Puppy politely looked away so she and her son could exchange comments. Frecklie pleaded silently. She sighed softly and rubbed her finger and thumb together.
“Minimum wage,” Puppy answered.
Frecklie shook his head. “Ten percent above what the robot got.”
Puppy helplessly flung his hands in the air; Frecklie laughed. The merriment didn’t last as the woman slowly turned toward Puppy, a faint ridge of impish freckles sliding off her nose, though that didn’t thaw the cold blue eyes.
“Contract?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Guaranteed for the whole season.”
“Sure.”
“With pay raises every ten games.”
“I can’t do that.”
Beth folded her arms, glaring.
“I can’t. It’s the law.” Everyone was expected to do a good job so extra rewards like bonuses and anything other than an annual raise were forbidden. Hard work was a given, not a goal.
Her mouth twisted disdainfully. “If other jobs open, then Ruben has the option.”
“Depending if he’s qualified.”
“My son can do anything.”
“Anything he’s qualified for, Ruben gets first shot.”
“In the contract.”
“Can’t. The law.” No favoritism, side deals, nepotism. Nothing smelling of getting ahead on anything but the merits. Family businesses were especially monitored. Corruption, bribery, laziness, all the same sins.
Beth conceded with a grunt and stuck out her hand. “Beth Rivera.”
“Puppy Nedick.” He fired his most winning smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Beth sneered as if meeting him were a step above an appendectomy without anesthesia and slammed the bedroom door behind her. Frecklie made amends by offering another piece of pie.
“Is she always this charming?” Puppy asked.
Frecklie nodded wearily.
• • • •
PABLO’S EYES WANTED to dribble out of their sockets; that seat in the corner of the B22 bus looked so nice. But he’d never taken a work seat, reserved for people exhausted from their jobs. You could be on crutches and blind, and if someone were half asleep from a long day, you gave them your seat. The only way you could keep your butt planted was if you were also pregnant.
This morning Pablo had examined the entire second grade class of PS 88, finishing up with a smile-o-meter flair by playing the Rosen Girls’ I Got Smiles vidmusical of dancing lips and whistling cheeks. The kids wouldn’t leave, sending his schedule into the toilet.
Two emergencies, an unexpected wisdom tooth and an infected root canal, turned the waiting room into the 6 train at rush hour. It wasn’t until eight o’clock that the last patient left, mumbling thanks through the novocaine. Then all the paperwork, documenting the procedures, follow-ups, a great deal of potential fraud in cheaters wanting to have holes drilled in their teeth, he thought testily.
The bus rolled unsteadily up the hill. A young red-haired woman tugged on Pablo’s sleeve, waking him.
“Sir, please sit.”
“No,” he mumbled sleepily, forehead leaden against the pole.
“You’ve worked hard.”
“Everyone does.”
The woman frowned. “Do you think Grandma’s Tenth Insight is wrong?”
The bus quieted so deeply he could hear the stop light change colors.
“Course not.” Pablo pushed up from his heels, reciting, “But we must believe that our fellows work harder than us. Otherwise, it becomes selfish resentment.”
She smiled faintly. “Especially for someone exhausted.”
The passengers stepped aside so he could slump into the corner seat. Pablo was asleep in a few moments. When the bus stopped, the redhead handed him a thin envelope.
“Get some sleep, Dr. Diaz.”
She stepped casually out the back door. It took him a weary few beats to react to the envelope on his lap. How’d she know who I was? He tapped his name plate on the white coat. Never even undressed, he shrugged sheepishly, pocketing the envelope. Worse ways to meet someone than on a bus.
Pablo picked up some vegetables and rice at the corner market and collapsed on his long black couch. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young played on the stereo. He sipped a glass of Huntsville pink wine, forgetting about his dinner, eyes hypnotized by the circling album.
He propped himself up and forced down a bite of the rice. Outside, the pugs began barking.
Pablo munched on a stalk of broccoli by the window. Twenty across and thirty rows deep, the fawn and black-furred pugs marched resolutely. Children, spilling out of bed near midnight once a month for this occasion, gathered noisily along Bruckner Boulevard, waving to the well-trained real animals, who kept pace, though a few skittered in anticipation.
The leader, a tall kindly man wearing a black top hat, blew sharply on a whistle and the pugs skipped and hopped and ran toward the crowd. Children fell to their knees, hugging the dogs, feeding them, playing fetch. Soon the children and the dogs were one mass and you couldn’t really tell who was fetching for whom. The late night snacks of hamburgers, pizzas, rolls, bones, and bowls of pasta littered the street.
In an hour, the leader blew the whistle and the dogs reluctantly reformed their lines, wagging their curly tails, looking forlornly at the waving children. Another blast of the whistle and off they marched to a new neighborhood.
There weren’t enough animals to meet the needs. Robot pets had failed; enough stories of children mutilated by a malfunctioning orange cat had shuttered the industry. In the Bronx, pugs were favored; this was Grandma’s home, pugs were her favorites and she was allowed one indulgence. Across America, different breeds found different cities.
Boxers in Chicago. Jack Terriers in North Carolina. German Shepherds in Oklahoma. Share and share. Grandma wouldn’t allow one child to be jealous because they didn’t have a pet.
Try sharing this food, Pablo thought and tossed the veggies into the garbage. He sliced some cheese, pouring more wine than he needed. He was exhausted beyond sleep. He sat on the chair, dully watching Grandma’s Sleep Well My Darlings on the vidnews rolling across the wall behind the couch. She tucked in triplets. He hadn’t seen that before. When’s the last time you watched?
Three boys, all curly-haired, darkish faced, probably Southeast Asian, lifted up their faces. Grandma kissed one on the
