So I’ll talk to my dad.
It’s scary as hell, but I’m gonna do it.
At least, that’s the plan.
I mean, he’s calling tomorrow, so we’ll see.
Otherwise, I’ve just been focusing on writing and watching movies—maybe going out for a coffee. I quit my job at Dorothy’s, and I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do now. The boredom feels almost palpable. The time passes slowly. The sun sits motionless in the autumn sky. I am very lonely. I am all alone. But I can’t go hang out with anybody ’cause I’m too afraid of drinking again. So I just sit with the loneliness. I search for small distractions. I wait for things to get better—whatever that even means.
But today, uh, I’m not really sure what to do or where to go. I drop off Sue Ellen at work, and it’s a little after ten, so I decide to drive up to this coffee shop next to the dog park so I can maybe read a little. I got this book We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. Actually, I just picked it up ’cause I liked the cover and what I read on the back when I was at the downtown library. Seriously, it’s like one of the most incredible books I’ve ever read. The writing is so haunting and beautiful—so strange and dark. I’ve almost finished the whole thing, and it’s only been two days.
Anyway, I pull the car over on the narrow street in front of the coffee shop. The place is pretty new, from what I understand, hidden behind a tall white fence and a barrier of vines and laurels in the bottom floor of a converted Victorian town house. There is no sign in front, and the only way I even found it was ’cause I was checking out the run-down African-American bookstore across the street and I happened to see someone walking out with a paper cup in his hand. To the right of the little coffee shop/town house is a fenced-in dog park covered in wood chips and smelling of urine. I actually really love watching the dogs play and have even gone in a couple times to pet ’em and throw a ball or whatever.
Today, however, just as I’m opening the gate to go into the coffee shop, I hear someone calling out to me from the dog park, saying, “Boy, boy, hey.”
Now, usually I try not to look over at someone who might be calling out to me, just ’cause I’m so used to all the crazies in San Francisco who’ll start fucking screaming at you if you take the bait and even acknowledge ’em at all. But I acknowledge this woman—an overweight, kinda hippy-looking forty-or fifty-year-old—scraggly, long, thinning reddish hair—a face overwhelmed by coarse skin—her globular body draped in a flowy sort of dress. I squint my eyes and hold my hand up to try ’n’ block out the unrelenting sun.
“Yeah?” I yell back.
She gestures with her head. “Come over here, quick.”
For the first time I notice what her hands are busy doing, which is basically holding on to this grotesquely skinny, shivering little dog—some sort of hound, I guess—maybe a foxhound or a Walker hound or whatever. I mean, it basically looks like a beagle that’s been all stretched out tall and is super underweight.
I walk over.
The woman speaks with gasping breaths, as though holding this meek, more-or-less stationary dog is a test of strength comparable to, maybe, wrestling an alligator or something.
“Hey,” she manages to get out. “Hey, I just found this dog under a truck over there. She got scared and ran out, but I got her. You think you could help take her for me? I don’t have a car here, but she needs to go to the Humane Society, I think. Maybe they can find out if she has an owner or if she’s just a stray or what. Would you do that for me, honey? Look, she’s a good dog. She’ll make a great pet for someone.”
I look down at the pathetic little thing. She’s tricolored, with big, soft-looking ears. Her eyes are black and wide and terrified. Even from where I’m standing, I can make out a mass of ticks clinging to her neck. Fleas the size of sunflower seeds climb lazily along her legs and swollen stomach. Her nipples are large and extended like she might be pregnant.
“Yes, of course,” I say, not taking my eyes off the little dog. “Of course I’ll take her.”
The woman smiles.
“Thank you, young man, that’s very kind of you. Can you believe it, the one time I find a stray dog around here and there’s not one person at the dog park. Thank God you came by.”
I look over at the park and see that, like she said, there’s nobody there. In fact, the entire block is deserted—no one on the street—no one anywhere.
“No, no… no problem,” I say, crouching down to the dog’s eye level. When I talk to the dog, I kind of use a soft, higher-pitched baby voice. “Hey, sweet girl. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m gonna
