by Tom Schreck
“He still shittin’ and pissin’ all over the place?” the black cop said.
“Of course,” I said.
He smiled.
“Take good care of him, huh?” he said. Then he nodded to the white cop and they ushered the slackers to what I’m sure was going to be a time that wouldn’t live up to their Vegas vacation.
Al and I moved up in line. He was awake and sniffing and twisting and turning again. The next guy in line was a beefy middle-aged salesman type who just stared at us.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“My dog found some pot,” I said.
“No, the Nation of Islam part.”
“Oh, my dog was part of their security force for awhile as a search and rescue, bomb sniffing and drug detection dog. He got thrown out for bad hygiene and one of the members kept him as a pet. When she got murdered I adopted him,” I said.
The guy just stared at me again.
“You lead an interesting life don’t you?” he said.
I just smiled.
Al still hadn’t settled down despite his hero status. He was looking back and forth and stopping and starting as I left the ticket counter. Once they checked my tickets and IDs and looked over his service dog documentation they paid very little attention to us.
The airport was set up with the ticket counters on the first floor and the security checks and the gates on the second. I was wheeling my bag and leading Al on his leash, which wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to master. Al kicked up the challenge factor by wanting to run behind me and confront every suitcase that was demonically rolling on wheels. Each time he did it my rotator cuff nearly snapped off and as we approached the crowded escalator Al surged at a gigantic wheeled duffle bag being dragged by a college kid. It spun me around and my feet got caught up in my own suitcase and I fell on the ground.
“Jesus Fuckin’ Christ!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I had to let go of Al and he jumped on the duffle bag. That was inappropriate enough but Al had just gotten started. My anxiety service dog then started to hump the poor guy’s defenseless bag.
“What the hell?” the college kid said. He said it without anger. It was more with amazement.
I grabbed Al by the collar and dragged him off the traumatized duffle.
“What the hell is a matter with you?” I yelled.
Al turboed the slobber out of his cheeks and part of it landed on the duffle, part of it on the kid and the rest of it on me. Reflexively, I went to wipe it off and with that Al sprang on the duffle bag again and started working his Basset lovetron. A semi-circle of harried travelers had stopped rushing to their flights to look. It was like the proverbial bad car wreck and they couldn’t not look.
I wound the leash around my hand and pulled hard to stop Al’s unrequited love actions.
“Stop being such a fuckin’ asshole would ya!” I yelled at him. His service dog vest had flipped around and now covered his belly. I bent over to right it and Al abruptly sat up and head butted me in the forehead.
“Motherfucker!” I yelled and grabbed my head. Al sprinted away from me, probably after another really hot piece of luggage. As the stars faded in my head I looked around to see a whole host of people just looking at me like I was some sort of scientific curiosity. “Man dominated by hound” or something like that.
I could here Al barking because it echoed across the tiled airport. I grabbed my bag and headed off in his direction. I got to the escalator and noticed there was a line to get on. I was trying to figure out a polite way of getting through the crowd when the group of people in front of me let out a collective “Ugh…”
The crowd separated with each traveler’s face a mask of disgust. As the crowd parted there was Al, my anxiety service dig, in his trademark squat leaving a five pound present for all the busy sojourners to forever treasure.
Al was bent over and straining the last pound of waste from his innards. He took a meditative cleansing breath and then confidently strode away from the big steaming pile with pride.
No one could say that Al had not accomplished anything on this day. I bagged my special present from my service dog and dropped it in the garbage with the coffee cups and donut wrappers like everyone threw their dog shit in there. I avoided eye contact from my fellow passengers.
At the TSA security stop they actually padded Al down and he growled but didn’t bite anyone and passed through remarkably quickly. Fortunately, Al didn’t have a nail clipper, a cigarette lighter or a five-ounce container of shampoo because that undoubtedly would have been a ton of trouble.
We got inside the plane early because, well, I was a passenger with special needs. I took the very first seat on the aisle and got comfortable with Al at my feet. He immediately commenced with his chronic sleep apnea-induced snoring and proceeded to roll over on his back with all four legs in the air. I wasn’t exactly sure how this was supposed to “service” my generalized anxiety but I was feeling okay for the time being.
Then the non-special needs passengers started to file in with their luggage, briefcases and duffle bags and Al sensed danger. The first group in were three Franciscan friars decked out in those brown get ups that looked like dresses. It dawned on me that they’d make damn good travel gear and I made a mental note to think about getting me some for the next flight. There had to be a Franciscan.com (MonksRUs) outlet store and I’m sure with the right marketing focus we could create the “God Snuggie.”
The friars took the three seats in the row across the way from me and immediately buckled in. Al rolled up and did the turbo slobber removal thing all at once and alternatively growled and barked at everyone who boarded the plane. A group of those older women who wear purple outfits and big red hats got on the plane in a spirited mood.
The first one through was another croissant short of 350 lbs and she thought it was cute to start singing “Hound Dog.” Al loves Elvis but hates to be patronized and he gave her several aggressive barks to let her know he didn’t care for her condescending attitude.
“Isn’t he a cute fat little boy,’ she said oblivious to the irony. Al, probably from his upbringing, hated being called “boy.”
“Please don’t—” I didn’t get to finish.
The big purple lady went to scratch Al under the neck. I once left the TV on while I took a shower and when I came out Al was snarling, growling and showing his teeth to Barney the dinosaur on public TV.
He hated Barney.
Al took the well-intentioned neck scratch as an affront to his canine identity or something and he dove for the fat around the bottom of the woman’s legs. Her stovepipe legs were ankleless and the fat gathered around the top of what had to be quadruple E flats. Al took a quick snap at the ankle, the woman screamed and tipped over into the row of Franciscan friars who took up the three seats across from me.
“Jesus H. Christ!” the aisle seat father said. I had to believe the good Lord would’ve forgiven him. She ain’t heavy, she’s my red hat sister not withstanding, the guy was now supporting about 350 pounds on his lap.
“Oh my God! He bit me!” my new friend said. Her red hat was in the space in front of the second friar and her purple stretch pants and purple blouse separated to reveal a milky-white dough mid-section with more rolls than a Chinese acrobat. Al had backed off but was still humming a low level growl and he remained hypervigilant just in case the Barney-like creature disrespected him again.
I think every traveler should have an anxiety-calming service dog.
Miss Barney eventually righted herself and took her seat after she gave Al and me a dirty look. Al was panting but other than that he actually seemed pretty pleased with himself. All the excitement had taken its toll and by the time the plane taxied to the runway Al was snoring and it could be heard over the roar of the jet engines.
* * *
Duffy By Decision
by Tom
All I wanted was a cold Schlitz.
On TV boxing looks pretty antiseptic. Nice
satin shorts in colorful designs, shiny gloves and fancy shoes that resemble dance shoes more than cleats. It almost plays like a cartoon.
Well, my ten rounder finished about a half an hour ago and my face hurt. The back of my head had a dull ache, the point where my jawbone met the rest of my skull felt like someone stuck me with a screwdriver when I tried to close my mouth and I had a scrape across my right eye and forehead from the tape on Raheen Johnson’s glove.
I lost tonight.
I had won my last five and the way this game works if you put together a string of wins you get more money, fight in nicer places and generally get treated better. Unfortunately, you also fight other guys who are winning and they tend to be better fighters. Me, I’m what’s known in the trade as an opponent—I show up in shape, I compete but I’m just not that good to beat real contenders. I have a couple of times, which makes me even more appealing as an opponent, but not enough.
Tonight I went up in class and lost, which means I have to go down a few pegs, fight guys not as good as me, get some wins and start this process all over again. Such is the life of an opponent.
Right now I didn’t care about anything but anesthesia in the liquid form. So, it was off to AJ’s.
“That one actress, what’s her name, is a whatyacallit,...” TC was having problems expressing himself, which was often the case after a half a dozen B&B’s.
“A herbivore, you know, she’s both male and female,” TC said. He seemed relieved that he retrieved the information.
“A lot of them Hollywood types are into herbs,” Rocco said.
“I was into herb big time,” Jerry Number One said and sipped his Cosmopolitan. His Grateful Dead tee had red stains down the front from Cosmo dribble. that?”
“Isn’t a herbivore a vegetarian?” Jerry Number Two said. “What’s the big deal with
“No—she’s got both sex organs,” TC said.
“What ya mean both? Don’t all women have ‘em upstairs and downstairs?” Rocco said.
“By my count that’s three,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Male and female organs,” TC said.
“Who does?” Rocco said.
“That actress, what’s her name, the vegetarian,” Jerry Number One said.
“I thought she was herbivore,” Jerry Number Two said.
“I used to love that Herb Albert,” Rocco said. “Alpert.” TC said
“Who’s Al Pert?” Rocco said.
“That was the best album cover of all time—Whipped Cream and Other Delights,” Jerry Number Two said.
“That chick was a herbivore?” Jerry Number One said.
“According to TC she had both male and female equipment,” Jerry Number Two said.
“You guys are nuts,” Rocco said.
“Apparently she had nuts,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Ahh—Go screw yourself, “ Rocco said.
“I bet she could,” Jerry Number Two said.
Alas, an average night at AJ’s. The Fearsome Foursome were about the only patrons that ever made it. AJ’s was on the industrial side of town next to the cookie factory that gave off a sickenly sweet smell. Al was with me. He didn’t go to the fight but after a ten round loss and the loneliness it brings I picked him for the extra company. He was a regular in AJ’s as any of the rest of us and though AJ protested when Al came through the door he didn’t do it with much energy.
I was half way through my first Schlitz sand the guys had reached a pause in their discussion before they even noticed me. Rocco was the first.
“Hey Duff, how’d you make out tonight?” Rocco said.
“Lost on all three cards. One judge had me winning two rounds and the other guy had me winning three,” I said. I hated explaining losses.
The guys all got quiet for a few seconds after that, which I hated even more than explaining. Al let out a long yawn, spun around twice and laid down again. I noticed I was grinding my teeth, which I often do. Usually it’s an unconscious thing but getting stabbed with a screwdriver called my attention to it.
On cue, the front door opened and in came Kelley, the last remaining regular of the joint. He was in uniform and I thought I remembered him telling me that he wouldn’t make the fight because of being on duty. Kell always sat two seats removed from the Foursome and though he liked the guys, he rarely joined in on any of their brain trust pursuits. Kelley just sat facing the TV, sipping his Coors’ Light.
“How’d you make out?” he asked.
“Got my ass kicked. The judges gave me a couple of pity rounds,” I said.
Kell nodded and kind of pursed his lips. That was a lot for him.
“You want to join me in a beer? The guys were discussing the pros and cons of having both sex organs,” I said.
“What a treat. I’m on duty.” He squatted for a second to scratch Al underneath the neck. Al sort of half hummed half purred.
“That wasn’t exactly a ‘no.”
“Screw it,” Kelley said and looked over the bar. “AJ give me one and back Duff up.”
He put his policeman’s cap on the bar, rubbed his forehead and exhaled.
“Uh, look, I’m a bunch ahead of you and about to make the switch to light speed with some Beam but you don’t usually have one on the job...” I said.
“Yeah, I know.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Today this girl came in, couldn’t be more than 19 with a four year old girl. The mother is bruised up around the eyes, fat lip, the whole mess. The four year old had an infected cigarette burn on her upper arm,” Kelley took a sip.
AJ slid a Jim Beam on the rocks in front of me.
“Her father, guy’s name is Lance Pelton, thought the chicken was overcooked.” He took another sip, this one emptied the rest of the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I still didn’t say anything.
“The worst is we can’t touch him. He had a bullshit alibi. Douche bag was working the door at The Palace”
“I thought with domestic cases there were all sorts of rules against that sort of thing,” I said.
“Due process... Shit.” He put his hat on. “Screw this job. I gotta run, Duff.”
He headed back out.
That was one of the longest conversations I ever had with my best friend. I finished my Beam and AJ refilled it. The Foursome had moved on to Richard Gere and the emergency room and I didn’t want to join in or even listen. The local news was on and the sports anchor had a clip of my fight running.
“Duffy Dombrowski’s short lived winning streak ended tonight. The hometown Pug, returned to his losing ways in a one-side battle with Raheen Johnson...” He paused to chuckle. “You gotta love Duff’s half Irish half Polish trunks.” He chuckled again.
Nice.
My face was throbbing in that not altogether unpleasant way from the mixture of being jabbed repeatedly and from getting pretty drunk. I was staring at the mirror behind the bar, barely noticing my reflection and I looked down at my left hand, the one that wasn’t holding the bourbon. It was in a fist.
A 19 year old humiliated and in pain and a 4 year old with a cigarette burn wasn’t right. I’ve seen a lot but when it involved defenseless vulnerable people it stuck with me. Tonight, especially seeing Kelley’s reaction, it was burning a hole in me.
I swallowed the bourbon and asked AJ for a traveler. It was time to go to The Palace.
The El Dorado turned over on the third try and the 8-track picked up where it left off on Elvis’s version of Walk a Mile in My Shoes. I headed across 90 and past all the restaurant chains to Wolf Road and pulled into The Palace’s parking lot. Elvis had moved on to the rocker, Promised Land, and I sat in the Cadillac with the engine running finishing my bourbon. I was sure the pre catalytic converter engine was ruining the ozone but I didn’t care. The paper cup of Beam was between my legs and I could feel my heart beating. My hands never left the steering wheel except to sip the bourbon. My knuckles had gone white. Al snored in the ba
ck and he was okay with being left in the car for a little while.
The mixture of excitement and honestly, a little fear, and for that matter, what was becoming a lot of intoxication, was kind of a high, not completely good but it was the type of feeling that let you know that you were alive.
It was time to meet Mr. Lance Pelton.
The Palace was 180 degrees from AJ’s and probably the last place I’d choose to hang out. Heading in from the parking lot I passed a BMW convertible with the top down that had plates that read “LanceRoks.”
There was no one at the door when I made my way in and I found myself squinting as my eyes adjusted to the dim lounge effect lighting. There was an annoying bass beat bouncing off the walls and lots of guys in fake worn jeans and young women with shirts that were too small. It was crowded, uncomfortably so, and stifling.
The Schlitz, Beam and Raheen Johnson’s left hand didn’t make me any more comfortable either. I slithered through the masses to the edge of the bar to get another bourbon and to check out the beautiful people. No one seemed to be having much fun—they looked like they were acting at having fun. Others just stood and struck poses.
The bar guy in all black gave me a noncommittal nod to see what I wanted and I gave him the one word command “bourbon.” He tried really hard to use as little energy as possible and did fairly well at it. He slid it in front of me, barked “Ten” and made no eye contact.
“Pelton around?” I said.
