“IT’S NO GOOD FORCING IT,” Rubin says, a response to Joel’s, Just wake him and get it over with. It’s the reason Rubin stopped taking payment upfront in the first place, people got fidgety, afraid the dog might snooze through the whole visit and they’d be out a few bucks, no answer to show for it. And although Rubin doesn’t care about someone else’s anxiety—life’s not fair to us all—it pisses him off that so many regard him as someone who wouldn’t refund their money if they asked him to. As if he’s the bad guy in all this and not the real, honest-to-goodness victim.
“You know, it’s the wife who’s worried, not me,” Joel says. “To be clear.”
“Of course,” Rubin agrees, though that’s the largest pile of horseshit he’s ever heard. Everybody wants to know, especially in this town, the carcinogenic time bomb. The dog’s the only one in this whole operation who’s ever truly unconcerned, lying on the rug like a mound of dough, the pads on his feet pink as a newborn’s lung.
Joel works at the mine just like everybody else. (Everybody that is except Rubin.) He came in today at the end of his shift, been here long enough now to have gone through a full pack of gum. Earlier, Rubin made some instant coffee and discussed regional sports, the weather, everything they might have in common. He even brought out some samples of his handmade apple-branch necklaces at which time Joel smiled and said, “I don’t think so.” If things don’t happen soon Joel’s bound to give up and go back to his cushy, benefit-laden job wondering what, if anything, grows inside him. And the worst part in all that: Rubin wouldn’t get jack for his efforts.
When Joel’s wife, Lara, came in last week, the dog didn’t act like the frozen turd he’s being now. And after it was over Lara smiled and hugged Rubin like he was a superhero, like he’d performed some small-town miracle. It was nice, but if he actually could perform miracles—nothing against Joel’s wife—but if he could, he sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on anyone except himself.
“More coffee?” Rubin offers.
Joel stares at Rubin’s hands reaching for the mug, all his missing fingers. There’s a flash of sympathy on his face or maybe revulsion. Either one is par for the course. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…”
Before Mr. Inconsiderate can say or do anything else remarkably stupid, there’s a scuffling noise behind them. Rubin doesn’t have to look to know what it is. The dog, stretching. “He’s awake,” he tells Joel.
The animal’s hindquarters extend into the air, his claws dig deep into the carpet. He shakes each leg separately then stands there, solemn as a minister. Rubin makes him sit and, strictly for show, gives him some baseball-style hand signals. The dog faces Joel. He takes three or four long sniffs, walks into the other room and lies down on the futon couch.
“All right. Pay up,” Rubin says, holding out his hand. “You’re clear.”
THE DOG MIGHT HAVE BEEN BORN with it for all Rubin knows. A scruffy, genetic misfit. He first came upon him at the scrapyard while scrounging for jewellery wire and other useable crap. They approached each other slowly, flanked by a smouldering mound of plastic and the skeleton of a minivan. The animal looked pathetic; his fur riddled with ticks and spear grass, tattered and filthy as a rug. He seemed vaguely sarcastic if you got right down to it with his perpetually upturned lip, his distant, smoky gaze. Despite all that, there was something about him Rubin liked, something he couldn’t explain. He checked the dog’s tail to assess his friendliness but there wasn’t one. It’d been cropped away or broken or maybe even blown right off at the ass. Hardly a discernible stub left in its place. How in all honesty could Rubin not have taken an animal like that home with him?
The dog gets up, moseys over to his food dish and waits. He doesn’t fuss. Doesn’t get excited. Doesn’t even groom himself. And if Rubin decided not to fill his bowl today, he wouldn’t scratch or bark. He’d wander off and go back to sleep. The perfect pet, remote and distant as an emperor penguin.
The first diagnosis occurred in April. The town was in the middle of a civic election and Sarah Newson, the incumbent mayor, came glad-handing door to door. Initially, Rubin wasn’t sure if he should invite her in or what. Who knew the protocol for that sort of thing? The number of hassles it might lead to?
“Are you a decided voter, Mr. Tack?” the mayor said from the hallway. Her requisite smile had no oomph at all, like she was exhausted with Rubin already and knew he hadn’t voted in any election, ever, in his entire life. In actuality there was a tumour the size of an eyeball in her left breast sucking the energy right out of her. Something neither one of them had a clue about at the time.
Before Rubin could answer, the dog started circling the mayor. He licked her blouse when she leaned down, pressed his nose into her chest hitting the tumour, painfully, dead on. Two weeks later she returned with the doctor’s report. Two weeks after that, a full page article in the local paper and a bit piece in the nationals. And now, three confirmed positives later, people even come from down in the valley for a scan. Go figure.
The phone rings and Rubin fumbles with the receiver; his hands, tired from feeding branch segments through the bead borer. Worth answering though. If the caller’s a customer, it’d be the third this week and at twenty-five bucks a scan, that’s not bad.
“Hello?” he says, trying not to sound impatient.
“Is this Rubin Tack?”
“Tack-fully so.”
“My name’s Caleb. I work for The Oprah Winfrey Show, guest acquisition department. Do you have a minute?”
WHEN RUBIN WAS A CHILD, his mother used to bring him to the backyard on warm summer nights. She’d put a blanket on the grass, an ashtray for herself, and they’d lie there looking for comets. She said he was a shooting star in his own right and like a giant idiot he believed her. “You’re destined to do big things in life, Rubin. Good things. Things that really matter,” she told him, sucking on a filtered Cameo.
He holds his hands in front of him now—just a thumb and two fingers remaining on each one. Not even a knuckle to show where the others were before the accident. When he’s beading, or doing anything really, they look more like beetle mouths than hands. If that’s the destiny his mother was talking about, she could have it.
Truth is Rubin wasn’t looking to do much of anything, special or otherwise. He was waiting for something to happen to him. This is how he figured it’d play out: the mine (that never hired him) spewed out all kinds of despicable pollution—the tailings pond near the well, the big, phallic smokestacks—so it was only a matter of time before diseases started popping up like maggots. And Rubin lived right on the edge of town, closest to the mine site. Sooner or later he’d find some lump in his neck, blood in his urine, a sore that wouldn’t heal. And then, lawsuit money.
But now, instead of all that, Oprah wants him as her guest on TV and two things immediately come to mind. One, Oprah sure beats chemotherapy. And two, it’s about bloody time.
In six weeks Rubin and the dog will fly to Chicago, stay at a fancy hotel, eat good, paid-for meals. And though he only gets a small honorarium for his trouble, this kind of thing opens doors. The chance he’s been waiting for. He doesn’t want to use the term meal ticket, but hey, whatever.
He pushes a chair onto the sandy, rutted porch outside his home. Carefully, he lifts the sign he just painted above the door and nails it in place. Cancer Scans by Oprah-Dog—$150.
RUBIN SITS BESIDE THE DOG and pets him, smoothing out the imperfections in his fur. Dozens of scars run across his back like tiny bits of scrap metal wedged beneath the skin. They feel, for all intents and purposes, like whip marks. And then there’s that damn lost tail and whatever story’s behind that. This dog’s had a hard life, no doubt about it. Exactly like Rubin’s own lousy existence.
He was twelve when the accident happened, the day before Hallowe’en. Grayson, a friend from school, had a brother old enough to buy fireworks and the three of them raced out onto the soccer field with a full bag. Cluster Bombs, Phantom Blasts, a boxy thing named Godzilla. The first few went off perfectly and then Rubin lit a huge barrage, The Dream Weaver. It tilted and he tried to straighten it before ignition. He doesn’t remember anything after that except the sound. Horse hooves on pavement, trees falling, pumpkins being dropped from way, way up. And then silence.
There were many people at fault that night, none of them Rubin. He was twelve, as incapable of blame as the dog lying in front of him now. But Grayson’s brother, Christ, an eighteen year old! And Grayson’s parents need to take responsibility for being such unaware slobs. The town council too, for hemming and hawing over a proposed fireworks ban. The fireworks company itself. The list goes on and on.
Now Rubin lives a life where everyone pities him—rightfully so—but that’s the extent of their generosity. When he thinks about that, the injustice of everything, he gets so furious there’s just about no amount of money that could settle him down.
Someone knocks on the door. He feels the softness of the dog’s ears between his fingers, and goes to answer.
Dwight Kingsley from the mine, the putz in human resources who interviewed Rubin years ago for the job he didn’t get. He never said why they passed on him but it’s not as if he had to.
“Hi Rubin.” He removes his sunglasses and puts them in a small cloth bag. “How are you these days?”
“A-OK,” Rubin answers, making an OK sign with his remaining fingers. It amounts to a circle and an extended middle finger pointed right at Dwight’s nose.
Dwight nods. He’s wearing a brown leather coat, the ultra-soft kind that costs an arm. If Rubin could, he’d pull it over Mr. Discrimination’s head, spin him around, and boot his ass right out the door. Unless he came here looking for a scan, of course. Rubin should probably find that out first.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time but I hear you’re going to be on TV soon,” Dwight says. “Congratulations.”
“Is that why you came? Congratulations?”
“No, not really. Look, I know how you feel about the company, Rubin,” Dwight goes on. “But nobody likes bad publicity, especially the televised kind.”
“I’m going on the show. You can’t stop me.”
“On the contrary. I want you to go. You can represent us in a sense. Preserve our good environmental name.”
Rubin pauses, letting this bizarre conversation sink in. “What’s in it for me?” he says finally. “I mean, financially?”
THERE HASN’T BEEN A POSITIVE SCAN since the new sign went up but business has been great anyway. Rubin’s even managed to sell some necklaces in the deal, working the souvenir angle of all things. Hell, he might even bring something to hock to Oprah when he goes, maybe the choker with the bullshit whalebone pendant. What a coup that would be! He just about craps his own pants when he thinks about it.
The bottom line, he’s made more money in the last few weeks than he did in the previous six months. He has tons saved already, more than a thousand bucks. In fact he’s going to use some of it to get the dog an official Oprah Winfrey t-shirt at the studio gift shop. Something to wear while he works his lucrative magic.
“That’s right, buddy,” he says to the dog lounging by the heat vent. “A nice t-shirt, just for you.”
Rubin lies on the carpet and rubs his chin against the dog’s stubbly nose. Then he says in a voice most people use only for babies, “You and me Mr. Money-Maker, we’re going places. Uh huh. Yes we are.”
The dog leans into him, rests his head on Rubin’s arm and closes his eyes. Rubin closes his too but the moment ends with a knock on the door. “Duty calls,” he says as he heads for the entrance.
The woman standing there is new to him. She’s young, nineteen maybe, and tiny. Her hair’s tied back in a ponytail and although it’s not cold outside she’s wearing a wool vest. He also notices some homemade jewellery. Glass beads on a thick leather string, silver rings, a bent copper bracelet polished orange, the colour of a comet’s tail.
She takes a clipboard from under her arm and Rubin frowns.
“Don’t worry, I’m super-low pressure,” she says. “It’s just a petition to prompt the mine into cleaning up its environmental act. Slam-dunk, actually, almost signs itself.” She winks at him and smiles.
Rubin examines the clipboard, and laughs out loud.
If this is a joke it’s really quite good. All these years nobody cared. And now, a petition! If she’d got to him last week he’d have been all over the damn thing. But not anymore.
When Dwight visited Rubin, he brought a folder full of studies the mine conducted on its ecological impact. Rubin leafed through them but mostly he just read the factsheet Dwight wants him to reference on the talk show. Statistics like the cancer rates in town being the same as everywhere else in the province, the giant amount of money the company has spent on reclamation and tailings treatment, and the mine’s own water results, testing out as clean and drinkable as a mountain stream. “Our water’s even fluoridated,” he told Rubin, “for your teeth.”
The funny part is he wasn’t going to trash the mine on Oprah anyway, too busy promoting his own ends. But now, by some strange twist of Karma, the mine’s giving him a whack of cash not to say things he wasn’t going to say in the first place. How fucked up is that?
“I don’t think so,” he says to the girl at the door. “Our air is fine, our water is fine.”
And because he’s feeling smug he goes over to the sink, pours a glass and takes a big, exaggerated drink. He dumps the rest of it into the dish on the floor beside him.
The dog moseys over and laps at the bowl.
“You’re funny,” the girl says. “But like I said, low pressure. Hey pupper. How about you? Will you put your paw print here?” She puts her clipboard on the floor so she can pet him. “So you’re the famous dog, huh?”
“Would you like him to scan you?”
“Me? No thanks. I wouldn’t want to know my fortune ahead of time. Screw up all my plans.”
Rubin doesn’t respond.
“It’s a big responsibility,” she goes on, patting the animal’s head. “Taking care of someone who can’t take care of himself.”
Rubin’s suddenly uncomfortable with the path this conversation has taken. Mostly because his fingers are sore and there’s no money to be had here. But also because he’s not sure if the clipboard girl is talking to him now or if she’s still talking to the goddamn dog.
THE ONLY SUITCASE RUBIN HAS is a heavy, orange thing that smells like a bus depot. The latch barely closes and there are no wheels which means it’s probably from the fifties. It was his mother’s luggage and it annoys him he’s thinking of her now, the day of his big flight. If she were still around, would she be happy for him? Is being on Oprah shooting star enough? It’ll lead to a pocket full of money and that’s more than sufficient for a sad sack like Rubin. No matter what anyone, including his mother, might think.
He turns to the dog. “What would you wear on TV if you were me? Hmm?”
The dog doesn’t move but his eyes follow Rubin around the room while he packs. Rubin gave him a bath last night using his own personal shampoo and right now they both smell like apricots.
He grabs the nicest thing he has from the closet—wool jacket, white button-up shirt, and a pair of black pants—the outfit he wore for his predetermined interview, the no-thank-you event with Dwight Kingsley. It’s suitable for the occasion or completely jinxed, only one way to find out. He puts it in the suitcase and fumbles the latch closed. In a separate bag he packs some dog food, a blanket, and the new chew toy he got on sale at the drugstore; the woman from the airline suggested bringing a few of the animal’s favourite things for the long flight. “It’s noisy and dark in the cargo hold. Something familiar in the crate will keep him calm,” she said. “Everybody likes calm.”
When he’s finished packing he takes an ice pack and puts it on his finger-stubs to soothe the phantom pains he still gets after all these years. Then he wraps a second ice pack in a tea towel and places it where the dog’s tail should be. They stay nestled like that for a while, leaning into each other until the airport shuttle van pulls up and honks for them to come out.
INSIDE THE TERMINAL, dozens of travellers wheel their suitcases around effortlessly while Rubin struggles with his. He shifts the case from side to side and searches for a luggage cart; of course, none are available. He puts the suitcase down and checks his ticket. It isn’t clearly marked which way to go and Rubin hasn’t exactly spent much time in an airport before. He looks at the boarding pass, at the many numbered signs around the building. The dog sits quietly beside him the whole time.
“Can I help you?” someone asks.
A woman in an airport uniform. Her face is hard, stippled like the skin of a lemon, and her hair’s tied back in a bun high on the top of her head. Rubin hands her his ticket. She takes it and glances at the dog. Then she looks at Rubin like he just presented her with a bowl of ass hair.
“Is the animal travelling too?” she says.
“Yes.”
“Did you preregister?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
Rubin walks behind her, suppressing the urge to trip her with the dog’s leash. The only reason he doesn’t say something like, Excuse me, I think you forgot to go fuck yourself this morning, is because this woman is a key to unlocking Rubin’s windfall. His wallet feels fatter with every step and nothing, not even Miss Lemon-Face here, will spoil his mood.
They veer off the path of the other travellers and end up down a long, windowless hallway. A cleaning man leans against the wall, holding a mop as grey and unkempt as his beard. He doesn’t say a word as they pass, but scrutinizes the dog the whole way.
“In here,” the woman says. She goes into an elevator at the end of the hall. Rubin puts his suitcase down and stands beside her. The dog leans into his leg.
“Has the dog flown before?”
“No,” Rubin says. “I don’t think so.”
The doors open into what looks like a high school basement. Bare cement floors, drain hole in the middle of the room, a puzzle of air ducts and water pipes across the ceiling. And along the far wall, a row of plastic dog-cages, each with a small, barred window so the animals can see.
“We can take it from here,” the woman says.
A man approaches wearing work gloves and overalls. He looks more like a plumber than an animal handler. The woman takes Rubin’s blanket and puts it in one of the cages. She tosses in the chew toy. The man reaches for the leash.
“Here we go,” Rubin says.
The dog stands before the kennel. For the first time ever the fur on the scruff of his neck stands up, stiff and bristly as a toilet brush. Rubin tries to smooth it down but it bounces right back. The flesh underneath quivers and the dog’s lip flares, revealing yellow teeth and dark, pigmented gums.
He barks, sharply.
“Bad dog,” Rubin says. It’s a stupid thing to say but he wasn’t prepared for this. The dog’s never barked before. Not once.
“You’ll be fine. These people will take care of you.”
He barks again. Four or five times with deep, low growls in between.
The man tugs his gloves tighter and rubs the leather palms together. “It’s best if we do it,” he says. “Seriously.”
The dog pulls on his leash, tries to wiggle free of his collar. His eyes are huge and his whole body, shaking.
Rubin bends down and whispers in his ear. “Hey pal,” he says. “Don’t screw it up okay? There’s nothing to worry about.”
He pets him with his spent hands. Rubs his coat all over, trying to stop the animal from shuddering. Trying to make this work. Then, through the fur, Rubin feels something he’s never noticed before. A lump. The exact size, texture and hardness of a walnut shell.
The dog twists around and tries to lick that spot. He can’t reach it though, so he turns and growls at the airport staff again.
Rubin presses his fingers into his temples. He pictures a sack of money, so big he has to kneel down and wiggle his arms underneath to move it. It’s right there in front of him. Right friggin’ there. “We’ll fix you up later,” he says to the dog. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
“That’s right,” the plumber-man says. “He’ll be fine.” He reaches for the leash again. Rubin hesitates, then gives it to him and walks away.
Behind him he hears the dog bark, his claws dragging across the cement floor. A yip. A strained cough from the pull of his collar. Another yip. Rubin fakes a coughing fit of his own to drown out the struggle. He still hears it though, all of it, until he gets into the hallway and closes the door behind him.
RUBIN FEELS LIKE HE’S BEING WATCHED as he walks through first class. The rich folk are all assessing his hands or his second-hand clothes, making him feel like a thief. Even after he takes his seat with the regular people he feels scrutinized. Dissected even. The whole thing playing out much crappier than it’s supposed to.
He flags down a stewardess. A young, plain-looking woman with big cheeks and freckles all over her face. He chooses her because she seems friendliest. “Excuse me,” he says. “Can I get something to drink?”
“You sure can. But not until we’re up there.” She points skyward.
“Oh. Right,” Rubin says. He turns to the window beside him. A man on the tarmac drives a luggage cart in a meaningless circle, a dog-crate piled haphazardly among the baggage. But it’s not his. The cart drives off the other way, manoeuvres between two smaller planes, and disappears.
He’ll get the dog checked the second they get back. And he’ll find the best people to do it too. Not some crappy horse doctor but someone who knows this kind of thing, a top of the line specialist. There’s nothing to worry about, at least nothing substantial enough to kibosh the Oprah Winfrey gravy train.
He hears a noise, a torque-wrench or a compressor squealing. It’s loud inside the cabin and must be much louder underneath him in the cargo hold. The wrench stops and he hears something else, faint but there. A raspy, persistent barking in the belly of the aircraft. He puts the airline headphones over his ears, but there’s no sound yet so he stuffs them back into the seat pocket in front of him.
Barking doesn’t mean anything in particular. It’s what dogs do. Besides, they’ll only be gone a week. Nobody dies of a tumour in a week. The dog will be fine until they get back home. Absolutely, perfectly fine.
As long as his heart doesn’t give out in the cargo hold.
He leans forward and puts his hands over his face.
“Excuse me I think you’re in my seat,” someone says. “Oh, it’s you. Hello again.”
A woman in the aisle wearing a glass bead necklace, copper bracelet, wool vest. The petition girl. Right here in front of him as conspicuous as an albatross.
“This is a funny coincidence, isn’t it?” she says. “Life’s too weird sometimes. How’s your pupper by the way?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m sorry?”
Rubin turns to the window again, an image of the dog’s face in the glass. Those eyes, looking right into him. Reflecting the life they’ve both had. And even though it’s like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, then pissing on it and setting it on fire…
He stands up and squeezes by the woman. “Seat’s all yours,” he says.
She points at her ticket in explanation but Rubin couldn’t care less. The flight takes off soon, he doesn’t have much time. He runs up the aisle, bangs his knee on one of the armrests, and continues into first class, the section he should have been enjoying all along if life were fair at all. He gets stuck behind some snub-nose standing up like he owns the airline, taking off his thousand-dollar jacket. Rubin waits for two or three seconds, and then pushes him out of the way. He rushes up to the stewardess at the front, the one with the pleasant face.
“I have to get off the plane,” he says.
“I’m sorry. You’re too late. They’re about to close up.”
Another woman turns a big handle on the cabin door, sealing it shut while the rest of the crew prepare their useless preflight safety speech. And then, right on cue, the seatbelt sign chimes, flashing for him to sit down.
It’s finished. He missed his chance.
People wait for him to settle in his seat. He turns, slowly, and starts walking towards his row. Halfway there, he stops. The dog is barking below him again, more and more frantic with each yelp.
He takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling. “Is there no one else on earth,” he whispers, “that you can fuck with besides me?”
He returns to the front of the plane, to the stewardess, and holds his hands in the air for her—for everyone—to see. “Is it because I’m handicapped? Is that what you’re saying?” he says in a loud voice, full of phoney disbelief. “Is this what they call discrimination?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the stewardess says. Her face pales. She turns to the cabin crew behind her who’ve stopped to listen; the entire front section of the airplane, hushed.
Rubin leans in and whispers, “Look, I work for The Oprah Winfrey Show, okay.” He flashes the logo on his Special Visitor lanyard. “And I know neither you nor the airline wants any bad publicity here.”
“Of course not,” the stewardess says. “But…”
“No buts.” Rubin positions a hand in front of her face to stop her sentence. He wiggles his remaining fingers, and knows he’s got her.
“Here’s the deal,” he says, “I don’t want a refund. I don’t want compensation. All I want is to get my dog out of that crate and go home. Now, are you going to tell me that’s too much to ask for? Seriously, to my face? Is that what you’re about to tell me?”
She turns to her coworkers again and, in near-unison, they nod.
Miss Friendly escorts him off the plane, through the jet bridge, and back inside the terminal. After discussing things with the supervisor who checked Rubin’s passport on the way in, she says, “I’m very sorry for any misunderstanding or personal inconvenience you may have experienced, Mr. Tack. Our customers—you—deserve the best. Please accept this apology on behalf of myself, the crew, and the entire airline.”
Rubin pauses, letting this small, soothing victory wash over him. “Apology Tack-fully accepted,” he says. Then he sits in the elite passenger zone to wait, sipping a complimentary coffee and watching the crew reopen the cargo hold, locate his luggage, and deliver his dog to his side.