Imogene opened the trailer door. George did not raise his head from its rest on his front paws, but looked up at her.
“George, that must be you. How is your day going?” Imogene asked as she flipped on the light switch. She was at once taken aback by the décor of the trailer and by the absolute lack of any warmth. She was able to take in the living room and the kitchen at a glance from her place in the doorway.
The living room had heavy gold brocade drapes, in some type of polyester fabric. There was a couch and swivel chair, both, amazingly, with plastic covers. The carpet was immaculate.
The kitchen was brown and robin's egg blue. The sparles in the formica counter top glittered in the morning sun, which accessed the room through a small window above the sink. There were mushrooms, in olive green, on the turquoise curtains.
Imogene was transfixed by the perfection of it, yet disappointed that it was full of cardboard boxes. The kitchen was piled nearly to the ceiling with boxes, and the living room was practically filled with one huge box which was heavily reinforced with nylon straps.
Who lived here, and how could they expect a dog to be happy here? She wondered. Was this person a traveling magician, and that big box was the place where he sawed ladies in half?
“Okay, George, I don’t see how I can sing to you in this place. I just don’t feel like singing, surrounded by cardboard. There’s nothing fun or funny. First these boxes need unpacked, and you need a delicious snack.”
George, on hearing the word “snack” wagged the tip of his tail tentatively, three times.
“Yes, I like snacks, too.” Imogene agreed, as she opened the first box that was preventing her entry into the kitchen.
It was filled with sheet music. She flipped through one of the booklets and marveled at all of the black dots on the staffs. When Imogene was eight, she had taken piano lessons, but the music for Daffy Duck’s Parade Day had lots of white space in it, and the notes were simple black circles, for the most part. She had always imagined that they were little black beetles, climbing up the staff. This made it difficult to keep them straight, because she could never remember which beetle was which. Was it a different beetle, or was it just the same beetle, at a different point in time?
It worried her when the beetles started coming in pairs and formations. It made her feel like there was some kind of beetle war brewing, and that casualties were inevitable.
The music that she held in her hand looked like a full scale beetle holocaust, or perhaps beetles being attacked by aliens. The pages were nearly black with little dots, and they were all tied together in all sorts of strange contrivances. Dots and strange symbols littered the pages.
She closed the booklet and stuffed it back in the box, shuddering slightly.
“This doesn’t need to be in the kitchen,” she noted in George’s direction, and hefted the heavy box.
She looked down the hall to see if there were some less prominent place to put it.
The hall was just wide enough for her to walk down, carrying the box with her elbows out slightly. It was paneled with blond wood. The carpet in the hall was the same gold shag that was in the living room, except that it was covered by a ridged plastic runner that made zipping sounds under her feet.
At the end of the hall was a bedroom, which she assumed was the master.
Instead of intruding there, she turned toward her left, which ended up being a tiny bedroom with no furniture in it. It had nothing in it, actually. The fact that the person had not bothered to put the boxes in the empty room, rather than in the kitchen bothered her a little bit. It didn’t bode well. But her job was not to criticize her employer. It was to sing to dogs. And in order to do that, she needed reasonably happy surroundings. Therefore, it was part of her job to move these boxes.
She spent the rest of the morning carrying boxes. George stretched out comfortably and took a nap.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Part 17 - Mavis meets George
Mavis crouched in the corner of her dog cell, trembling. They had taken away her sweater at the door. The noise was constant. Yapping and whining echoed from the cement floors to the damp ceilings and there was a constant dim ringing of paw scratching on the chain link kennels. When a person walked through, all of the other dogs would yap. All except Mavis and George. George lay there like a glacier in his kennel, apparently oblivious to the noise. Mavis crouched, with the glassy stare of a lifer, a low growl persistently rumbling in her small chest cavity.
Part 16 - At the New Trailer
“Do you want to go to the Beethoven thing at the university with Aunt Polly and me?” asked Phil’s mom as she edged backwards through the door of his new trailer, carrying a heavy box of books.
“Hey, let me get that,” Phil tried to grab the box, but his mother fended him off with an elbow.
“I have to unpack,” he explained as she hefted it onto an old wooden ironing board that served as his kitchen table. “Also, I am sticking with my pact never to attend a public event with Aunt Polly again.”
“Oh, Phil, she’s not that bad,” said his mother, reaching into the book box and examining a copy of “Being and Nothingness.” “Have you actually read this, or are you just carrying it around to look intellectual?”
“I’ve read about four pages,” Phil confessed, “It’s one of my holocaust books. In case I have to hole up in here for a really long time.” He took the book from her and opened it to a random passage.
“Jesus, if I were going to hole up, I’d want to read something a little more uplifting. Do you read Michener?” his mom asked, poking half-heartedly through his book box.
“No, I do not read Michener,” he replied.
“A bit testy?” his mother accused, poking him playfully in the chest, as if picking a fight.
Phil smiled wryly.
“Well I’m meeting Aunt Polly at four,” his mom said, grabbing her purse to leave. “Maybe this time you should unpack.”
“Maybe,” said Phil.
“Hey, let me get that,” Phil tried to grab the box, but his mother fended him off with an elbow.
“I have to unpack,” he explained as she hefted it onto an old wooden ironing board that served as his kitchen table. “Also, I am sticking with my pact never to attend a public event with Aunt Polly again.”
“Oh, Phil, she’s not that bad,” said his mother, reaching into the book box and examining a copy of “Being and Nothingness.” “Have you actually read this, or are you just carrying it around to look intellectual?”
“I’ve read about four pages,” Phil confessed, “It’s one of my holocaust books. In case I have to hole up in here for a really long time.” He took the book from her and opened it to a random passage.
“Jesus, if I were going to hole up, I’d want to read something a little more uplifting. Do you read Michener?” his mom asked, poking half-heartedly through his book box.
“No, I do not read Michener,” he replied.
“A bit testy?” his mother accused, poking him playfully in the chest, as if picking a fight.
Phil smiled wryly.
“Well I’m meeting Aunt Polly at four,” his mom said, grabbing her purse to leave. “Maybe this time you should unpack.”
“Maybe,” said Phil.
Part 15 - Madge Barkwell
Imogene’s decision to take the day off for her health had come about partly because Ricky stole her alarm clock. He was against things that made loud noises, and was not averse to taking vigilante measures against them. If she left her phone where he could get at it, she would invariably find that it had found its way under the couch or to the bottom of a pile of dog toys. In the case of the alarm clock, Ricky had a personal vendetta. He had been trying to drown it in his water dish for years.
On this particular day, the alarm clock had been knocked off the night stand when Imogene replaced the book she was reading, a history of vulcanized rubber. Ricky had been stealthy. There is no telling what had inspired him to change his tactics. But Imogene did not hear the alarm's wan ringing from the bottom of the toilet bowl until well after 10am.
By that time, she had missed half of her shift at the coffee shop. She put on her bathrobe and dug under the couch for her phone.
“The perfect crime…” she said, accusingly to Ricky, who was laying as flat as he could make himself and regarding her cautiously from the corner of his eye.
Imogene didn’t get sick leave, but she considered her tip money a sort of sick leave/vacation fund. Granted, the sock was close to empty, but she was faithful that it would eventually be bulging again.
As she gazed at the guilt stricken Ricky laying there in the filmy winter light, she decided that fate had brought her this day to explore her personal interest. So after listening to the six messages on her phone asking her where the hell she was, she reached into her coffee can of personal day excuses and drew out a small folded piece of paper. After dialing the coffee shop number, she put on a hushed voice and explained that she’d been in a coma caused by eating some chicken salad that had fermented. Yes, she had thought it smelled a little funny. No, she hadn’t stopped throwing up yet, but she was certain that she’d come through it okay.
Yes, technically, this was lying, but it was a dishonor in exchange for the dishonor of working for an employer who didn’t offer any benefits. Besides, it was an unspoken code between her and the other baristas. They all lied, because there just wasn’t any other choice. They couldn’t get away with truths like, “I just couldn’t stop crying after I watched Now Voyager last night, and now my eyes are much too puffy to be seen in public,” so instead, they said they made up plausible diseases.
After Imogene made ham porridge for Ricky and did the crossword from last week’s paper, she decided to become Madge Barkwell for the day. It would make an event of putting up her new flyers, and also protect her from being seen out and about while she was supposed to be throwing up rancid chicken.
She got out a pair of polyester slacks that she had purchased at the Senior Citizens hall fall festival rummage sale. They were the color of orange sherbet. They must have belonged to quite a thin little lady in their past life, because they hugged Imogene’s thighs in a rather comical way, and made her butt look much wider than she knew it to be. She liked the effect, though. She dug out a sheer blouse that was decorated with an olive green sprig and little orange polka dots and selected a scarf from the cardboard suitcase under her bed. She decided to go with a cream colored one, in order not to have too many shades of orange going at once.
There was a plastic shoebox full of cat-eye glasses on her dresser, and Imogene found a pair that didn’t obscure her vision too much. Then she plucked the Madge name tag from the dish on her dresser. Usually, when she started a new job, she closed her eyes and let fate choose the name by which she would be known, but in the case of Madge Barkwell, she had hand-picked. She had always wanted to use the Madge tag, and it had never come up by chance.
During her brief stint at the public library, she had been Juanita. Patrons at her waitress job at the Cowpuncher Diner had known her as Pearl. The great thing about the name tags was that none of the names were things like Brittany, or Heather. They were all 1940s names. At the laundromat, she has been Mildred.
Since the dog therapy job was more of an independent venture, though, Imogene figured that it made sense to hand select her identity. She could have gone by her own name, Imogene Gardner, but it just didn’t have the spunk she was looking for. Her name sounded way too much like a movie star for her taste. She preferred to sound like a character in a badly, but lovingly written novel.
Usually she didn’t go to the extent of creating a full character, but Madge was sort of a hobby she had been thinking of for a long time, so she had gathered bits and pieces of the Madge outfit, and even had a Madge wig. It was that short, curled all over do that only women over 50 get, in a rusty brown. It was actually a very good wig, so it looked like real hair when it was on. The final touch to her outfit was a clear raincoat.
On this particular day, the alarm clock had been knocked off the night stand when Imogene replaced the book she was reading, a history of vulcanized rubber. Ricky had been stealthy. There is no telling what had inspired him to change his tactics. But Imogene did not hear the alarm's wan ringing from the bottom of the toilet bowl until well after 10am.
By that time, she had missed half of her shift at the coffee shop. She put on her bathrobe and dug under the couch for her phone.
“The perfect crime…” she said, accusingly to Ricky, who was laying as flat as he could make himself and regarding her cautiously from the corner of his eye.
Imogene didn’t get sick leave, but she considered her tip money a sort of sick leave/vacation fund. Granted, the sock was close to empty, but she was faithful that it would eventually be bulging again.
As she gazed at the guilt stricken Ricky laying there in the filmy winter light, she decided that fate had brought her this day to explore her personal interest. So after listening to the six messages on her phone asking her where the hell she was, she reached into her coffee can of personal day excuses and drew out a small folded piece of paper. After dialing the coffee shop number, she put on a hushed voice and explained that she’d been in a coma caused by eating some chicken salad that had fermented. Yes, she had thought it smelled a little funny. No, she hadn’t stopped throwing up yet, but she was certain that she’d come through it okay.
Yes, technically, this was lying, but it was a dishonor in exchange for the dishonor of working for an employer who didn’t offer any benefits. Besides, it was an unspoken code between her and the other baristas. They all lied, because there just wasn’t any other choice. They couldn’t get away with truths like, “I just couldn’t stop crying after I watched Now Voyager last night, and now my eyes are much too puffy to be seen in public,” so instead, they said they made up plausible diseases.
After Imogene made ham porridge for Ricky and did the crossword from last week’s paper, she decided to become Madge Barkwell for the day. It would make an event of putting up her new flyers, and also protect her from being seen out and about while she was supposed to be throwing up rancid chicken.
She got out a pair of polyester slacks that she had purchased at the Senior Citizens hall fall festival rummage sale. They were the color of orange sherbet. They must have belonged to quite a thin little lady in their past life, because they hugged Imogene’s thighs in a rather comical way, and made her butt look much wider than she knew it to be. She liked the effect, though. She dug out a sheer blouse that was decorated with an olive green sprig and little orange polka dots and selected a scarf from the cardboard suitcase under her bed. She decided to go with a cream colored one, in order not to have too many shades of orange going at once.
There was a plastic shoebox full of cat-eye glasses on her dresser, and Imogene found a pair that didn’t obscure her vision too much. Then she plucked the Madge name tag from the dish on her dresser. Usually, when she started a new job, she closed her eyes and let fate choose the name by which she would be known, but in the case of Madge Barkwell, she had hand-picked. She had always wanted to use the Madge tag, and it had never come up by chance.
During her brief stint at the public library, she had been Juanita. Patrons at her waitress job at the Cowpuncher Diner had known her as Pearl. The great thing about the name tags was that none of the names were things like Brittany, or Heather. They were all 1940s names. At the laundromat, she has been Mildred.
Since the dog therapy job was more of an independent venture, though, Imogene figured that it made sense to hand select her identity. She could have gone by her own name, Imogene Gardner, but it just didn’t have the spunk she was looking for. Her name sounded way too much like a movie star for her taste. She preferred to sound like a character in a badly, but lovingly written novel.
Usually she didn’t go to the extent of creating a full character, but Madge was sort of a hobby she had been thinking of for a long time, so she had gathered bits and pieces of the Madge outfit, and even had a Madge wig. It was that short, curled all over do that only women over 50 get, in a rusty brown. It was actually a very good wig, so it looked like real hair when it was on. The final touch to her outfit was a clear raincoat.
Part 14 - Mavis Takes a Ride
Mavis shook like a leaf in the back of the animal control van. The woman who picked her up spoke in a soft, sweet voice, and put her pink sweater on her before taking her to the van, but that didn’t mean that Mavis wasn’t out of her wits. She didn’t eat the dish of food that the woman put in front of her. She wasn’t hungry. Her bottom was cold, and it smelled like sick dogs in the back of the van. She would have hidden under something, but there wasn’t anything to hide under.
Part 13 - Dog Grits
Imogene looked into the sock where she kept her extra cash. There certainly wasn’t much of it. The ad in the newspaper was costing her an arm and a leg. She decided to give up on that tack, and try larger flyers in all of the pet stores. Meanwhile, she called Ricky in for some belly rubbing.
It never took Imogene long to think of a new song. It depended on the dog, and she had to admit that with Ricky, the songs tended to be about the same topics, mostly, but what really mattered was that Ricky knew that the song was just for him.
“Oh, it’s almost time to eat your grits,
dog grits, is dog grits,
Oh it’s almost time to eat your grits,
Dogs they likes to sits,
Oh, it’s almost time to eat your grits,
That’s gonna give your tummy fits,
Eat yourself some grits, my boy, eat yourself some grits.
Ricky smiled delightedly, and then rushed off to the kitchen, where Imogene handed him a plate of hotdog pancakes. He ate them like a pig at a trough.
It never took Imogene long to think of a new song. It depended on the dog, and she had to admit that with Ricky, the songs tended to be about the same topics, mostly, but what really mattered was that Ricky knew that the song was just for him.
“Oh, it’s almost time to eat your grits,
dog grits, is dog grits,
Oh it’s almost time to eat your grits,
Dogs they likes to sits,
Oh, it’s almost time to eat your grits,
That’s gonna give your tummy fits,
Eat yourself some grits, my boy, eat yourself some grits.
Ricky smiled delightedly, and then rushed off to the kitchen, where Imogene handed him a plate of hotdog pancakes. He ate them like a pig at a trough.
Part 12 - George at Play
George didn’t like it at the animal shelter. For one thing, meals were not served on the “help yourself, the bin is open” basis. He didn’t like the whining and barking of all of the younger dogs. He also didn’t like the shit smell. He lay on his side, huffing quietly, his large belly creating a challenging landscape for any small creature that might have been viewing him.
When the volunteers came to walk dogs, he didn’t get up unless they offered him a Milkbone. Then he would drag himself to a sitting position with an enormous grunt. He followed cooperatively as they led him out into the play yard, but he didn’t feel like chasing any ball or catching a Frisbee. If anyone threw something his way, he watched matter-of-factly while it hit the ground, and then looked up at the volunteer, as if to ask, “Have you had enough, then?”
When it was time to go back in, he wasn’t too thrilled about that, either, but he followed. He knew that he would get another Milkbone when he got back in. He wasn’t stupid.
When the volunteers came to walk dogs, he didn’t get up unless they offered him a Milkbone. Then he would drag himself to a sitting position with an enormous grunt. He followed cooperatively as they led him out into the play yard, but he didn’t feel like chasing any ball or catching a Frisbee. If anyone threw something his way, he watched matter-of-factly while it hit the ground, and then looked up at the volunteer, as if to ask, “Have you had enough, then?”
When it was time to go back in, he wasn’t too thrilled about that, either, but he followed. He knew that he would get another Milkbone when he got back in. He wasn’t stupid.
Part 11 - Phil's Love for Ida
Phil looked in the mirror. He worried that his receding hair line made him look older than he was. The girl at the coffee shop looked about 25. He knew would see her there if he went between 10 am and 6 pm. He knew her name was Ida. She had a plastic name tag with green glitter on it that she wore on her apron. He thought that Ida was a solid sounding name. Like potatoes. Idaho potatoes. It was the kind of name that your mother’s best friend would have. Or the lady who serves the soup at the church supper.
It was her hands that he had first noticed. They were so pale and so smooth. Her fingers were long and delicate, without trying to be. She didn't even polish her nails. She kept them short, but still they looked like princess fingers.
Normally, he didn’t have this kind of feeling about coffee shop girls. Most of them kind of bugged him, actually. They seemed freckly and forceful, like they were naturally bossy and they were getting their degrees at the university in something that would prepare them to be even bossier. But Ida was different. She was just so warm, so plain, so sweet, so imperfect in all the best ways. Like her sweater. She had a horrible sweater that had clearly been through a wash cycle that no sweater should ever see.
Ida’s sweater was blue and the arms were too short. The middle was too big around, and it looked kind of stiff, like if you had tried to make a sweater out of upholstery. She wasn’t wearing it to be cool, either, Phil could see. She just didn’t have the trappings of a wearing a ratty blue sweater to be cool sort of person. For example, she didn’t wear earrings. Girls who wear ratty sweaters to be cool always wear earrings. And often they have tattoos. She didn’t have earrings, tattoos, nail polish, or any of that kind of stuff. She just had hands so beautiful that if he made the mistake of watching them while she pulled the handle on the espresso machine, or handed someone a coffee, he felt a little lurch in his stomach.
He wasn’t planning to talk to her. He didn’t want her to think he was some kind of stalker. He tried not to think too much about her. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t try to look halfway presentable when he knew that he’d be going by the coffee shop while she was there. He flossed extra well on those days. If he had ever had to face flossing judgment, he knew that he would end up in flosser hell. He didn’t even floss every day. And some days, he would only floss three or four teeth. Whatever he felt like.
But when he was going to see Ida at the coffee shop, he flossed every tooth, brushed, mouthwashed, and lightly brushed again. He wore his brown and yellow plaid shirt, although she probably would never see it, because he had his heavy wool coat on. He knew that his earflap hat wasn’t exactly sexy, but he figured that a true princess would appreciate practicality in a man, so he wore it. Besides, it smashed his hair down, and left a red crease on his forehead, so he couldn’t really take it off right when he got there.
Today, he was going to put up posters for the Pants Demons, then stop by the animal shelter on his way to the botanical gardens. He had decided that he would get a dog, even if it meant moving out of his apartment. It wouldn’t really be hard to move, since he hadn’t unpacked any of the boxes since he had left the academy. He had just unpacked his computer and two or three dishes, a couple of shirts and his sleeping bag. The washing machine and dryer pretty much served as his clothing storage.
The only thing that would be hard to move was his harp, and since he hadn’t even taken it out of its crate, at least there would be no packing. It would cost a few hundred dollars to have the movers come, but they could take all the other stuff at the same time.
He buttoned his coat and grabbed the messenger bag.
It was her hands that he had first noticed. They were so pale and so smooth. Her fingers were long and delicate, without trying to be. She didn't even polish her nails. She kept them short, but still they looked like princess fingers.
Normally, he didn’t have this kind of feeling about coffee shop girls. Most of them kind of bugged him, actually. They seemed freckly and forceful, like they were naturally bossy and they were getting their degrees at the university in something that would prepare them to be even bossier. But Ida was different. She was just so warm, so plain, so sweet, so imperfect in all the best ways. Like her sweater. She had a horrible sweater that had clearly been through a wash cycle that no sweater should ever see.
Ida’s sweater was blue and the arms were too short. The middle was too big around, and it looked kind of stiff, like if you had tried to make a sweater out of upholstery. She wasn’t wearing it to be cool, either, Phil could see. She just didn’t have the trappings of a wearing a ratty blue sweater to be cool sort of person. For example, she didn’t wear earrings. Girls who wear ratty sweaters to be cool always wear earrings. And often they have tattoos. She didn’t have earrings, tattoos, nail polish, or any of that kind of stuff. She just had hands so beautiful that if he made the mistake of watching them while she pulled the handle on the espresso machine, or handed someone a coffee, he felt a little lurch in his stomach.
He wasn’t planning to talk to her. He didn’t want her to think he was some kind of stalker. He tried not to think too much about her. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t try to look halfway presentable when he knew that he’d be going by the coffee shop while she was there. He flossed extra well on those days. If he had ever had to face flossing judgment, he knew that he would end up in flosser hell. He didn’t even floss every day. And some days, he would only floss three or four teeth. Whatever he felt like.
But when he was going to see Ida at the coffee shop, he flossed every tooth, brushed, mouthwashed, and lightly brushed again. He wore his brown and yellow plaid shirt, although she probably would never see it, because he had his heavy wool coat on. He knew that his earflap hat wasn’t exactly sexy, but he figured that a true princess would appreciate practicality in a man, so he wore it. Besides, it smashed his hair down, and left a red crease on his forehead, so he couldn’t really take it off right when he got there.
Today, he was going to put up posters for the Pants Demons, then stop by the animal shelter on his way to the botanical gardens. He had decided that he would get a dog, even if it meant moving out of his apartment. It wouldn’t really be hard to move, since he hadn’t unpacked any of the boxes since he had left the academy. He had just unpacked his computer and two or three dishes, a couple of shirts and his sleeping bag. The washing machine and dryer pretty much served as his clothing storage.
The only thing that would be hard to move was his harp, and since he hadn’t even taken it out of its crate, at least there would be no packing. It would cost a few hundred dollars to have the movers come, but they could take all the other stuff at the same time.
He buttoned his coat and grabbed the messenger bag.
10 - Bad News for Mavis
Mavis waited a long time. She got very hungry, and then very thirsty, and then she wet on the rug even though she didn’t want to, but Sybil did not come back. A man in a uniform came to the door and knocked and she barked once before she when went and hid under the bed.
“There’s a dog in there,” muttered the policeman. “Better get animal control over.”
He hated it when there were dogs. A bird, or even a cat being left behind, he could stand, but it broke his heart seeing that worried, confused look on a dog’s face. He knocked again, but this time no bark. He went back to his squad car and smoked a cigarette.
He could handle it, even, when he had to tell people the bad news. It was awful, but at least you knew what it was like for them. At least a little bit. They knew you felt bad, they knew you’d help if you could. But dogs just looked at you with those big brown eyes and it made you want to go back to school and become a plumber, or not go back to school and become a gas station attendant. Anything.
“There’s a dog in there,” muttered the policeman. “Better get animal control over.”
He hated it when there were dogs. A bird, or even a cat being left behind, he could stand, but it broke his heart seeing that worried, confused look on a dog’s face. He knocked again, but this time no bark. He went back to his squad car and smoked a cigarette.
He could handle it, even, when he had to tell people the bad news. It was awful, but at least you knew what it was like for them. At least a little bit. They knew you felt bad, they knew you’d help if you could. But dogs just looked at you with those big brown eyes and it made you want to go back to school and become a plumber, or not go back to school and become a gas station attendant. Anything.
Part 9 - Good Sprinkles
Imogene left the coffee shop early enough to visit her ex-stepfather, Eric. She rarely saw her real father, but she usually had each of her three ex-stepfathers over for dinner on a weekly basis. This kept her well stocked in leftovers, and they didn’t mind eating the meat pastries that she enjoyed dreaming up.
Tonight was different, though. Eric had gotten a small part in a community theatre production, and they were going out to celebrate. He was going to play the part of Mabel in a production of the Pirates of Penzance that his beard and moustache club was planning. He was going to lip sync.
They met at the Chinese restaurant, where they always met when they went out. Eric was her first ex-stepdad, so they had been meeting for weekly visits since Imogene was only four years old. The owner of the Chinese restaurant got to know them so well that he went and got their orders when he saw them come in.
“Looking punky tonight, you little cuss,” said Eric, who did talk more like a living embodiment of Yosemite Sam than most people that Imogene knew. He had been raised in Iowa, in a mild mannered Methodist family, but had picked up an idiosyncratic way of talking from reading Robert Service poems. At first, he had talked that way to be funny, but eventually it stuck, just like holding your eyes crossed will. He now was the only insurance broker in town who, instead of ending telephone conversations with “goodbye,” said “Keep yer powder dry.”
“I’m a bit frustrated. I’ve been trying to drum up some business for my dog singing sideline, but I’m not getting any calls.”
Eric whistled, knocked on the table and rolled his eyes like she was off her rocker, but it didn’t phase Imogene in the least.
The waiter came with Imogene’s hot and sour soup and fried yams. He set a dish of beef with green beans in front of Eric.
“Oh, it’s a big night,” said Eric, “We’ll have ice cream for dessert.” The waiter smiled and said, “okay.” He stole a look at Imogene, then he refilled the last quarter inch of her teacup, as he always did, and walked away.
Minutes later, an older Chinese woman approached the table.
“You getting married?” she asked, point blank, with her hand on the table, as if maybe she might snatch away the food if Imogene answered wrong.
“Oh, no,” smiled Imogene. “I’m not getting married. I just look sad because nobody will let me sing to their dogs.”
The woman glared and her, shrugged, and then yelled something in Chinese to the waiter. He had clearly been in love with Imogene since she turned 15. Whether or not he was trying to conceal it was hard to tell, but if he was, he wasn’t being particularly opaque.
When Imogene walked in, his head would jerk in her direction and he would immediately stop what he was doing, even if it was waiting on a customer. One time, he had been serving a scoop of rice to a woman, and when he saw Imogene, he just set the scoop, rice still in it, on the woman’s plate.
It was clear that whoever had host duty was temporarily discharged when Imogene walked in. If, for some reason Larry (that was his name) was in back, they would say, “Uh, just a minute,” and disappear, and Larry would miraculously appear in their place.
Imogene brought up the matter up to Eric when Larry was busy squeezing the soft ice cream out of the dispenser. Imogene always ordered extra sprinkles, and Larry always took a long time arranging them with chopsticks into a delicate leaf pattern.
“Do you think I’m betrothed?” she asked Eric confidentially, sincerely concerned that maybe just the act of ordering fried sweet potatoes was code for “I love you,” and she just didn’t know it.
“Ah, hell’s bells,” said Eric. “Imogene, girly, you’re purt near the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. He’s set his cap for you, but you can’t marry every sodbuster that wants to park his mule in front of your barn. You’re breaking hearts all over town, but that’s your row to hoe. It’s just this feller shows it more than most.”
“Huh,” Imogene said, stirring the last of her sweet potatoes around in a dish of pot sticker sauce. She wondered, if she was such a wondrous beauty, why nobody but the Chinese waiter seemed to pay her much attention.
Larry arrived, beaming, with the ice cream. Today there were small flowers, done in red sprinkles, among chocolate sprinkle leaves. Imogene smiled and thanked him.
He waited by the table expectantly, so she dug her spoon in and took a bite.
“Mmmm,” she said, “Good sprinkles.”
Tonight was different, though. Eric had gotten a small part in a community theatre production, and they were going out to celebrate. He was going to play the part of Mabel in a production of the Pirates of Penzance that his beard and moustache club was planning. He was going to lip sync.
They met at the Chinese restaurant, where they always met when they went out. Eric was her first ex-stepdad, so they had been meeting for weekly visits since Imogene was only four years old. The owner of the Chinese restaurant got to know them so well that he went and got their orders when he saw them come in.
“Looking punky tonight, you little cuss,” said Eric, who did talk more like a living embodiment of Yosemite Sam than most people that Imogene knew. He had been raised in Iowa, in a mild mannered Methodist family, but had picked up an idiosyncratic way of talking from reading Robert Service poems. At first, he had talked that way to be funny, but eventually it stuck, just like holding your eyes crossed will. He now was the only insurance broker in town who, instead of ending telephone conversations with “goodbye,” said “Keep yer powder dry.”
“I’m a bit frustrated. I’ve been trying to drum up some business for my dog singing sideline, but I’m not getting any calls.”
Eric whistled, knocked on the table and rolled his eyes like she was off her rocker, but it didn’t phase Imogene in the least.
The waiter came with Imogene’s hot and sour soup and fried yams. He set a dish of beef with green beans in front of Eric.
“Oh, it’s a big night,” said Eric, “We’ll have ice cream for dessert.” The waiter smiled and said, “okay.” He stole a look at Imogene, then he refilled the last quarter inch of her teacup, as he always did, and walked away.
Minutes later, an older Chinese woman approached the table.
“You getting married?” she asked, point blank, with her hand on the table, as if maybe she might snatch away the food if Imogene answered wrong.
“Oh, no,” smiled Imogene. “I’m not getting married. I just look sad because nobody will let me sing to their dogs.”
The woman glared and her, shrugged, and then yelled something in Chinese to the waiter. He had clearly been in love with Imogene since she turned 15. Whether or not he was trying to conceal it was hard to tell, but if he was, he wasn’t being particularly opaque.
When Imogene walked in, his head would jerk in her direction and he would immediately stop what he was doing, even if it was waiting on a customer. One time, he had been serving a scoop of rice to a woman, and when he saw Imogene, he just set the scoop, rice still in it, on the woman’s plate.
It was clear that whoever had host duty was temporarily discharged when Imogene walked in. If, for some reason Larry (that was his name) was in back, they would say, “Uh, just a minute,” and disappear, and Larry would miraculously appear in their place.
Imogene brought up the matter up to Eric when Larry was busy squeezing the soft ice cream out of the dispenser. Imogene always ordered extra sprinkles, and Larry always took a long time arranging them with chopsticks into a delicate leaf pattern.
“Do you think I’m betrothed?” she asked Eric confidentially, sincerely concerned that maybe just the act of ordering fried sweet potatoes was code for “I love you,” and she just didn’t know it.
“Ah, hell’s bells,” said Eric. “Imogene, girly, you’re purt near the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. He’s set his cap for you, but you can’t marry every sodbuster that wants to park his mule in front of your barn. You’re breaking hearts all over town, but that’s your row to hoe. It’s just this feller shows it more than most.”
“Huh,” Imogene said, stirring the last of her sweet potatoes around in a dish of pot sticker sauce. She wondered, if she was such a wondrous beauty, why nobody but the Chinese waiter seemed to pay her much attention.
Larry arrived, beaming, with the ice cream. Today there were small flowers, done in red sprinkles, among chocolate sprinkle leaves. Imogene smiled and thanked him.
He waited by the table expectantly, so she dug her spoon in and took a bite.
“Mmmm,” she said, “Good sprinkles.”
Part 8 - Phil's Mother
“It’s not healthy, living like you do,” said Phil’s mother. “You need some companionship. You should take a hip-hop dance class or something.”
She stood with her hand on her hip, holding out a glass of orange juice.
Phil looked up from the newspaper. His mother was careful not to say things like, “You’re 34 and you don’t have a girlfriend – are you lying about not being gay?” but he knew what she was thinking.
“I might do that,” he said, “But I don’t have a place to keep a dog. My building doesn’t even allow small animals.”
“I said take a dance class.” Phil’s mother was accustomed to his not listening to what she was saying, per se. She was patient about it. He had a lot on his mind.
“But I’ve been thinking about moving closer to the botanical gardens. Maybe I can get a house,” he went on.
“What about your classes?” asked his mother.
Yes, Phil was lying about his job teaching music theory at the university. He had been offered the job, but the thought of putting on a necktie and standing up in front of a bunch of bored freshmen horrified him. He had decided to do odd jobs, instead, until the right thing came along, whatever that was. He did feel a little guilty about lying to his mom, but not really. He did it to save her the stress of worrying about him, and to save himself the irritation of explaining it all, over and over. To him, this seemed fair.
Lying was like using a credit card. He knew fully well that he would have to pay it back with interest, but the short-term convenience was worth the long-term sacrifice. He didn’t use credit cards, actually, but that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t have lied about being a drug addict, or about stealing, or to get himself out of some bad situation that he should take responsibility for. But lying about something harmless, like making a living doing odd jobs when you were a genius, seemed forgivable to him.
Anyone who is a genius knows that it’s not particularly enjoyable. Phil’s therapist had explained a phenomenon that many brilliant people suffer from, called the “imposter syndrome.” When you are gifted, people shower you with attention and love for it, and soon you equate your worthiness as a human being with your ability to deliver the gift. You begin to dread that you will lose the gift, or that you won’t deliver to people’s expectations. Recognizing yourself as a mere mortal, you feel like you’re stuck in a genius costume, living a lie, and that somebody is bound to find out. She showed him a cartoon where an elephant is on stage, sweating bullets, with a violin in his hand. The elephant is thinking, “What the hell am I DOING? For I’m a pianist, for Christ’s sake!”
That was all over now, though. What had happened, had put an end to Phil’s worries. They say that this isn’t too unusual, subconsciously shooting yourself in the foot so that you can stop the genius march. It had been years ago. He was better. But not well enough to tell the truth to his mother.
“I can still take the bus” he said, as a delayed response to the question about how he'd teach his classes if he lived across town near the botanical garden.
To make sure he didn’t get mixed up, he had concentrated for a while on translating “your job, your students, your classes” into “your job, the coffeeshop, and the posters,” but now it was second nature and he didn’t need to think about it. He figured that this must be the way that real liars functioned. They just built a little off-ramp in their brain so that any questions relating to the lied-about topic could automatically exit to Lie Town. It was dangerous, he realized, but he didn’t care.
Phil drew the line at actually voicing lies, though. He never said “my students, or my teaching job.” It was more like he was playing Santa Claus. Instead of saying, “Santa is real, and he’s going to give you a present,” he’d have said, “Somebody is going to leave you a surprise.” It was true, while still promoting the lie. Phil drank the orange juice and got up to go to work. He was wearing a sweater that had been shrunken rather unevenly, and jeans that were a hair too short for his long legs. His hair stuck up in the back, obviously where he had slept on it.
“Is that what you wear to work?” his mom asked, as he went out the front door with his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“They don’t mind,” he replied.
She stood with her hand on her hip, holding out a glass of orange juice.
Phil looked up from the newspaper. His mother was careful not to say things like, “You’re 34 and you don’t have a girlfriend – are you lying about not being gay?” but he knew what she was thinking.
“I might do that,” he said, “But I don’t have a place to keep a dog. My building doesn’t even allow small animals.”
“I said take a dance class.” Phil’s mother was accustomed to his not listening to what she was saying, per se. She was patient about it. He had a lot on his mind.
“But I’ve been thinking about moving closer to the botanical gardens. Maybe I can get a house,” he went on.
“What about your classes?” asked his mother.
Yes, Phil was lying about his job teaching music theory at the university. He had been offered the job, but the thought of putting on a necktie and standing up in front of a bunch of bored freshmen horrified him. He had decided to do odd jobs, instead, until the right thing came along, whatever that was. He did feel a little guilty about lying to his mom, but not really. He did it to save her the stress of worrying about him, and to save himself the irritation of explaining it all, over and over. To him, this seemed fair.
Lying was like using a credit card. He knew fully well that he would have to pay it back with interest, but the short-term convenience was worth the long-term sacrifice. He didn’t use credit cards, actually, but that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t have lied about being a drug addict, or about stealing, or to get himself out of some bad situation that he should take responsibility for. But lying about something harmless, like making a living doing odd jobs when you were a genius, seemed forgivable to him.
Anyone who is a genius knows that it’s not particularly enjoyable. Phil’s therapist had explained a phenomenon that many brilliant people suffer from, called the “imposter syndrome.” When you are gifted, people shower you with attention and love for it, and soon you equate your worthiness as a human being with your ability to deliver the gift. You begin to dread that you will lose the gift, or that you won’t deliver to people’s expectations. Recognizing yourself as a mere mortal, you feel like you’re stuck in a genius costume, living a lie, and that somebody is bound to find out. She showed him a cartoon where an elephant is on stage, sweating bullets, with a violin in his hand. The elephant is thinking, “What the hell am I DOING? For I’m a pianist, for Christ’s sake!”
That was all over now, though. What had happened, had put an end to Phil’s worries. They say that this isn’t too unusual, subconsciously shooting yourself in the foot so that you can stop the genius march. It had been years ago. He was better. But not well enough to tell the truth to his mother.
“I can still take the bus” he said, as a delayed response to the question about how he'd teach his classes if he lived across town near the botanical garden.
To make sure he didn’t get mixed up, he had concentrated for a while on translating “your job, your students, your classes” into “your job, the coffeeshop, and the posters,” but now it was second nature and he didn’t need to think about it. He figured that this must be the way that real liars functioned. They just built a little off-ramp in their brain so that any questions relating to the lied-about topic could automatically exit to Lie Town. It was dangerous, he realized, but he didn’t care.
Phil drew the line at actually voicing lies, though. He never said “my students, or my teaching job.” It was more like he was playing Santa Claus. Instead of saying, “Santa is real, and he’s going to give you a present,” he’d have said, “Somebody is going to leave you a surprise.” It was true, while still promoting the lie. Phil drank the orange juice and got up to go to work. He was wearing a sweater that had been shrunken rather unevenly, and jeans that were a hair too short for his long legs. His hair stuck up in the back, obviously where he had slept on it.
“Is that what you wear to work?” his mom asked, as he went out the front door with his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“They don’t mind,” he replied.
Part 7 - Amy's Remorse
Amy wiped her nose on the fresh bandage. She had not foreseen the need for a handkerchief. She didn’t think that she’d miss George, but on the way home from the animal adoption center, she couldn’t stop bawling. Her view of the stoplight was like the blurry view from behind a water-sheeted windshield at the carwash. A utility truck drove up beside her and the driver stared openly at her as she sobbed.
It had been a week since the day George bit her, and her arm was infected. It hurt like hell. She was on antibiotics, which she couldn’t afford, and her waitress job was now in jeopardy. She hadn’t really loved George, but she knew he hadn’t meant to bite her. It wasn’t the bite that made her give him up. She had just faced that she wasn’t taking good care of him, and that he deserved a better home. She put a B-52s CD in the player, and drove forward when the light turned green.
It had been a week since the day George bit her, and her arm was infected. It hurt like hell. She was on antibiotics, which she couldn’t afford, and her waitress job was now in jeopardy. She hadn’t really loved George, but she knew he hadn’t meant to bite her. It wasn’t the bite that made her give him up. She had just faced that she wasn’t taking good care of him, and that he deserved a better home. She put a B-52s CD in the player, and drove forward when the light turned green.
Part 6 - Brown and Yellow
When Imogene got to work, she could tell that the weird poster guy had been there. She could always tell, because whenever he had come, the posters were arranged by date, then by size and finally by color. She mixed herself a latte and looked to see which poster was newest. He always gave his poster, the one he had been putting up, a primary location on the upper left, but not the top. That was his style. She read the Stamp Lickers poster, and wondered if the poster guy designed the posters, or just put them up. A lot of the time they had kind of gruesome imagery on them, severed heads, demons, bleeding eyeballs. For example the Stamp Lickers poster had a picture of a spiked boot stomping on an eyeball. Imogene didn’t really like looking at the posters for this reason.
She had seen the poster guy, and she didn’t think he designed them. He didn’t look like the type who was into bleeding eyeballs. He looked more like the type who had a full set of unopened Star Wars figurines in his attic, and a brown and yellow zigzagged acrylic fiber afghan on the back of his couch. She figured that his apartment, if he didn’t live with his parents, probably had brown and yellow smells, too: faint smells like onion skins and natural gas and damp garbage and old men’s chairs. She wasn’t sure of course. She just figured that the sort of person who would wear those ridiculous oversized mittens would live a brown and yellow life.
The first time she had seen the mittens, she had commented on them, because they kind of stood out. She had been making cocoa for a mother and two kids when the weird poster guy had walked in, or tried to walk in anyway. He stood fumbling at the glass door for a few seconds, with mittens the size of oven mitts on his hands. Then he had taken off the mittens, and carried them under his arm, with as much dignity as he could, to do his poster work. Walking by the bulletin board to serve the people their cocoa, Imogene had commented that those were quite the mittens. The weird poster guy had turned red all the way up to his earflaps, and whispered “Thanks.”
She had seen the poster guy, and she didn’t think he designed them. He didn’t look like the type who was into bleeding eyeballs. He looked more like the type who had a full set of unopened Star Wars figurines in his attic, and a brown and yellow zigzagged acrylic fiber afghan on the back of his couch. She figured that his apartment, if he didn’t live with his parents, probably had brown and yellow smells, too: faint smells like onion skins and natural gas and damp garbage and old men’s chairs. She wasn’t sure of course. She just figured that the sort of person who would wear those ridiculous oversized mittens would live a brown and yellow life.
The first time she had seen the mittens, she had commented on them, because they kind of stood out. She had been making cocoa for a mother and two kids when the weird poster guy had walked in, or tried to walk in anyway. He stood fumbling at the glass door for a few seconds, with mittens the size of oven mitts on his hands. Then he had taken off the mittens, and carried them under his arm, with as much dignity as he could, to do his poster work. Walking by the bulletin board to serve the people their cocoa, Imogene had commented that those were quite the mittens. The weird poster guy had turned red all the way up to his earflaps, and whispered “Thanks.”
Part 5 - Trouble with George
“George!” called Amy. “George, come here this minute!” George didn’t move.
“George! Come!” George remained motionless.
Amy walked around to the back of the house to find George glaring at her reproachfully. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled, but he pulled back, using the weight of his fat rear end to anchor him. Amy got behind him and tried to lift his butt, but he wasn’t moving.
“You have to go inside. Come.” Amy commanded.
She gave one more huge push, and George did something that wasn’t ordinarily in his nature. He turned around and bit her, hard. His teeth sunk deeply into her upper arm and she shrieked in surprise and pain. Amy then did something that wasn’t in her nature either. She kicked George, hard, but he still didn’t move.
Shaking, sad, hurt and disgusted, she ran out the front gate and jumped in her car to go to the urgent care.
George felt horrible. He whined. Then he ate lunch again.
“George! Come!” George remained motionless.
Amy walked around to the back of the house to find George glaring at her reproachfully. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled, but he pulled back, using the weight of his fat rear end to anchor him. Amy got behind him and tried to lift his butt, but he wasn’t moving.
“You have to go inside. Come.” Amy commanded.
She gave one more huge push, and George did something that wasn’t ordinarily in his nature. He turned around and bit her, hard. His teeth sunk deeply into her upper arm and she shrieked in surprise and pain. Amy then did something that wasn’t in her nature either. She kicked George, hard, but he still didn’t move.
Shaking, sad, hurt and disgusted, she ran out the front gate and jumped in her car to go to the urgent care.
George felt horrible. He whined. Then he ate lunch again.
Part 4 - Phil Phones
After Phil finished rearranging the posters at the coffee shop, he went outside to use the pay phone. It was the only pay phone in town, so he was careful to make use of it whenever he was in the area.
“Hello,” said Marlin. He was the kind of person who says that like a flat statement, not a question. It was always little disappointing to Phil, but he didn’t let on. He would have liked it if Marlin could have had just a hint of that curious “who could it be?" sound in his voice when he answered, but he realized that these sorts of things are not meant personally.
Phil, on the other hand, usually answered the phone in a near whisper. If someone had called him, he would have whispered, “Hello?” in a conspiratorial tone, as if perhaps he was living among the pixies, and didn’t want them to know that he was getting calls from the outside. But he didn’t ever answer the phone, because nobody ever called him. And besides, he didn’t have a phone. One time he had answered the pay phone outside the coffee shop, but it had been a wrong number. Someone trying to reach the bakery that made spinach and cheese biscuits. Phil knew this, because when the person had asked if they could order biscuits, he had asked what kind. They had seemed disappointed when he told them that they couldn’t order the spinach and cheese kind. He had felt sorry, of course, but he really couldn't help.
“Marlin, it’s… “ he looked both ways to see that nobody was coming, “Phil.”
“Did you lose your key again?” demanded Marlin, without sounding at all surprised that it was Phil.
“No, not this time,” said Phil. “It’s about a girl.”
Marlin hung up. Phil hung up too. He should have known that Marlin wouldn’t be much help. He was just the guy who had the extra keys to the botanical garden. He polished the floors and emptied the garbage. Phil had once asked if Marlin found any love notes in the garbage, and Marlin had said to shut up. So Phil knew that he shouldn’t have expected much romance help from him, but he was the only person he really knew, to talk to.
He threw the messenger bag across his shoulder and walked toward the telephone pole across the street, feeling in his pocket for his staple remover.
“Hello,” said Marlin. He was the kind of person who says that like a flat statement, not a question. It was always little disappointing to Phil, but he didn’t let on. He would have liked it if Marlin could have had just a hint of that curious “who could it be?" sound in his voice when he answered, but he realized that these sorts of things are not meant personally.
Phil, on the other hand, usually answered the phone in a near whisper. If someone had called him, he would have whispered, “Hello?” in a conspiratorial tone, as if perhaps he was living among the pixies, and didn’t want them to know that he was getting calls from the outside. But he didn’t ever answer the phone, because nobody ever called him. And besides, he didn’t have a phone. One time he had answered the pay phone outside the coffee shop, but it had been a wrong number. Someone trying to reach the bakery that made spinach and cheese biscuits. Phil knew this, because when the person had asked if they could order biscuits, he had asked what kind. They had seemed disappointed when he told them that they couldn’t order the spinach and cheese kind. He had felt sorry, of course, but he really couldn't help.
“Marlin, it’s… “ he looked both ways to see that nobody was coming, “Phil.”
“Did you lose your key again?” demanded Marlin, without sounding at all surprised that it was Phil.
“No, not this time,” said Phil. “It’s about a girl.”
Marlin hung up. Phil hung up too. He should have known that Marlin wouldn’t be much help. He was just the guy who had the extra keys to the botanical garden. He polished the floors and emptied the garbage. Phil had once asked if Marlin found any love notes in the garbage, and Marlin had said to shut up. So Phil knew that he shouldn’t have expected much romance help from him, but he was the only person he really knew, to talk to.
He threw the messenger bag across his shoulder and walked toward the telephone pole across the street, feeling in his pocket for his staple remover.
Part 3 - Enter Phil
The coffee shop bulletin board was covered with three or four layers of concert posters, business cards and flyers for self help groups. Phil was not the kind of person who would just plaster his poster on top of the other posters. This made his postering job rather time consuming, but he didn’t mind taking the time to rearrange the posters by date, removing the old ones and folding them carefully into a large, dog eared folder that he carried in his messenger bag. He was putting up posters for a band called the Stamp Lickers, who were appearing at a gas station turned nightclub the following month.
In order to pull out the tacks, he had to take off his mittens. He could have used fingerless gloves, but there was something about fingerless gloves that irritated Phil. He thought they made him look too much like he was trying to look tough or something. His mittens, on the other hand, had that “just back from grandma’s house” look. While he didn’t exactly cultivate that mystique, he preferred it to the fingerless glove look.
Actually, the mittens had not come from his grandma, who was a retired congresswoman and had little time for knitting. He had made them himself. It hadn’t taken him any time, since it was a long bus ride to his other job, feeding fish in the various pools at the botanical gardens. He just took his knitting with him and did a few rows as he rode each way. It was frustrating when people got to talking to him and he dropped a stitch, or forgot which row he was on, but even with those distractions, he finished the mittens in a few weeks. They were grey, with brown stripes.
In order to pull out the tacks, he had to take off his mittens. He could have used fingerless gloves, but there was something about fingerless gloves that irritated Phil. He thought they made him look too much like he was trying to look tough or something. His mittens, on the other hand, had that “just back from grandma’s house” look. While he didn’t exactly cultivate that mystique, he preferred it to the fingerless glove look.
Actually, the mittens had not come from his grandma, who was a retired congresswoman and had little time for knitting. He had made them himself. It hadn’t taken him any time, since it was a long bus ride to his other job, feeding fish in the various pools at the botanical gardens. He just took his knitting with him and did a few rows as he rode each way. It was frustrating when people got to talking to him and he dropped a stitch, or forgot which row he was on, but even with those distractions, he finished the mittens in a few weeks. They were grey, with brown stripes.
Part 2 - The Advertising Campaign
The telephone did not ring. The ad had been in the paper for three weeks, and yet the telephone did not ring. Imogene had posted flyers in some of the grocery stores and at the coffee shop where she worked half time, but nobody had called.
“Music therapy for pets” said the headline.
“Is your dog listless? Uninterested in play? Does she scratch herself in places she shouldn’t? Does he poop on the floor? Dig in the yard??”
“Dogs need a strong self image and revolutionary pet therapist, Marge Barkwell, can help. Change your dog from a dull, listless mutt into a happy, well rounded beastie with a lust for life."
“How? It’s simple. Learn the secrets of animo-musical therapy and see how singing to your dog can change everything. Not just cover songs. Barkwell composes customized feel-good music for your pooch, and will teach you how, too. Call 777-0877 for free estimate. Comes with dog treats and free practice CD. Group rates available.”
Imogene wondered if she should have used larger type. In order to get it all to fit in the $10 ad, she had Xeroxed it down, and had to cut it up a little. She was sure the music therapy part could be read, and she had purposely written her phone number extra large, but maybe some of the other parts might be a little bit small.
She thought that maybe she’d re-do it, typing it this time, if she didn’t get any calls by next week. Of course it didn’t help that the ad was squeezed between the hardware sale ad and the full sized display ad for lesbian sex toys. Really, who would spend their money on dog therapy when they could get a leaf blower for $99.99? Still, Imogene was a patient person, and did not give up easily.
She served Ricky a hamburger cupcake that she had baked earlier in the week and got ready for work. Ricky ate it with relish.
“Music therapy for pets” said the headline.
“Is your dog listless? Uninterested in play? Does she scratch herself in places she shouldn’t? Does he poop on the floor? Dig in the yard??”
“Dogs need a strong self image and revolutionary pet therapist, Marge Barkwell, can help. Change your dog from a dull, listless mutt into a happy, well rounded beastie with a lust for life."
“How? It’s simple. Learn the secrets of animo-musical therapy and see how singing to your dog can change everything. Not just cover songs. Barkwell composes customized feel-good music for your pooch, and will teach you how, too. Call 777-0877 for free estimate. Comes with dog treats and free practice CD. Group rates available.”
Imogene wondered if she should have used larger type. In order to get it all to fit in the $10 ad, she had Xeroxed it down, and had to cut it up a little. She was sure the music therapy part could be read, and she had purposely written her phone number extra large, but maybe some of the other parts might be a little bit small.
She thought that maybe she’d re-do it, typing it this time, if she didn’t get any calls by next week. Of course it didn’t help that the ad was squeezed between the hardware sale ad and the full sized display ad for lesbian sex toys. Really, who would spend their money on dog therapy when they could get a leaf blower for $99.99? Still, Imogene was a patient person, and did not give up easily.
She served Ricky a hamburger cupcake that she had baked earlier in the week and got ready for work. Ricky ate it with relish.
Part 1 - We meet Mavis, George and Imogene
Mavis had skinny legs. In fact they were more than skinny. Skinny connotes that there was once a bit of leg there, but now there is some extra skin. But Mavis’ legs were just little chicken bones with a thin covering. About the size of a thick pencil. Maybe a carpenter’s pencil.
Mavis was nervous. She was shaking all over. Her dark eyes bugged out of her head, like marbles. She nervously ran into the kitchen. She nervously ran to look out the window. She flopped down on the couch. That didn’t seem comfortable. She flopped down on the floor. Then up on the couch, and then looking out the window again. She stood as tall as she could and scanned the tree lined yard, but there was no sign of Sybil. No sign of Sybil. She went back to bed. She sighed.
--
George was overweight. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He noticed, sometimes, that it was harder for him to fit into small spaces, but he didn’t really attribute it to his weight problem. He didn’t get tired that easily, so the extra pounds didn’t bother him at all. He walked around in the back yard, striking a pose now and then, for the neighbors who occasionally glanced out the window to see him. He carried a few small boards from behind the shed to near the house. He worked for a while on the holes that he had started by the big pine tree, but it was in a halfhearted way. He just scratched at them a little. Then he scratched at himself. Then he had lunch again.
--
“He has legs but they aren’t too long, Singin’ the puppy dog song,
He doesn’t wipe his butt, but is that so wrong?
Singin’ the puppy dog song,
I rub his tummy and he eats my hand,
He’s the new lead singer in a punk pup band,
He’s the bestest puppy in the doggone land
Oh, singing the puppy dog song…”
“Well, that’s nothing too special,” thought Imogene, “but it works.”
She stopped rubbing Ricky’s belly, and the dog grin that was plastered on his face froze for a minute. He wriggled like a turtle turned on its shell before getting upright again.
Imogene went to take the tea kettle off the burner and Ricky followed her from a distance of about 4 inches. She didn’t need to look to know that he was there. She could hear him breathing, like a small handsaw, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant.
Mavis was nervous. She was shaking all over. Her dark eyes bugged out of her head, like marbles. She nervously ran into the kitchen. She nervously ran to look out the window. She flopped down on the couch. That didn’t seem comfortable. She flopped down on the floor. Then up on the couch, and then looking out the window again. She stood as tall as she could and scanned the tree lined yard, but there was no sign of Sybil. No sign of Sybil. She went back to bed. She sighed.
--
George was overweight. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He noticed, sometimes, that it was harder for him to fit into small spaces, but he didn’t really attribute it to his weight problem. He didn’t get tired that easily, so the extra pounds didn’t bother him at all. He walked around in the back yard, striking a pose now and then, for the neighbors who occasionally glanced out the window to see him. He carried a few small boards from behind the shed to near the house. He worked for a while on the holes that he had started by the big pine tree, but it was in a halfhearted way. He just scratched at them a little. Then he scratched at himself. Then he had lunch again.
--
“He has legs but they aren’t too long, Singin’ the puppy dog song,
He doesn’t wipe his butt, but is that so wrong?
Singin’ the puppy dog song,
I rub his tummy and he eats my hand,
He’s the new lead singer in a punk pup band,
He’s the bestest puppy in the doggone land
Oh, singing the puppy dog song…”
“Well, that’s nothing too special,” thought Imogene, “but it works.”
She stopped rubbing Ricky’s belly, and the dog grin that was plastered on his face froze for a minute. He wriggled like a turtle turned on its shell before getting upright again.
Imogene went to take the tea kettle off the burner and Ricky followed her from a distance of about 4 inches. She didn’t need to look to know that he was there. She could hear him breathing, like a small handsaw, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)