I wonder if he really is working all weekend, like Mom said.
After a quick pee, I find the exact same stone bench and lead Reggie over to it. I take off my knapsack and fish out the box of Galactic Crunch. I open a can of Reggie’s food and empty all of it into my cereal bowl. I know he should only be getting half, but what am I going to do with the rest? I eat handfuls of cereal out of the box while Reggie licks the bowl clean. Together we watch all sorts of grown-ups in business suits rushing off to their offices with cups of coffee in their hands. To our left, a street performer dressed half like a patriot, half like a clown pulls a bunch of balls out of his duffel bag and starts juggling.
Maybe Reggie and I could become street performers. Reggie’s been looking for a career change. If I perfect my flamingo, triple fake, and bad attitude, we might be able to travel across America giving Frisbee exhibitions until we get to California.
Before you know it, the cereal box is empty.
“Come on, boy,” I say, throwing it in the nearest trash can. “Let’s see what else is on this trail o’ freedom.”
The red-brick line leads us across a couple of busy streets and into a cobbled square where there’s an old-looking brick building. I check the plaque so I can tell Reggie why it’s there. “This is the Old State House,” I say. And then I remember most of the story from the first time around. “They had something called the Boston Massacre here. King George of England got mad at the patriots for revolting, see, so he sent a bunch of redcoats over to teach them a lesson. But that cheesed off all the patriots who were hanging out in front of the king’s royal headquarters in Boston—this very spot—so they started calling the redcoats names, which caused the redcoats to fire their muskets at them, which only cheesed the patriots off even more.” People come pouring out of the brick building’s basement. “As soon as the patriots formed their own country, they decided to build their own statehouse,” I explain to Reggie. “So they turned this one of the king’s into a subway station. See? There’s the sign for the T.”
Dad and I rode the T that day we did the Freedom Trail, from Park Street to North Station, where we had tickets to see the All-Star Wrestling Extravaganza at Boston Garden.
Up ahead on the brick line, a bunch of sailors in white uniforms are arguing over a map. One of them points the way, and they all move off. “Let’s follow them,” I say to Reggie. He and I could join the navy, if all else fails. On TV, they’re always looking for help. I could even ask to be posted on Old Ironsides. The naval officer who gave Dad and me our tour told us half the crew were orphan kids back in the day. Plus they always had at least one dog on board to catch rats.
Eventually we all end up at the Old South Meeting House. Reggie and I don’t step inside with the sailors because—sorry—churches are boring. Instead Reggie and I wind our way through a maze of department stores to a spooky-looking cemetery called the Granary Burying Ground. I don’t take Reggie through the gates, even though loads of other people are wandering around looking at the tombstones sticking up out of the grass like broken teeth. This stop on the Freedom Trail totally gave me the creeps the last time. Plus I don’t want to risk Reggie lifting his leg on Mother Goose, who is supposedly buried there. So I just tell Reggie about it from the sidewalk, cribbing from the plaque. “This is where all those patriots from the Boston Massacre got buried,” I say. “Plus Paul Revere—remember him? From the midnight ride?—and Samuel Adams, the guy, I guess, who must have invented Quincy Market, where we had breakfast.”
Suddenly a big purple truck roars past. Everybody inside shouts, Quack! Quack! Reggie’s ears go all flat, but I tell him it’s OK. “That’s a duck boat,” I say. “They go on both land and water. The kids in homeroom were telling about it.” I look down the street where it came from. There’s another white duck boat at the corner of a big park. We watch some people get off, others get on. “Look,” I say. “That must be a stop on the tour. Let’s check it out!”
We hoof it over there. Turns out, the park is actually Boston Common, where in the olden days you were allowed to graze your sheep for free because it belonged to everyone. The white duck boat is parked at the entrance to a subway station. It’s Park Street, the same one Dad and I used to take the T to the wrestling show. Standing next to the gangplank is the duck boat’s driver. He’s dressed all in white and wearing a white wig like some sort of patriot ghost. He’s put out a sandwich board and is selling tickets. Kids under twelve have to pay twenty dollars, but it’s a lot more for grown-ups. Too bad I don’t have any money—Wait! I do! I have that twenty-dollar bill Sal gave me for the Frisbee! I reach in my pants pocket to check and, sure enough, there it is. Forgot all about it, what with all the commotion.
“One, please,” I say, stepping up with Reggie. “I’m under twelve.” It’s the first time I’ve ever felt glad to say that.
“No dogs allowed on the tour,” the driver says.
Think quick, Nicky.
“But he’s a professional guide dog,” I say. “You have to let them go everywhere.” I know that from my research at the library.
“Too bad you’re not blind,” he says. “Disabled tickets are half-price. Now beat it, kid. Next!”
Reggie and I step aside. A couple more people buy tickets. The driver folds up his sign and climbs behind the wheel. The white duck boat roars off with everyone shouting, Quack! Quack!
I lead Reggie over to a nearby park bench and take a seat. Behind us is the new statehouse, which I don’t even bother to point out to Reggie. We’ve walked a really long way, and I’m kind of pooped. Plus I’m getting a little nervous about Reggie’s hip, now that free bones are a thing of the past.
I spy a dollar store across the street and get another good idea. I hitch Reggie’s leash to the bench and tell him to stay. Inside the store, I look for the sunglasses rack. When I find it, I pick off the biggest, blackest pair. I bring it over to the checkout counter and lay down my twenty.
“Two dollars,” the lady says.
“It’s called a dollar store,” I say. “That’s false advertising.”
“Says two bucks right on top of the rack,” she says.
I don’t argue. I’ve got a boat to catch.
“Need a bag?” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’ll wear them out.”
I pull Reggie’s harness out of my knapsack when I get back to the bench. “Sorry about this,” I say. “I know you’re retired, but it’s an emergency.” He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s really into it. By nudging me with his head, he sort of shows me how to put the harness on him. I pack his regular leash away and I take hold of the harness handle. I straighten the sunglasses on my nose.
Just in time. A yellow duck boat pulls up in front of the T station.
“Ready?” I say. Reggie stands at attention, waiting for my command.
“Forward!” I say.
hand my ten-dollar bill to the driver. This one’s dressed in a yellow-feather duck suit with yellow tights and a yellow duck-billed baseball cap.
“Um, where are your folks?” he says.
“They’re doing the Freedom Trail,” I say. “Way too many churches for my taste, so I decided to take the duck boats instead.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he says. “In case you need any help.”
“That’s what my guide dog is for,” I say.
“What’s the holdup?” some guy in a Red Sox cap calls down from the front seat of the boat. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
The driver checks his watch. “Fine,” he says to me. “But I’m warning you, I’m not allowed to make any special stops.”
Like where?
He grabs my arm and starts dragging me up the steps of the boat—until Reggie makes that low warning growl of his.
“Easy, boy!” the driver says, throwing up his hands like he’s under arrest.
“He doesn’t like it when people grab me,” I say. And neither do I, frankly—especially grown men dressed
like big yellow birds. “We can handle it on our own,” I say.
“Sue me for trying to help,” the driver says, climbing up into the boat and taking his seat behind the wheel.
“He probably will,” the Red Sox guy says, laughing.
Reggie and I climb aboard. I make a big show out of groping for the handrail, while staring straight ahead. But I’m totally peeking behind those big black sunglasses—just in case.
“You’re going to have to move,” the driver says to the Red Sox guy. “That front seat is reserved for the handicapped.”
The word is disabled, not handicapped. Even I know that.
“I paid my money fair and square,” the guy says. “There’s an empty seat right behind me. The kid won’t mind. It’s not like he’s going to miss a whole lot.”
Why are they both shouting? I’m supposed to be blind, not deaf. And why are they talking about me rather than to me?
“The empty seat is fine,” I say.
God, what blind people must go through! For a split second I consider closing my eyes, just to see. But I chicken out. I tell Reggie to go forward. Without even hesitating, Reggie scrambles over to the empty seat behind the Red Sox guy. He wedges himself between my legs as soon as I’m settled. Pretty impressive, I’ve got to admit. With the harness on, Reggie is super-confident, super-serious, super-alert—the real deal. There’s no way Old Alf could have retired him just for screwing up on the job, like Mrs. Strazzulo’s mailman claimed.
“Now are we finally ready?” the driver says.
“About time,” the Red Sox guy mutters, crossing his arms.
I can barely see anything, he’s so fat.
The driver fires up the engine. We all shout, Quack! Quack! and roar off toward the burial ground. The driver pulls alongside the fence and switches on his microphone. He tells us all about it—basically proving I was right. Before you know it, we’re also passing the Old State House and Quincy Market again. Since these are sights we’ve already seen, I let myself zone out a little. There’s a man wearing a cowboy hat across the aisle. Maybe, once Reggie and I get to California, we can sign on as ranch hands someplace. Reggie could round up dogies and I could help herd them back to the corral on my trusty palomino. Learning how to ride a horse was one of the things I planned to do on Cape Cod this past Fourth of July before, well—
All the fireworks.
We’re on the McGrath/O’Brien Highway now, the road Mom and I take to Dr. Holkke’s office. The duck boat stops at the Museum of Science to let more people off and on. According to a banner outside, they’ve got a big mummy exhibit going. That’s another thing Reggie and I could do, I bet: work on one of those archeologist digs. I was way into dinosaurs last year, in fifth grade, and Reggie would definitely like the bones.
Suddenly there’s a ramp straight ahead that disappears into the muddy green water of the Charles River. The driver tells us to hang on to our hats, and he guns the engine. We plunge right in, spraying water on everyone. Reggie’s ears go flat—clearly he doesn’t think this is all that fun—but I quack with the best of them as we pass through a canal and start chugging along the shoreline of the Esplanade.
The driver asks if any of the kids on board want to take a turn at driving the boat. The only other kid my age waves his hand and makes his way down the aisle. I’m dying to have a turn. But I keep my hand down. It would totally blow my cover to drive since, in theory, I can’t see. If I became a duck boat operator, though, I’d get to steer one of these bad boys every single day. And I’d for sure bend the rules and let anybody’s dog on. Because Reggie would be sitting right up front with me, navigating.
Don’t know about the feather duck suit, though.
Eventually the driver turns us around and we head back up the boat ramp, gushing and dripping water. Uh-oh. We’re crossing the bridge that goes straight into Charlestown. I watch in horror as we pass the community college, then the Supa-Sava strip mall. Sure enough, the driver takes a right onto Warren and a left onto Monument Ave. Before you know it, we’re pulling up in front of the old guys playing bocce.
And there’s Old Alf himself, looking a lot more cleaned up, getting ready to throw a red ball.
Luckily, a bunch of people are getting off. “Let’s go,” I whisper to Reggie. I try to camouflage us as tourists at the end of the line. But the second we step off the boat, Mickey points over and says, “Hey, isn’t that what’s-his-name with Reggie?”
“Run!” I say to Reggie.
He doesn’t. There’s an oncoming car. He’s totally blocking my path. “I’m serious,” I say. “This is an emergency!” He doesn’t budge.
Old Alf shouts for me to get over there. He needs a word with me.
I don’t know what comes over me then, but I turn and start yelling at him: “You just didn’t know the right commands! I bet he tried to warn you about the bike messenger, but you wouldn’t listen! It’s not Reggie’s fault you’re blind and cranky about it! You had no right taking it out on him! You don’t deserve him!”
Reggie yanks hard on the leash. The coast is clear now. We both hightail it down Monument Ave. We only stop to catch our breath once we reach Warren. “Boy, that was close!” I say. “Why didn’t you just dodge traffic?” Reggie licks my hand, as if to say Sorry! I shuck him out of his work harness and stow it in my knapsack. I give him a little hug, though, before hooking him onto his regular leash. He was, after all, on duty.
Suddenly I’m starving.
I check my watch. It’s way past my lunchtime. I count out how much money I have left from the twenty. There’s probably enough for a taco or two. I head Reggie in the direction of the strip mall.
here’s a big sign on the front door I never noticed before: NO DOGS ALLOWED. It also says NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE. I’ve got all those other things covered, but I’m not leaving Reggie outside.
I decide to walk through the drive-thru.
At the little order speaker, I ask for two loaded Taco Grandes, a plate of Nachos Supremo with extra cheese sauce, and a large Lime-O-Lada. The lady’s voice at the other end of the speaker tells me how much it’s going to be. I cancel the nachos. She gives me the new total and says, “Will that be all, ma’am?” I swallow my pride—I gotta work on lowering my voice—and ask for an extra cup of water, which I know is free. The lady says, “Thank-you-drive-through.”
Reggie and I stroll over to the pickup window. I hand the lady the money. She gives me and Reggie an I don’t think so look. I can see my food’s right there, but she doesn’t seem like she’s planning on handing it over.
“Can I have my change?” I say, adding “Por favor” just in case she’s Latina. But my accent isn’t anywhere near as good as Rita’s.
“I thought you sounded a little young,” she says.
“Is there a problem?” I say.
“This drive-thru is for cars,” she says.
Obviously.
“My mom sent me down here,” I say. “She’s too busy packing to make lunch. We’re moving to California today.”
I can tell the lady doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m skipping class, which of course I am.
“Next time order inside,” she says. She pushes my stuff through and rings me up, then hands me back my change. Wow, there isn’t much left. Twenties sure don’t go very far these days.
“OK,” I say. “Gracias.”
She rolls her eyes. “Welcome to Taco Mucho,” she says into her headset to the car pulling up behind me.
Whatever. There isn’t going to be a next time.
I take everything over to one of the picnic tables at the front, where she can’t see me. I wolf down the first taco while Reggie watches. I really shouldn’t open another can of dog food for him—that vet said only one per day on account of his weight—but I feel bad and give him half of the second taco. I take the lid off the water and let Reggie lap out of the cup while I drink my Limo-O-Lada. Then I just sit there, wondering how in heck I ended up broke and right back in Charlestow
n.
I notice Rita’s cell phone number on my wrist. It’s a little smudged, but I can still read it. I take one of the quarters left in my pocket and go to the pay phone by the front door. I dial the number. I wait six or seven rings for her to answer.
“Who’s this?” Rita says.
“It’s Nicky,” I say.
“Better make it quick, bro,” Rita whispers. “I ducked out of science lab pretending I had to go to the bathroom.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s sort of an emergency.”
“You weren’t at lunch recess,” she says. “You sick?”
“I ran away from home,” I say.
“Shut up!” she says. “Why?”
“Remember I told you I had a dog named Reggie? Well, he and my mom got into a big misunderstanding last night,” I say. “Mom threatened to send him back to the pound and I took off.”
“Ouch,” Rita says. “That’s not good.”
“Listen, do you have any money on you?” I say. “I’m down to pocket change and I don’t know how long it’s going to take Mom to chill out.”
“Not much,” Rita says. “But maybe I can ask Lulu McFadden.”
“I’ll meet you on the playground after school,” I say.
“Not that we’re friends or anything,” she says, “but I really think you should work things out with your mom ASAP. You ever seen any of the homeless kids hanging around the Public Garden? It ain’t pretty.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say.
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 13
