Chapter 36 - Next Door
This wasn't the only weird conversation going on in the neighborhood. The dog wasn't kidding when he said he was going next door to squeal to the book guy, Westlake. When he climbed the steps to Westlake's back porch, he was sorely tempted to yell through the door something like, "Yo, you of vicarious living, lemme in, I got a good one for ya," but he controlled his ego and barked instead. Westlake was the only one outside of the June family, the extended family that included Jinny and Gale, and now Gwendy, the newcomer, who the dog conversed with. So far. Every day it was a challenge to keep his special talent hidden from the world at large, but that had been the code of his ancestors for generations. Keep the goods hidden; use only with the most trusted of the lower species; maintain a low profile. And most importantly, choose mates wisely so as to pass the genes forward with the greatest chance of advancing the probability of one day assuming superiority over the now ascendant humans. Our day will come.
The dog wasn't sure why he had exposed his secret to the writer other than the possibility that he felt sorry for any creature that lived such a boring life, sitting alone for all those thousands of hours, staring at the blank pieces of paper, desperately struggling to create engaging stories out of thin air and express them in a way that would entice complete strangers to read and embrace them. All that solitary work that ends up being consumed by people the writer never will meet and that results in a pittance of monetary remuneration, if anything. What a pathetic figure. The dog had decided the guy needed not only a friend, but an associate, the guy not being particularly gifted in the creativity department. Hell, hadn't he, the dog, been the one that had come up with the plots for most of Westlake’s books? And the guy was nice in his limited sort of way. It was good now and then to get away from the dynamism of the Junes and have a conversation that was, shall we say, not too deep.
"Woof, woof," he said from the porch. "Stop playing with yourself in there and lemme in. I got something for ya."
The door opened, and then the screen door, the guy looking down and smiling, thinking, 'Thank god. Drought's over. Maybe I can make something of this, get something going, get that agent bitch off my back.' He said, "C'mon in. I have some leftover meatloaf." In the kitchen the guy said, "You want to eat first or spill the beans first?"
From this the dog sensed Westlake was desperate for a storyline, so he said, "We can talk first, this is a good one. Then maybe the meatloaf. No, wait a second, let me ask a question first so I know if I have something to look forward to or not." The guy gestured with his hands to go on, and the dog asked, "You put ketchup on your meatloaf before you cook it? I really don't like ketchup on it. Ketchup is not a noble condiment."
The guy said, "No, I don't care for ketchup, either."
The dog raised his paw for a high five and said, "Ok, stick it in the oven on low, and while it warms up I'll tell you what I got." He laid down on the floor and waited while the guy did the thing with the food, poured himself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the refrigerator, and sat down at the table. The dog said, "It's ten o'clock in the morning, and you're drinking wine?"
"I've been depressed lately. Just a little pick me up."
"Writing slack?"
"Umm, yeah. Not much happening in that department."
The dog looked at the guy thinking, 'Too bad,' but not able to refrain from asking, "That wine from this morning or last night?"
"Last night."
"You drink wine that's been open all night? All that air sapping everything that's good right out of the bottle?"
"You know stuff about wine?"
"You'd be surprised what I know."
The writer accepted that and said, "So, what's happening next door while Roger's away? Anything juicy? I doubt it because I know she doesn't fool around. Which, I have to say, is too bad."
The dog looked at this poor sap, trying not to comment, but failing, and saying, "You think you could handle Gwenny June if she did fool around? You? A writer, for god's sake. No offense."
"Well, umm, on a good day, maybe. A little. A little thing with her, maybe; say, lunch."
"You think that's what it means to handle a hot babe? Take her to lunch?" The guy didn't answer, just took another sip of the flat wine that hadn't started out the night before at a very high level and now was at a level lower than Welch's grape juice. The dog thought, 'Enough, no reason to pile it on; he's really an ok guy; no Roger June, but a nice neighbor, and when he gets in the groove he can write a decent story.' He said, "Forget that kind of fantasy stuff, making it with her, stick with your writing fantasy stuff, cause I got goods I think you can make something out of."
The curves of Westlake's face toned up a notch and changed from the downward smiley thing to the upward smiley thing. The dog went on, "I didn't think she had it in her to pinch something without Roger around to help, but she did. Her and the other two. Get this: they went into the Charleston Museum in the middle of the night and came home with a painting. A big, important painting, and it's hanging in the living room right now. How's that for a story line?"
The smiley curve on Westlake's face transitioned back from upwards to downwards, and he picked up his glass of low rent grape juice. After taking a slug, stimulated by disappointment with the dog's revelation, he said, "I know."
The dog sat up and said, "You know? You know they heisted a famous work of art and had the balls, er, the guts, to bring it home and stick it in their, her, our living room?" The guy nodded. "And you can't make a book out of that? How'd you know?"
"I saw them bring it home."
"It was the middle of the night. That's when thieves work. What were you doing up?"
"When I can't write I can't sleep. The only thing I can do is drink; ergo the wine at ten am."
The dog thought, 'This boy is in bad shape.' He said, "Ok, but that's not the whole story. There's more." The guy didn't move, or even take another sip, remained expressionless. The dog went on, "Hey, wakeup. Anybody out there? Yo!" The guy raised his glass but still didn't react, didn't say anything. "It's not just a painting. It's a painting of an old Bedgewood babe. You know Gwenny's maiden name was Bedgewood?"
"No."
"Well, it was, and this woman in the painting is one of her ancestors from way back, like two hundred years."
"That's nice. Painting of an ancestor in your living room. So?"
The dog thought, 'I oughta slap this guy,' but he said, "Listen, I'm not the only non-conformist in the household. Was, but not now. Now there's another one."
"Who?"
Jesus, this guy is dense. Needs to get out and get laid or something. "Figure it out, for Christ sake. What have I just been telling you?" Westlake shook his head. "Her. The Bedgewood babe in the painting. Special. Like me. Different. Get it?"
Westlake sat back in his chair, put the glass of grape juice on the table, and closed his eyes for fifteen seconds. During this time the dog lay down, crossed his front legs over each other, and thought, 'If he doesn't get it now there's nothing else I can do.' When the guy opened his eyes, the smiley thing on his face again transitioned, this time from a downward curve to the upwards one. He smiled at the dog, drained his glass, went to the oven from which he took the slightly warmed meatloaf without ketchup on the top, cut a big slab, put it on a plate, and put the plate on the floor. He waved at the plate and said, "You earned it," went over to the small desk in the corner on which sat a computer, turned it on, launched the word processor, and started typing.
The dog waddled over to the plate, thinking, 'What I gotta go through for a decent meal. Sometimes he’s pathetic. I give him gold, I hope he makes something of it.' He wolfed down what was on the plate, thought, ‘Loaf’s not bad though.’
Gwenny June's Tommy Crown Affair Page 36
