he only exists through texts and unanswered phone calls. Now here he is, in the flesh, and my heart beats faster.
What is he is doing here, at this park? On a Tuesday evening? And why, of all times, did he have to catch me while I was rooting through garbage? I take a few quick steps from the trash can. I straighten my shirt, pull a stray thread from my jean shorts.
He walks toward me. Detail by detail, he comes into focus. He wears crisp khakis, a cornflower-blue button-up shirt, a navy blazer. Tiny beads of sweat dot his nose. His expression is both kind and slightly worried.
“What are you doing in town?”
“I had a work conference.” He lifts a camel-colored briefcase as evidence.
“Where are you staying?”
He hesitates. A ripple of small dimples forms on his chin. “With a friend from work.”
“Were you in town last week, too? I thought I saw you.”
“I was. Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah. Good,” I say as convincingly as possible, meanwhile racking my brain for clues. A friend from work? Who does he know who lives near here? Does he come often?
“I’m really sorry about Laudie.”
“How did you know about her?”
“Oh. Um. I don’t really remember. I just heard she had to go to the hospital.”
“Actually, that’s why I was trying to call you. She had a stroke. I took her to the ballet. The whole family told me to not take her, but I took her anyway. That’s when it happened. She’s been getting worse ever since.”
“It’s not your fault, Simons. I’ll bet she insisted.”
“She did. You know Laudie.”
“It’s not your fault, Simons,” he repeats.
It feels so good to hear those words, delivered with such certainty. Though a part of me wishes he had called me Cinnamon. “Do you want to come over for a drink? Before you see your friend?” I try to say the word “friend” as neutrally as possible.
“What are you trying to do?”
“I thought it would be nice to catch up.”
“Simons.” He sighs. “You called off our wedding. You can’t just pick me up again, like some toy.”
“I’m sorry.” I hang my head and stare at the ground. He wears freshly shined penny loafers. I scrunch my dirty toes. “Well, maybe we could have that talk sooner than later. What’s six months, anyway? Just some arbitrary time line.”
“I think time away from each other is a good thing right now. Let’s stick to the plan.” A tiny pinch forms on the bridge of his nose. “I have to go.” He starts to walk away.
“Wait! Do you have a plastic bag?” It is a desperate plea for him to stay, but for what? His companionship? His forgiveness?
He digs into the pockets of his khakis and pulls out some tissues. “I have these,” he offers and places them in my hand. He turns again to leave.
“I miss you,” I yell and wait for some bit of reaction.
Before disappearing behind the corner, he calls, “Take care of yourself, Simons. You’re a good girl, okay?”
I am left standing alone in a patch of grass. I’m not sure how many moments pass before I notice Bruno rubbing against my calves. He looks from me to his little doggy turd, which has somehow already established a colony of flies.
This, I tell myself, is a freebie. Everyone gets a poop freebie every once in a while, right? I pick up his leash and head for the exit.
“Uh-uh-uh.” A woman walking a Great Dane wags an accusatory finger.
“I was going to pick it up,” I protest. She is right. Dog poop pollutes. Enough of it can foul waterways and shut down oyster beds for miles. Still, even though it occurs to me to ask if she has an extra plastic bag, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I came unprepared. I’m going to have to pick up this steaming turd with Trip’s Kleenex.
I layer the tissues, one on top of the next, hoping to create a barrier between my skin and the poop. It doesn’t work. Immediately the feces soak through the Kleenex’s flimsy layers. They’re warm and sodden. I dry heave once as I toss the wad into the trash can.
When I get back to my apartment, I scrub my hands clean. Then I allow exactly one minute to feel jealous of this new friend of Trip’s, not a second more. Next, I text Kevin: “The dog said I could go out.”