We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  Anyway, I pull the car over on the narrow street in front of the coffee shop. The place is pretty new, from what I understand, hidden behind a tall white fence and a barrier of vines and laurels in the bottom floor of a converted Victorian town house. There is no sign in front, and the only way I even found it was ’cause I was checking out the run-down African-American bookstore across the street and I happened to see someone walking out with a paper cup in his hand. To the right of the little coffee shop/town house is a fenced-in dog park covered in wood chips and smelling of urine. I actually really love watching the dogs play and have even gone in a couple times to pet ’em and throw a ball or whatever.

  Today, however, just as I’m opening the gate to go into the coffee shop, I hear someone calling out to me from the dog park, saying, “Boy, boy, hey.”

  Now, usually I try not to look over at someone who might be calling out to me, just ’cause I’m so used to all the crazies in San Francisco who’ll start fucking screaming at you if you take the bait and even acknowledge ’em at all. But I acknowledge this woman—an overweight, kinda hippy-looking forty-or fifty-year-old—scraggly, long, thinning reddish hair—a face overwhelmed by coarse skin—her globular body draped in a flowy sort of dress. I squint my eyes and hold my hand up to try ’n’ block out the unrelenting sun.

  “Yeah?” I yell back.

  She gestures with her head. “Come over here, quick.”

  For the first time I notice what her hands are busy doing, which is basically holding on to this grotesquely skinny, shivering little dog—some sort of hound, I guess—maybe a foxhound or a Walker hound or whatever. I mean, it basically looks like a beagle that’s been all stretched out tall and is super underweight.

  I walk over.

  The woman speaks with gasping breaths, as though holding this meek, more-or-less stationary dog is a test of strength comparable to, maybe, wrestling an alligator or something.

  “Hey,” she manages to get out. “Hey, I just found this dog under a truck over there. She got scared and ran out, but I got her. You think you could help take her for me? I don’t have a car here, but she needs to go to the Humane Society, I think. Maybe they can find out if she has an owner or if she’s just a stray or what. Would you do that for me, honey? Look, she’s a good dog. She’ll make a great pet for someone.”

  I look down at the pathetic little thing. She’s tricolored, with big, soft-looking ears. Her eyes are black and wide and terrified. Even from where I’m standing, I can make out a mass of ticks clinging to her neck. Fleas the size of sunflower seeds climb lazily along her legs and swollen stomach. Her nipples are large and extended like she might be pregnant.

  “Yes, of course,” I say, not taking my eyes off the little dog. “Of course I’ll take her.”

  The woman smiles.

  “Thank you, young man, that’s very kind of you. Can you believe it, the one time I find a stray dog around here and there’s not one person at the dog park. Thank God you came by.”

  I look over at the park and see that, like she said, there’s nobody there. In fact, the entire block is deserted—no one on the street—no one anywhere.

  “No, no… no problem,” I say, crouching down to the dog’s eye level. When I talk to the dog, I kind of use a soft, higher-pitched baby voice. “Hey, sweet girl. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m gonna help you.”

  The dog’s eyes go all black, bulging out of her head, absolutely terrified-looking. I stare down at her swollen pink belly and rub one of her hanging-down, greasy ears, saying, “Damn, girl, you sure are a mess.”

  I take off my belt and loop it around the dog’s scrawny neck so the woman can finally let go.

  “You should think about adopting her yourself,” she says, smiling—her mouth wide, exposing a mismatched jumble of crooked yellow teeth. “You two look good together.”

  I’m not quite sure how she means that or whether I should be offended, but what I say is, “Nah, I can’t afford a dog. I’m barely getting by myself. Besides, I’m way too unstable.”

  Her smile doesn’t wane or change or anything.

  “I don’t know,” she sort of cackles. “I have a good feeling about you two. That’s all I’m gonna say. Here, why don’t you take my phone number so you can let me know what happens, okay?”

  I agree, knowing full well I’m not ever going to call her.

  I mean, I’m just no good on the phone. I practically have a goddamn phobia about it.

  But, anyway, the woman pulls a scrap of paper out of her large, floral-patterned purse and writes her name and number down with a black permanent marker. Her name is Mary. I introduce myself and shake her plump little hand. “Good luck,” she tells me, patting me on the shoulder as I start tugging at the belt to try ’n’ get the dog moving. The dog doesn’t move. She looks up at me confused and weak and totally scared outta her mind.

  “She probably doesn’t know how to walk on a leash,” says Mary. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s never even been inside before. I bet she was bred for hunting out in the country somewhere and, for whatever reason, they must’ve abandoned her. She easily could have been living as a stray for a year or more. So it’s going to take her some time to get used to, you know, normal dog things.”

  “Right,” I tell her, bending down and lifting the poor, bony little dog in my arm—her eyes just about burstin’ out of her head, she’s so freaked out.

  “Okay, well, thanks for your help,” I say—kinda stupidly, I guess, considering I’m the one who got stuck with the damn dog. I carry her across the street and manage to toss her into the backseat of the car before turning to wave good-bye to Mary one more time. Only thing is, she’s already gone—disappeared somewhere, even though that seems physically impossible.

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

  I get in the car and start driving to the Humane Society, doing my best to remember where the hell the place is. In the back, the dog doesn’t make a sound. Actually, she just cowers on the floor behind my seat, curled into a tight, tight little ball. My eyes catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal. The Humane Society will take her and get her adopted and that’ll be the end of it. I mean, obviously I can’t keep her myself. Not that I wouldn’t want to keep her. I had dogs all my life growing up. I love dogs. Hell, I hope someday I’ll be able to get one. But not now, man, there’s no way. I can’t be responsible for that shit. Christ, I can’t even take care of myself.

  Every time I come to a red light, though, I can’t help but turn around and look at her. She’s in a bad way, man, that’s for sure. She’s starving, sick, homeless, afraid. She’s just like I used to be. I think back on how those friends of my family pulled me out of San Francisco when I was all strung out and homeless and stealing and turning tricks and sick and starving. They took me in off the streets like I was some damn dog—like this dog. And just like I was when they found me, she’s too scared and freaked out and damaged to recognize when someone’s trying to help her. But, anyway, like I said, the people at the Humane Society are gonna find her a good home, and that’s gonna be the end of it. There’s really no point in worrying. And there’s really no point in thinkin’ up names for her—even though I kind of am already. For example, Guitar Wolf would be kinda badass. But no, no. It’s best just to call her “dog” for now. “Dog” is best.

  When I get to the Humane Society, I have a pretty hard time getting the dog out of the back. However much I sweet-talk her and try to coax her out, she refuses to move from her little contorted ball. I glance around the parking lot quickly, but there’s no one else outside.

  After a couple more minutes of useless pleading with her, I finally decide just to try ’n’ carry her again. I reach down awkwardly and struggle to get her free from the tight little space she’s squeezed herself into. I hoist her up so she’s kinda pressed against my chest, and start walking inside. Above the main entrance is a large painted mural of different animals with a cir
cle of silhouetted children dancing around them. The phrase Kids Love Animals is written across the top.

  I use my body to push open the swinging glass doors. My tennis shoes squeak as I walk across the wet linoleum that smells strongly of disinfectant.

  The obese woman with the butch haircut sitting behind the reception counter smiles sweetly at me as I walk over.

  “Hi there,” she says, her accent real strong and twangy. “D’you find you that little doggy, did ya?”

  “Yes, ma’m.”

  The dog fidgets in my arms, so I readjust her before continuing. “Yeah, uh, we found her right off Victory. I’m not sure if she’s a stray or just got lost or what.”

  “Hmm, yup, she looks like a stray,” the woman says. “I’d be real surprised if anyone’s been looking for her, but I sure will check.”

  She wheels her tiny rolling office chair, which really doesn’t seem like it should be able to support her, over to a big, blocky computer and starts click-clicking away at the keyboard with her plump, swollen fingers.

  “Nope,” she says after about a minute. “There ain’t no dog in the computer here that fits her description. Why don’t I scan her to see if she has a microchip at all?”

  The woman scans the dog with what looks like a barcode scanner, but there’s nothing there. She sighs and drops her shoulders and smiles.

  “I’ll tell you what, honey, we just ain’t got no room here to take in another stray. We can’t do it. The only option you really have is to take her to animal control, but if no one claims her in the next three days, well, they really can’t keep her, either. You know what I mean?”

  I nod. “Isn’t there any other option?”

  She moves her jaw around like maybe she’s chewing on something, but I try not to think about what that could be.

  “Would you be willing to foster her?” she finally asks. “We can put her on our website and try to get her adopted, if you’ll just let her stay with you until then. Seems like she likes you already.”

  I glance down at the dog. Man, Sue Ellen’s gonna kill me if I agree to this. But, uh, there’s really no other choice, is there? I mean, I can’t let ’em kill her.

  “Sure,” I tell her, my voice cracking a little. “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  The woman tells me not to worry. She tells me it won’t take long to find a good home for the dog. She tells me it’s a great thing I’m doing. Then she scuttles off, saying she’s gonna go get the vet. I guess they gotta do a physical and some kinda behavioral testing on the dog. So the two of us are left in the waiting room.

  I put the dog down and try looping my belt around her neck again. I crouch down about three feet away from her, holding the end of the belt and saying in a high-pitched voice, “Come on, dog. Come on… come here… it’s all right.”

  The dog doesn’t move.

  “Come on, dog. It’s all right. I’m not gonna hurt you. Come on, dog. Come on, Guitar Wolf.”

  I say that last part just sort of joking, but then suddenly the dog wags her tail a click and walks the distance between us.

  “Good dog,” I say, way too enthusiastic—rubbing her long ears. “Good girl.”

  Walking another three feet away, I try it again.

  Again she comes to me.

  “Man,” I say. “Guitar Wolf… I mean, dog, you are such a smart girl. Come on….”

  My hand pulls at the makeshift leash and then, amazingly—timidly—she starts walking with me. I mean, I’ve got her learning how to walk on a leash already. There’s this feeling like endorphins flooding my brain. By the time the woman from the front and the vet come back, I’m smiling so much it’s embarrassing.

  On seeing the two of them, however, the dog immediately cowers behind my legs. Still, I’m able to lead her into the cold, sterile examining room, and the vet follows. At first the vet places a bowl of dog food in front of my dog. She starts eating immediately—frenzied—her eyes darting all around like maybe one of us is thinking about stealing it and she might have to take off a hand if someone so much as tries. She gulps the food down in record time and then goes on to drink a whole bowlful of water.

  “Okay, now,” the doctor says to me, his voice sounding very bored. “Why don’t you lift her onto the table so I can take a look at her?”

  I do what he tells me, and he starts poking and prodding the poor girl all over.

  His first observation is that she’s definitely pregnant. His second observation is that he thinks she probably has a few different kinds of worms. He pulls out a syringe and leans over to take her blood. That’s when things really go wrong.

  The dog starts growling deep and slow, lunging at his face very suddenly. Her lips curl back so her teeth look fucking savage as hell. Her eyes go black so they’re almost glowing. Not really knowing what to do, I just grab hold of her and try ’n’ keep her pinned down, and for some reason she doesn’t bite me or turn on me or anything. But that doctor, man, she won’t let that fucker anywhere near her. I mean, she will not back down.

  The only way we can get her to finally calm down is for the doctor to leave and let us alone. Then, immediately, she goes quiet again, even licking my cheek a couple times.

  Christ.

  Not surprisingly, that’s the end of the Humane Society’s willingness to help get her adopted. In fact, they tell me straight-out I need to have her put down. She’s dangerous, they say, wild, untamable. Plus, she’s pregnant. The right thing to do is to kill her.

  To tell you the truth, man, I think about it. I mean, these people are professionals. And seeing her go psycho like that was pretty scary. Hell if I know how to handle some crazy-ass, vicious feral dog. But to kill her? Just like that? I don’t know—I keep thinking about when I was on the streets. Maybe that’s stupid, but I really was like a wild fucking dog back then. And, yeah, I definitely bit the hand that fed me a whole bunch of times. But, still, I mean, after all that, there were a few people who never gave up on me. Maybe this dog deserves someone to look after her like that. Christ, she really reminds me of myself, for some reason. Besides, there’s gotta be another animal-rescue place that’ll help me get her adopted. She deserves a good life, this dog. I don’t know why. There’s just something about her is all.

  So I tell the Humane Society people to fuck off, even though they are literally screaming at me as I carry my dog outta there, telling me that I’m doing the wrong thing, that I’m being completely irresponsible.

  As for me, well, all I can really do is laugh at that.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I call back, putting the dog in the front seat with me this time.

  We drive off.

  I look over at her, and she stares back curiously.

  She stares and stares. She won’t break eye contact.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that’s a really bad sign.

  Fuck.

  Ch.27

  Well, the dog hasn’t turned on me or Sue Ellen yet, so I guess I’d say things are working out all right.

  I managed to get her all washed down with this, like, heavy-duty flea-killer stuff, and she’s starting to get used to being in the house, even if she does try to dig holes in the floor sometimes. Sue Ellen’s family has taken an interest in the dog, so they help us get her an appointment with a new vet. She’s this very strong, tall woman who thought to actually put a muzzle on the dog, which is totally what they should have done at the Humane Society. It also turned out that the dog is definitely not pregnant, and she’s been given medicine to get rid of the hookworms and whatever that were making her stool all bloody and making her throw up all the time.

  So the dog’s doing good. And I finally settled on a name. See, Guitar Wolf is cool and all, but as Sue Ellen pointed out, if we’re going to try to get her adopted, we need to come up with a more normal, nice-sounding name. Since I found her in Charleston, I figured she’d be well suited to a nice Southern name like Tallulah. So Tallulah she is. That is, Tallulah Guitar Wolf Jackson, because I cou
ldn’t give up on Guitar Wolf completely and Jackson is just the best last name ever. I’d say at this point Tallulah definitely knows her name pretty well, and I’ve been teaching her “come” in the fenced-in dog park.

  Every day we walk and walk for hours, exploring all the different neighborhoods and hiking trails out by the beach. Thanks to her, I’m actually getting kinda healthy again and, well, I guess she could say the same thing about me.

  It’s interesting for me to watch her, ’cause in many ways I still see so much of myself in her—even if that’s weird to say. I mean, like, when we’re walking around the neighborhood, she is constantly scanning the ground for traces of food, often snatching up torn wrappers or chicken bones or whatever before I can stop her. When I was homeless, I used to walk around the city for hours, searching the streets and gutters for fallen money or food or drugs or cigarettes. And I would find shit—wallets, packs of cigarettes, leftovers. Hell, one time I found a barber’s kit with $144 in it. But even after I got off the street, man, it was like I couldn’t stop doing that shit. It had become so ingrained in me that every time I walked anywhere, I’d have my eyes fixed on the ground. Honestly, I still catch myself doing that shit sometimes.

  And, yeah, with Tallulah it’s like part of her knows she’s safe now and she gets fed every day and whatever, but then there’s this other part of her that can’t let go of all the trauma she’s lived through. Even now she’s wary and aggressive toward most men she sees—especially big men. Christ, Russell can’t go anywhere near her without her freaking out like she’s about to be beaten.

  But she’s not. I mean, she’s safe.

  She’s safe like I’m safe.

  And she’s actually building, like, a real life now—just like I am.