Teaching the Dog to Read

by Jonathan Carroll

  Teaching the Dog to Read Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Carroll. All rights reserved.

  Dust jacket illustration and design Copyright © 2015 by Ryder Carroll. All rights reserved.

  Print version interior design Copyright © 2015 by Desert Isle Design, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN

  978-1-59606-726-4

  Subterranean Press

  PO Box190106

  Burton, MI 48519

  subterraneanpress.com

  for Alicja Krawiec

  who fought the storm and won.

  In celebration.

  We don’t remember the dream,

  but the dream remembers us.

  —Linda Pastan

  The gift arrived in the regular mail: a nondescript square box wrapped in thick brown paper with a striking, quite beautiful royal blue and white mailing label on top saying it came from the Lichtenberg Watch Company.

  Tony Areal’s eyes widened on seeing that name because for the last few years one of his dreams was to own a Lichtenberg watch; in particular, the Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ wristwatch that cost over nine thousand dollars. He loved watches but most especially this one. However he had nowhere near the kind of money to spend on something as wonderfully frivolous and unnecessary as an almost ten grand wristwatch. It was a nice unrealistic dream, but one he returned to often. Whatever was in this package was probably some sort of nasty joke from a smartass friend who knew how much Areal coveted the beautiful timepiece. Whoever it was had somehow gotten hold of one of the Lichtenberg Company’s mailing labels and stuck it on this box, hoping to trick Tony into believing his dream had magically come true and for once in his not interesting life the gods really had favored him for some mysterious reason. However on opening this surprising arrival of course he’d only find something dumb and disappointing inside, like a rubber duck or package of cheap condoms. Certainly not the glorious ‘Figure’ watch he had desired for so long.

  He picked up his pocket knife and after opening it, carefully cut along one of the box’s seams. He thought, “I know it isn’t in here, but what the hell—until I see what is, I’m going to pretend it’s a ‘Figure.’ For the next thirty seconds of my life I’m going to pretend some amazingly generous friend sent me a Lichtenberg watch out of the blue because they love me. Ha!”

  He’d seen so many photos and video clips of the watch and the meticulous painstaking way it was made. He’d even watched with unwavering attention a YouTube clip of the “unboxing” of a ‘Figure’ (112 views) wherein some lucky guy who’d bought the watch filmed himself opening the simple but lovely cherrywood case with the signature two lightning bolts on the lid that was a ‘Figure’s’ safe home when not being used.

  After opening all four flaps of the cardboard package and bending them backward, Areal pulled off a fat layer of protective plastic bubble wrap—and froze. Because there beneath it, he saw those instantly recognizable black lightning bolts…

  “What the hell…” Mouth open in both awe and consternation, he awkwardly slid his hands down inside the cardboard and pulled out a square wooden box emblazoned with that oh-so familiar black logo on the lid. “No way!”

  But it was real. He undid the small brass hook and eye holding the top closed (even that was beautifully made) and lifted it. Staring him right in the eye was a Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ watch addressed to the one and only Anthony Areal.

  For a few moments he was almost, no he was afraid to take the watch out of the box. Maybe this was all a minutely detailed dream and the moment he actually touched the thing he’d either wake up in his real world where this treasure wasn’t there inches in front of him, or it would turn into a pumpkin (or something else weird), like Cinderella’s coach at midnight.

  “Screw it!” Reaching down, he carefully tugged the heavy object out of the royal blue velvet that held it firmly in place. Even if this was a dream, once in his life Tony was going to actually hold a damned Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ watch in his hand. And if it were real by some miracle, then the sooner that happened the better.

  The watchband was a deep red oxblood color. He knew from reading on the Lichtenberg website that the leather was made by Horween, the best of the best. The watch’s brushed aluminum case, black face with luminous white hands and numerals…. This had to be the real thing, although for a few mini seconds the paranoid thought flashed across his mind that it might only be a good copy of the watch, a hundred dollar knockoff made in some hellish sweatshop in Bangladesh, Bangalore, Belarus or worse. But the wooden box itself must have cost a lot, and the specific details everywhere like how the blue of the inner velvet exactly matched the blue on the mailing label…no, this had to be the real thing.

  Heavy—the watch was so wonderfully heavy in his hand. It made him think of gold or some other precious metal that by weight alone tells you this shit is real; you are holding something significant in your hand, Son.

  On his wrist he carefully adjusted the band to fit, then closed the wide metal clasp. It was gorgeous—better than he had ever imagined. The gratifying heaviness, the size, the faint erotic smell of new leather still on the band (he brought it to his nose to get a few good deep sniffs), the sheer thereness of the watch on his, Tony Areal’s, wrist… He disliked and never used the by now exhausted word ‘awesome’ because everybody else did 24/7, but damn it this watch was awesome. There was no other way to describe it.

  He took a deep happy breath, stood and walked across the room to a full length mirror mounted on a wall there. For the next few minutes he preened and posed in front of the long glass like a Milan model, arm stiff out in front, wrist and watch exposed to the mirror. Then watch hand on his chin, his hip, his opposite shoulder, then stuffed into his jeans pocket but not deep enough to hide the silver beauty from the mirror’s admiring eye….Pose after different pose to see how his ‘Figure’ looked in various set ups. Tony Areal was not a vain man but if someone were to watch him in front of the mirror for those minutes they would have thought he was Narcissus loving his reflection in the pool. He even tried a DeNiro impersonation from Taxi Driver—“Are you talking to me?” He wanted to see if the watch’s magic gave him a little bit of Travis Bickle. It didn’t and he knew his imitation was awful but what the hell—why not? This timepiece could transform any Clark Kent into Superman.

  Tony was a happy man. He had the watch. He had no idea why he had it or what great good person in his life had given it to him, but for now he was content letting that mystery dangle from his mind like a key on a keychain. He walked back to the table and picked up the mailing box. Yes indeed, it was addressed to him—Anthony Areal—no mistake about that. Mr. Areal was now the proud owner of one Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ watch. The End.

  A week later it was the car. He worked in an office. He had a job. What he did at that job is not important. If I told you what it entailed you’d shrug, so let’s skip Anthony Areal’s professional bio and get right to the car. One day a bicycle messenger dressed all in yellow like a giant canary arrived in his office with a manila envelope for Tony. There was no return address on it which was sort of peculiar but sometimes it happened—a sender was in a hurry or simply forgot to put their address on.

  When he opened it something fell out onto the floor—something metallic by the sound of it and heavy. Bending to pick it up, he saw it was a single fat key on a keychain. Both had the instantly recognizable gold, red and black logo of the Porsche automobile company on them.

  Tony frowned, straightened, and dropped the keychain on his desk. He stared at it a moment before picking up the envelope again and looking inside. There were quite a few pieces of different size and colored paper which on inspection turned out
to be a car registration, certificate of ownership, an auto insurance policy paid in full and even a membership to the national auto club—all in the name of Anthony Areal.

  The last piece of paper had a neat handwritten note on it. “The car is in the parking lot. The gas tank is full. This is the license plate number. Of course it’s a gray metallic Cayman with coral red interior.” Almost instinctively after reading the note he glanced down at the new watch on his wrist. It felt like he needed to confirm the exact time this was all happening to him even though he had no idea what was happening to him.

  His sassy work colleague Lena Schabort walked by. Seeing the key on the desk, she stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Driving a Porsche these days, Tony?” The mocking derisive tone of her smoky voice said if you are driving a Porsche these days, then alligators can whistle Beethoven.

  Like most men in the office, Tony had lusted after Lena ever since she came to work there, but knew he stood little chance. She was the kind of woman who only dated men who actually owned a Porsche (or two) and had their shoes custom made in London. He most certainly did not. Lena was so bold and sure of herself that now she leaned over to his desk and without asking permission, read the handwritten note that had come with the key. A thin fog of doubt moved in over her eyes and she frowned. Had the world as she perceived it suddenly and rudely shifted a bit to the left? She stared coldly at Areal as if he had been deceiving her all along. Then she marched over to a large picture window that looked out on the company parking lot. It took maybe ten seconds for her to scan the lot and locate the car. “Come here,” she commanded. Her back was turned but plainly she meant Tony.

  Right then a strange thing happened: he didn’t move. He didn’t do what she ordered which ten minutes ago would have been unthinkable. Ten minutes ago he would have gotten Lena Schabort fried clams from Florida if she’d asked. But now he didn’t move. Even more interesting is he didn’t need to move because he knew—he knew he knew he knew—that the car was there. Down in the parking lot waiting for him, zero mileage, was a brand new gunmetal gray Porsche Cayman with coral red leather interior registered in his name—the car of his dreams. He knew.

  “Tony? Is that your car down there?” She was pointing out the window.

  “Yes.” He still didn’t move.

  “When did you get it?”

  He gave his best Robert DeNiro one shoulder, Good Fellas no-big-deal shrug. “Ah, recently.”

  Lena turned from the window and looked at him a long time without saying anything. A beautiful new Porsche. Tony Areal. What else didn’t she know about this man?

  Frank Rothner from billing came down the corridor and sidled over to Lena. He was so predictable—the whole office knew he used any excuse to get close to her. “What’s up?”

  “Did you know that Tony drives a Porsche?”

  Rothner grinned like a lottery winner. He’d recently spent a fortune getting his teeth straightened and whitened, so he smiled whenever he could. Plus he thought Lena was joking and wanted her to know that no one in the world appreciated her sense of humor more than him. He looked at Tony dismissively, as if he were the butt of a joke. When he spoke his voice wore ten pounds of sarcasm, “Really, a Porsche? What model, pal?”

  Tony stood up from his chair. He looked at the floor and smiled to himself a happy moment, putting off the gratifying coup de grace he knew was imminent. Vengeance really is a dish best tasted cold. He took out the certificate of ownership and walked over to Rothner with it in hand. “A Cayman GTS, Pal. Three hundred and forty horsepower with every option you can imagine and a custom red leather interior.” Handing Frank the certificate, Tony stood with one hand in his pocket while the other man scanned it.

  Doubt and then…waiiiit for it…yup—a delicious little frisson of outrage showed on Rothner’s face as the fact of what Tony had said sank in. Blinking too much, he did not do a good job of hiding that rage when returning the paper.

  “That’s pretty, uh…” Stumped, Frank looked at Lena as if she knew what word he should say now. “That’s awesome, man. I had no idea.” Frank always made fun of Tony. How many times had he said different variations of sentences like “Hey gang, it’s A-real-Tony in our midst!” Lame word play like that, jibes and sometimes not so subtle verbal cattle prods, were annoying after the zillionth time. And it wasn’t only that. Tony frequently had the feeling Frank Rothner didn’t like him but there was no reason for it. The two men had almost no contact professionally or otherwise. About the only thing they had in common was their interest in Lena Schabort, not that she was interested in either of them.

  “Who’s the woman, Tony? Is that your girlfriend?”

  “Huh?”

  “In your car; there’s a woman sitting in the passenger’s seat. Who is she?” Lena’s voice was now wheedling and thin, as if she was trying to coax/flirt the answer out of him. In the world according to Lena S, anyone who owned an eighty thousand dollar car had backbone and didn’t answer any questions they didn’t want to. In her estimation, Tony Areal’s backbone had miraculously transformed from a wet noodle to a titanium rod in the last ten minutes.

  “What are you talking about?” Tony strode to the window and looked out. He paid no attention to the fact he was now standing closer to Lena Schabort than he had in all the time he’d known her. But to him at that moment she might as well have been a Coke machine.

  The first hard thump in his heart came when looking out the window, he located the gleaming gunmetal gray German machine down in the lot for the first time. There it was—his car, his Porsche. The papers to prove it were right here in his hand. Hot damn!

  The second heart thump came on seeing the elbow, arm and the long hair. A woman was sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car. Her window was down and a thin bare arm and elbow rested comfortably on the door there. She must have had long hair because even that was visible from this distance too.

  “Who is she?”

  “I have no idea.” Tony turned to Lena wearing a smile that until an hour ago he didn’t possess. It was the devilish, confident, everything’s-coming-up-roses smile successful people throw at the world when they know success or at least something interesting is right around the corner for them—again. The arrogant self assured smile of people used to having nice things happen to them often. Tony turned away from his long time object of desire and headed for the door.

  Sensing opportunity, Frank sidled up to Lena again and said indignantly, “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

  Lena looked at Rothner like he was a contagious disease. “Why do you always have to stand so close to me, Frank? Are you some kind of perv?”

  Before Frank could say anything in his own defense, she shook her head in disgust and strode off.

  When he was sure she was far enough away, Frank lifted his chin and sniffed the air. The sillage of Lena’s perfume still hung there, as it always deliciously did after she’d made an exit. Savoring it, he realized he was sniffing too much and his eyes were closed as he did it. Snapping to open-eyed attention, he looked around to make sure no one had seen him perv’ing the air like that. Then he hurried back to his desk.

  Tony Areal pushed open the door and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day—sunny but cool enough to wear a light jacket. His favorite kind of weather. He held the envelope containing all the car documents in case the mysterious woman in the Porsche was somehow officially connected to this. As he got closer to the car he saw more of her in silhouette. She did have long, what appeared to be auburn hair and wore large sunglasses that concealed much of her upper face. Sensing his approach, she turned slowly to him and slipped the glasses down her nose but not off. She was okay looking but that wasn’t what caused him to make a sudden stutter step.

  He recognized her. He didn’t know when or where he’d seen the woman before but she definitely occupied a piece of real estate in his memory.

  Auburn hair, pale skin, a small mouth, and brown eyes that looked amused but non-committa
l. “There you are. I’ve been waiting.” Her voice was high pitched and friendly. It sounded familiar too. Where the hell had he seen this woman before?

  Tony stood a few feet from the car, waiting for her to say something else, to explain her presence here. But she said nothing so they watched each other in silence.

  “Are we having a staring contest?”

  His mouth twitched into a smile. “Do we know each other? You look familiar.”

  “Why don’t you join me for lunch and we’ll talk about it.” She reached down to her feet and brought up a large white bag. “I brought sandwiches. And root beer.”

  That startled him. Root beer was his favorite drink when he was a boy and even into adulthood Tony always kept a can or two in his refrigerator. How did she know he liked it?

  “Come on, let’s go. I’m dying to ride in this beautiful car.” She waved for him to get in.

  Tony lowered himself into the driver’s seat and gently put his open hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. Overcome by the moment, he took them off again and rubbed his face. “I can’t believe this.”

  The woman gathered her hair back into a ponytail and quickly wrapped a rubber band around it.

  Dropping his right hand down to the shift lever, for the first time he saw something there that gave him pause. “It’s automatic.”

  “What is?”

  “The car—it’s an automatic.”

  “Yes, so what?”

  Frowning, he bit his lip. “I don’t know. My Porsche—the one I always wanted—had a six speed. It was a manual transmission.”

  Areal was looking at the shifter in his hand while speaking so he didn’t see her expression darken and then quickly change right back to neutral.

  “Is that a problem?”