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Mazie told herself that she wasn’t embarrassed to be white trash from Coon Creek, per se. She just didn’t want anybody to know. It was kind of like having done time in prison. Given a choice, she preferred not to mention it.
She honestly loved lots of things about her hometown—her family, of course, even though her brother had shit-for-brains; her seventh grade English teacher, Ms. Nixon, who’d encouraged Mazie to become a writer, mostly because her grades in all subjects other than English were solid Cs; summer bluegrass concerts at the gazebo in the town square, where she used to listen and sit with her feet in the fountain, until they canceled the concerts and turned off the fountain; the Fourth of July Boom-a-Thon at the high school stadium, where every year people swore the fireworks show was better than the last one, even if it wasn’t; Edith Doody’s homemade pies at the Hungry Coon Diner, of course—and she was sure she could come up with other stuff, too, if she really sat down and thought about it. She loved her hometown for those things, sure. But they weren’t nearly enough, so she got the hell out of there as soon as she turned eighteen. If somebody asked her, point blank, if she was from Coon Creek, she wouldn’t deny it. But when they asked where she was from, she said Columbus.
Mazie felt that to succeed in the summer program, she needed to embellish her personal history, just a bit, lest Professor Alolo or her fellow students get the idea that she was nothing more than an unwashed hillbilly. So, when the professor asked the class to write their autobiographies, Mazie took poetic license with certain facts. Instead of attending kindergarten through high school in Coon Creek, Mazie wrote that she was born and educated in the upscale suburb New Albany, where she attended the Columbus Academy and entered the gifted students writing program (well, she had once participated in a spelling bee there). She came upon her social consciousness by virtue of being the daughter of a labor attorney (her father was a union steward—close enough) and a successful businesswoman (her mother certainly always had some kind of get-rich-quick scheme) who advocated for women’s rights in the workplace. Upon graduation, she was accepted at Yale and Dartmouth, but turned them down to attend Oberlin College, which had a mission more focused on her progressive egalitarian values (she had really applied there, as well as Otterbein and Denison, but got denied at all; instead, she went to community college and then Ohio State). Upon graduating with a dual major—English (true) and political science (not exactly, although she had taken a couple of courses)—she went to work as a freelance writer (sort of true; she had published a couple of thousand-word pieces in Columbus Underground, for which she was not paid). Soon she would start graduate school (in the form of free online classes). Ultimately, she wanted to establish her own peer-reviewed journal of experimental poetry and fiction by and for women (true) and nonbinary persons (well, why not?).
When Mazie was satisfied with her story, she turned it in to Professor Alolo by sliding it under the door to his office. She was pleased to have finished the assignment, but also worried, because if he bothered to fact check it, she was toast.
It wasn’t easy keeping her alter egos straight in her mind. She’d been lying to people other than just Professor Alolo. So far as her parents knew, she worked as an investigative journalist for a major internet-news organization. She covered her tracks by saying that her job required her to travel a great deal, so she was gone often, and much too busy to visit home, even for a weekend. Maybe she could get away at Thanksgiving. Maybe.
Mazie lied to her family for their own good. Her parents would not approve of her participating in any kind of a boondoggle that involved Antaeus College. They, like most folks in Coon Creek, mocked Antaeus as a haven for rich hippies’ kids, where they could get academic credit just for being weird. At Antaeus, absent-minded professors expounded from their ivory towers about the glories of feminism, liberalism, socialism, and environmentalism, while denouncing the evils of sexism, capitalism, conservatism, and this-ism or that-ism, depending on their cause of the day. Everybody at Antaeus was high all the time. Nobody there had ever worked a day in their lives, and they looked down at people who did. In the eyes of many citizens of Coon Creek, having a child attend Antaeus College would have made her family pariahs.
When Mazie left for college, her mother told her she was proud of her, but also cautioned her not to “get too big for your britches.” At first, Mazie thought that meant not to get fat, but in time she realized that it was a warning not to get snooty and think she was better than her roots. Wasn’t that the whole point, though? The way she saw it, success by Coon Creek standards was failure by hers.
After dropping off her autobiography, Mazie returned to her room, belly flopped onto her bed, and buried her face in the pillow, hiding from her conscience.
Rufus Cobb knew he didn’t know what he was doing. He was supposed to be working on a research project for Professor Alolo—to find out everything he could about some local historical figure named “Philander Fink.” Research had never been Rufus’s strong suit, though. Other than to google the guy’s name, he was at somewhat of a loss for what else to do. So, he took his questions to the reference department at the Antaeus College Library, where the librarian seemed grateful to be asked and promised to get back to him soon. Cool, Rufus thought, everything should be so easy.
As Professor Alolo’s assistant, Rufus had a key to his office. He sometimes let himself into the office and sat in the professor’s chair, just to see what it felt like. After leaving the library, he had some time on his hands, so he smoked a joint and started thinking about his class assignment. Too bad the reference librarian couldn’t do that for him too. He didn’t think he could pack enough material into his autobiography to make it to three thousand words. Except for the four years he’d gone to the University of Toledo, he’d lived his whole life just getting by in East Cleveland. His story probably wasn’t nearly as interesting as everybody else’s. So, unable to get started, Rufus went to the professor’s office, imagining he could absorb some of the Alolo mojo to inspire him.
The professor’s desk was a mess. Rufus took this as evidence of a tumultuously creative mind, buzzing with so many ideas that Professor Alolo could never put anything away before taking off on some new flight of fancy. Covering the surface were Post-it pads, a pile of paper clips, a box of tissues, overstuffed file folders, books with multiple bookmarks, unlabeled compact discs, doodles on pages ripped from a spiral notebook, pens and pencils, and a pencil holder containing scissors, a letter opener, a tube of superglue, and chopsticks. Also on the desk, centered, was a single autobiography, which someone had turned in early. Alolo had placed it in front of the computer monitor, as if it was next in line for his attention. Rufus could hardly avoid reading it. It was Mazie’s.
Her story surprised him. Something about the woman it described and the Mazie that he’d met didn’t jibe. Usually, Rufus could pick out a privileged white chick upon a single glance. They were all about air kisses and back rubs; their attitude of entitlement was evident in how they flipped their hair, flashed their nails, walked as if strutting down a fashion runway, and posed every time they entered a room. That just wasn’t how Mazie operated; and yet, her story read like it belonged to a bona fide rich bitch. How, he then wondered, could she have qualified for one of the two discretionary scholarships awarded to students who could not otherwise afford to attend. These contradictions made her more alluring.
The desk phone rang, making Rufus nearly jump out of his sandals. Busted! he immediately thought. When the phone rang again, he scolded himself for being so paranoid. Take a breath, he told himself. He picked up the phone and answered, “This is the office of Roscoe Alolo.”
A woman’s voice quavered on the other end, “Oh, uh.” She paused for a breath and then continued, “I’m calling in reference to your stud services.”
Wow, Rufus thought. Professor Alolo’s got it going on. “Huh?” he blurted.
“Oh?” The woman seemed as baffled as he was. “Well, I found this here number listed with the American Boxer Club. I’m trying to get in touch with Mr. Roscoe A-loo-loo.”
“Uh huh. That’s A-lo-lo.” At that moment, Rufus gazed out the window and saw Mazie bending over to latch Shabazz to his leash, and suddenly a lightning bolt of comprehension struck him between the eyes. “Yeah, you called the right number. But he isn’t here. I can take a message, though.”
“Good. What’s your name, young man?”
“My name is Rufus. I’m Mr. Alolo’s assistant?”
“Well, you see, Mr. Rufus, I’m plumb new at this dog-breeding business. I have a, well, I guess it’s okay to say—a bitch—who is ready for puppies. She’s an all purebred, certified, registered American boxer. So, you see, I need to find me a stud dog to, well, service her. I called some kennels, but they’re far away and too expensive on top of that. But then I saw that Mr. A-lo-lo had a local number, so I hope that maybe we can make us some kind of an arrangement.”
“Sure. I feel yah.” He glanced out the window and saw Mazie digging in her heels, trying to restrain Shabazz from chasing a squirrel. “He’s an excellent dog. I bet he’d spawn some great puppies. So, listen, give me your contact information, and I’ll have Professor Alolo give you a call.”
“Professor Alolo?”
“That’s right. He’s a professor of literature here at Antaeus College. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Rufus heard a man’s voice whisper something on the other end; somebody else had been listening to the call. It sounded like he said fuck me! There was an unintelligible back and forth between the two of them before the woman shushed her companion and returned to the conversation.
“No. I ain’t never heard of him. You see, I don’t read very much. But, yeah of course, please have him call me. Tell him to ask for Gertrude.”
Rufus mouthed the name Gertrude silently. It sounded like something you said when somebody sneezed. The idea that he was talking to somebody named Gertrude suddenly seemed hilarious. It was even funnier when he said it out loud. “Sure, Gertrude. What’s your phone number, Gertrude. I’ll have him call you, Gertrude. Goodbye, Gertrude.”
When he hung up, he convulsed with laughter. Gertrude! Really?!?
Toad sat across the counter from Edith Doody, who placed a plate of mixed-berry pie in front of her. She tucked her napkin into her collar and wore it like a bib.
“You want some whupped cream on that?” Edith asked, shaking a cannister of whipped cream in front of Toad’s face.
“Well now, Edith, have you ever known me to say no to whipped cream? I could eat a bowl of it, with or without pie.”
Chuckling, Edith pressed the nozzle on the cannister and swirled the stream of whipped cream as it squirted out. She layered it row upon narrowing rows, until, with a flourish, she released an extra dollop on the very top.
“That looks almost too pretty to eat,” Toad joked, then took a bite. Wearing a whipped-cream mustache, she commented, “A million bucks couldn’t buy a better piece of pie.”
“Pffft. If I could get a million dollars for a piece of pie, it’d sure solve most of my problems. What the hey, though, I’d be happy with just, say, ten thousands, y’ know, enough to fix up my old Bonneville, replace my water heater, get Earl that riding lawn mower he’s always wanted, and maybe buy some new shoes.”
“We can dream.”
“In Coon Creek, even dreaming’s too expensive.” Edith sighed as deep as if she exhaled a piece of her soul. “But I shouldn’t complain. I got it better’n a lot of folks hereabouts. I got my regular customers, ain’t that right, Burl?”
Burl Slocum, seated by himself in a booth and eating his lunch of chicken-fried steak and gravy, did not hear, or heard and did not wish to answer.
Toad leaned across the counter and whispered to Edith, “You sure wouldn’t know to look at him that he’s probably the richest man in town. Whatever he does with his money, he sure don’t spend it on clothes.”
“Not on tips, neither,” Edith said, then, cupping a hand against her mouth, added, “I hear tell that not all of his money is gotten honestly.”
“Well, now.” Toad had an opinion on that subject but held her tongue. Instead, she changed the subject. “But guess what? It looks like my own little investment is a-gonna pay off real soon.”
“Are you talking about that mutt of yours?”
“Dixie ain’t no mutt, she’s a 100% purebred, certified American boxer, and I found somebody what’s got a male boxer to be her stud. If they make puppies, I can sell ‘em for $1,000 apiece, maybe more.”
“For a dog! Ain’t there enough flea-bitten pooches at the animal shelter what anybody can have for free?”
“I agree. But breeders, they pay top dollar for a dog with all the right papers and such. Rich people ain’t like you and me. I get a dog for companionship, loyalty. They get dogs to show off. And $1,000 ain’t no more to them than a dollar to you or me.”
“Who’s this high roller whose dog’s gonna make puppies with your Dixie dog?”
“He’s a professor at Antaeus College.”
Out of the blue, Burl Slocum spat out, “Oooh, la de dah, one of them high-and-mighty intellectuals that have nothing better to do than tell a working man how he ought to live.”
“Burl Slocum! Shut your mouth!” Toad snapped. “That’s the owner of the dog that might be the father of my dog’s puppies you’re a-besmirching.”
“It’s true, ain’t it,” Burl returned. “Them liberals are so full of themselves they think their shit smells like English lavender.”
With her back to Burl Slocum, Toad rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Edith winked in agreement.
Toad picked up where she’d left off conversing with Edith. “Next time Daisy goes into heat, I’m to call this professor. He says he’ll meet me halfway between here ‘n’ there, to get the deed done.”
“Really? Where?”
“Up at Shawnee Knob. He says it’s his dog’s favorite place.”
“Huh?” Edith asked, then answered herself, “It sounds almost like Tramp inviting Lady to an Italian restaurant for a spaghetti and meatball dinner.”
“Well....” It had been years since Toad had seen that movie, so she played the scene in her head. “Now that you mention it, I guess that, in a way, it is sorta romantic.”
