• • • • •
After he goes around sniffing the house and furniture, Tickles relaxes. I put him in my room with water and food and his doggie bed, and close the door. I don’t want my dad to come home and find a dog before I’m able to talk to him.
Watching Tickles sniff his doggie bed before walking around it a couple of times and sitting, I think about how fantastic it’d be to own a dog.
Tickles barks, and I put my finger over my lips. “Shhh. No barking.”
* * *
I was riding my bike in the street. I was maybe in fourth grade. Occasionally I’d ride to the far end of the street and see the road stretch in front of me for what seemed like forever.
“You are cleared for takeoff on runway six,” I’d say out loud.
“Roger. Runway six,” I’d reply in a different voice.
I’d hit imaginary buttons, and then I’d start pedaling faster.
Faster.
Faster still.
I’d imagine lifting off the ground. Climbing. Higher. Higher.
Away from the earth.
But this particular time, as I pedaled at top speed, I noticed an odd sight: a truck coming at me. I screeched my bike to a stop and watched this large U-Haul turn into the driveway next to ours.
I rode closer to the house and watched as the truck door opened and out came a large man. Followed by a four-legged tiny, brown curly-haired dog. “Hello,” the man said, and waved at me.
I watched the dog run around and sniff various things—the truck tires, the fence. Finally he ran up to me and sniffed at my shoe and bike. He acted as if he had been locked away his entire life.
I looked back to the man. “Are you moving in?”
“Yep.”
“I live there.” I pointed to the house next to his.
“I’ll be your new neighbor, then. I’m Geoffrey.”
I felt something warm on my leg, and by the time I looked down, the dog was already trotting off, acting like he hadn’t even peed on someone’s leg.
“Eww. Yuck.”
The front door to my house creaked opened, and out came my mother in jeans and a knit sweater. “Charlie, come inside and quit bothering this man.”
“His dog just peed on me,” I said, looking at my mom.
“Sorry about that,” said Geoffrey. “He’s never done such a thing before. Must like you.”
“I don’t like him.” I shook my leg to try to get some of the piss off.
“Tell you what,” Geoffrey said. “Stop by sometime, and I’ll give you some ice cream to make up for it.”
My mom smiled.
“Only if the dog isn’t around,” I replied.
Geoffrey laughed, but I was serious.
I got on my bike and rode up to the garage with one yellow sock and a sticky ankle. I really didn’t like that dog.
* * *
It’s about five thirty. I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes, and I don’t want to keep Tickles holed up in my bedroom. So I first decide to let it roam the house. But then I realize that he probably shouldn’t, since he hasn’t been around the house alone yet, and I don’t want him to freak out. So I bring him back up to my room and close the door. On my way to work I stop by a bar called The Office, which is where my dad hangs out with his friends after their shift ends.
The bar is dark and smoky. Even though smoking in buildings is illegal, it doesn’t stop certain people from doing it. And no one says anything. There’s a line of guys laughing at the bar, all with dirty clothes. My dad is sitting between a couple of bigger guys. He takes a drink of his beer as I walk up behind him. He puts the beer on the counter and swivels.
“Charlie, what are you doing?” asks my dad. “You can’t be in here.” He doesn’t even mention the grounding; he’s probably forgotten about it.
“Hey, Charlie,” says Ted, one of my dad’s friends. “Gettin’ tall.”
“It’s Geoffrey’s dog,” I say to my dad. “We need to keep him at our house for a few days.”
“Why?”
“Geoffrey had to go to the hospital and needs someone to take care of Tickles. He asked me.”
“Then go to his house and take care of the dog like you’ve basically done for a year now.” He takes another gulp of his beer. “Now get out of here before you get in trouble.”
“Please. Why can’t he just stay at our house?”
“I’m sorry to hear about Geoffrey,” says my dad. “But no dogs.” With that, my dad turns back around to face the bar. But I’m not done with this.
* * *
I’m mopping behind the counter at around seven thirty p.m. when the door dings and I look over. “John!” I have continually felt bad for brushing him off in the middle of his story the night Seth and Susan showed up. I want to make it up to him. “Glad you’re back.”
John takes off his hat, uses his hand to comb his hair over, and shuffles over to the counter. “Why, that’s mighty kind of you to say,” says John. His eyebrows and mustache are as thick as ever. I bet John would make a great grandpa. I never really knew mine. My mom’s parents live far away in Indiana, and my dad’s dad—Harold—died when I was little.
John heaves himself into a seat and says, “Coffee, cream, and eggs, pancakes and bacon.” He clears his throat and places his hat on the counter beside him. “And a cup of OJ.”
I laugh. “John, I’m still not a server.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t give a shit.
I put the mop down and say, “I’ll go tell Tammy.”
I’m back to mopping when John, putting away his cell phone, says, “Did you want me to finish that story?” I’ve actually never seen John with a cell phone. Usually he just sits at the counter eating, talking to strangers, or reading the paper. I would imagine that, being on the road, one would always want to be communicating with family somewhere. But maybe he doesn’t have many people in his life. There’s really only two people I’d even talk to if I went away. And one is a new friend and the other is in the hospital.
“Yeah, I totally do. And sorry about last time.”
John shrugs. “You had customers to take care of.”
I frown. “No excuse. And you’re a customer too.”
“Well, anyway, where was I?”
After thinking for a second, I say, “You were—”
He waves me off. “I’ll just start over sos I can get a good rhythm going.” So he talks about driving on the high mountain pass again, and the Corvette in front of him that flips. He sees this one guy—the driver—get thrown. The other guy is trapped beneath the overturned car. John was yanking on the door before realizing that it was stuck. “I would’ve known that, had I stopped to think for a second, but adrenaline and all that. Sos I went to break the window. I yelled at the guy to stay calm. And as I did, I realized that I saw this guy before—only a few hours before. At a diner. Much like this one.” John takes a second to look around the room. “Yeah, much like this one. The guy is bloody, and glass is lodged into his face, but he’s not unconscious or anything. He looks at me and gets scared, as if I’m the devil or something. He tries to escape from me, but of course he can’t. I tell him again to stay calm and—”
Tammy walks up and pous John a refill on coffee. “Food’ll be right out, John.”
He nods.
I’m done mopping, but I don’t want to leave John while he’s telling the story this time. I’m holding the mop, and Tammy glances at me with some contempt. She puts the coffeepot back on the warming pad and goes to another customer.
“What crawled up her ass?” asks John.
I shrug. “No idea.”
“Anyway, so I take a rock and smash the window. I pull him out, but he’s fighting me. He keeps shouting, ‘Get away from me! Get off me!’ But the thing that struck me was how we all have the same blood. We all have the same emotions, more or less. Fear of death. Fear of pain. Sos I go searching for the other one, and he’s lying facedown, and I rush over and turn him, and it’s not lookin’ good for him.”
John wipes his eyes.
“Order up!” calls the cook, and I know it’s John’s order. But I can’t grab his plate, or Tammy will think that I’m trying to steal her tip.
“That’s one sad story, John.” But I don’t know why he’s telling me. I don’t get the relevance it has. “How long ago?”
“Oh, ten years ago now. I just couldn’t get over how their blood was . . . just like mine.”
“Red?”
John looks at me like I’m stupid.
“Here’s the kicker—at the diner they were sitting next to each other. They were a couple . . . homosexuals. And I was so disgusted by them. I even chewed them out. Told them to get right with Jesus before it was too late.
“A few hours later they were . . . And I was trying to save . . . And I will wish till the day I die that I wasn’t an asshole to those two boys. They were boys, Charlie. Probably no older than twenty-five.” He pauses. “My idea of God changed that day. God changed. And he will never be the same.”
Tammy puts the plate of pancakes and the plate of eggs and bacon in front of John. “Anything else?” she asks.
John says, “Just be kind to people.”
Tammy looks at him, dumbfounded for a second, and then she trudges off to the kitchen, irritated.