by Robert Lopez
Guiding Eyes for the Blind Dog Training School
THERE WAS THE SMELL of smoke and Mrs. Garcia sitting on the sidewalk across the street and ambulances and fire trucks parked everywhere with their lights still flashing and rescue workers milling about, some of them looking like they were still trying to rescue people, others standing around, talking into walkie-talkies, pointing fingers. I don’t know if you can say Mrs. Garcia was in shock or not. She was pulling on the sleeves of her pink sweatshirt and twisting her feet into the pavement. My wife said she saw her spitting, like she had accidentally swallowed something she wasn’t supposed to, like maybe she was trying to spit out the fire somehow. I didn’t see the spitting, but maybe that’s what it means to be in shock. Maybe that’s part of it.
None of the neighbors congregating together on both sides of the street or the rescue workers milling about said that it was twisted and fucked-up and ironic that a fireman’s house caught fire, that a fireman’s son winds up dying in that fire and that same fireman was off somewhere else trying to save someone else when it all went up. At least I didn’t hear anyone say that. I doubt anyone was thinking it, either.
Frank Garcia, the fireman, isn’t my friend. He belongs to a long list of neighbors here who aren’t friends. I can’t say I like him or that I don’t like him and I can’t say that it bothers me. I don’t think I belong here, in this community, but I’m doing what I can, what’s expected. Everyone here wears golf shirts tucked into Bermuda shorts, and boat shoes. Everyone here drinks domestic beer from cans and has procreated at least once. They drive tanks, shuttling children to school to camp to hockey to soccer to arts and crafts to the mall.
So I know who Frank Garcia is, have seen him do all of this, but I haven’t told him anything about myself, haven’t asked him a real question. I don’t care and I can’t bring myself to care, even though maybe I’m supposed to care, seeing that now that I am an adult and part of a community. I haven’t told him I’m not sure about this parenting business, that maybe there are enough people in the world already. I haven’t even told my wife this yet. Instead, I keep saying I’m not sure, keep saying maybe one day soon.
But Garcia and I, we’ve never had a conversation beyond the weather or sports. I watched his son, Carlos, grow up from the kitchen window, saw him play stick-ball in the street, trick-or-treating on Halloweens, walking home from school. He seemed like a good kid, if you can tell that sort of thing from the kitchen window.
We’ve never had any problems with the Garcias. Occasionally they’d have his firehouse buddies over and they’d carry on for longer than necessary. We can hear them late into the night two or three times a year, but always on a weekend, so it never seems too obnoxious, never a real problem. I’ve never had to go over there and talk to him about his parties, about his tank, about anything.
My wife says she’s never talked much with Mrs. Garcia, either. She says she seems like a good person. I want to ask her what that means, but I don’t. I want to say that anyone can seem like a good person, that everyone in this neighborhood seems like a good person, but that certainly can’t be the case. I’m sure if one were to overhear what these good people talk about, one would draw other conclusions. My wife is good with people, is better at thinking the best of them, better at talking than I am. My wife says Mrs. Garcia is a schoolteacher, third grade, and she’s involved in local politics. She’s knocked on the door, looking for contributions.
I’ve never told my wife, but one time I saw Mrs. Garcia naked. This was before they replaced that short rail fence with the stockade one. I was mowing the lawn and she came out of their pool without a bathing suit. She must’ve been in her own world because I was right there across from her, plain as milk, next to the lawn mower. I hate mowing the lawn, but this is what I mean about doing what’s expected, my part. There’s certain shit you have to do if you’re stupid enough to buy a house out here. You have to cut grass. You have to shovel snow. You have to answer the door when it rings, though I don’t always do that. You have to rake leaves, but this is where I draw the line. There’s nothing so fucking pointless as raking leaves. At some point I might try to hire someone to take care of the yard year-round, when we’re a little better off, when it comes time to have our own children.
Mrs. Garcia looked good naked, which is not something I would’ve guessed looking at her from the kitchen window. I’ve seen her getting in and out of her wagon, the one with the vanity plates, positive, scrawled across in capital letters, like she’s some kind of self-help guru. Never thought much of her body, but she’s got one. I felt myself stiffening up, even thought about going inside to take care of it, even thought of going over there and showing her how she moved me.
I watched her run a towel through her hair and down her body and then walk into the house.
Having nothing to do with our neighbors is not even a topic of discussion in our house. They could be murderers, perverts, Christian Scientists and it wouldn’t make a difference, but still they all seem like good people to my wife and apparently that’s enough. We moved here because my wife has friends here, friends who said this was a good place to settle down, start anew, raise a family. Even still there were no Welcome Wagons when we moved into the neighborhood, no block parties on the Fourth of July, only the fireman and his fire friends two or three times a year, but only on weekends, so it’s always okay.
No one is uncivil. There is a collective indifference and everyone is fine.
From our bedroom window you can look into Carlos’s room. The siding is charred. From the outside, it doesn’t look that bad, doesn’t look like someone could’ve died in there. The paper said they found cigarettes in his room. Carlos was thirteen and maybe he was learning how to smoke. Maybe he fell asleep or forgot to put a cigarette out and this is what happened. There’s no way of knowing and that’s something you can’t ask.
They say the people most likely to help in an emergency are people who are trained to handle emergencies. I’m not sure where I heard that, but it was from someone who sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Maybe it was on television. I believe anything I hear on television. They said when there’s an accident, the ones who pull over are doctors, nurses, cops, etc. Laypeople don’t, not because they can’t be bothered, but because they wouldn’t know what to do. I tell this to my wife when she asks me if there was anything she could have done. She was the one who called 911 and said I don’t know when they asked if anyone was in the house. I told her there was nothing she could have done, that no one could ever think that.
I’m not sure either of us believes it.
The directions are on the kitchen table when I come in from raking. My wife, from the den, tells me I should start getting ready. I’ve thought about not going. We’ve never been inside their house, never shared a meal, never even shook hands. There’ll be lots of people there and no attendance sheet and most people don’t sign the guest book, either. I don’t think the Garcias would even notice is what I tell my wife. Nevertheless, we’re obligated, my wife tells me. We’re neighbors.
Get off 495 at exit 19, turns into Jackson Avenue. Stay on Jackson Avenue for mile, then make right at Guiding Eyes for the Blind Dog Training School. Cemetery on left.
I assume that’s a mistake. I’m sure it’s the Guiding Eyes for the Blind – Dog Training School, or something to that effect. I ask my wife where she got the directions. The cemetery, she says. I don’t point out the mistake to her, but I wonder if it was hers or theirs.
When I go up to the Garcias, I tell them how sorry we are and ask if there is anything we can do. I want my wife to say it, but I figure it’s my job. I feel like an actor playing the sympathetic friend in a movie. I see myself putting a hand on his shoulder. My wife is next to me, hugging Mrs. Garcia, when I do this. The image of Mrs. Garcia naked comes to me when I see my wife console her. There is probably something wrong with me for imagining this. Then I hear Garcia call me by name and it feels wrong. It is the first time I�
��ve seen his eyes, which are more or less green or hazel. From our driveway it doesn’t look like he’d have green eyes. My wife and I finish with our parts and move to the back of the parlor. We watch for a few minutes as he greets and thanks the people giving condolences, and then we leave.
During the drive home from the cemetery, I picture seeing-eye people, with harnesses strapped to their torsos, leading a herd of blind dogs through the streets. The dogs carry black walking sticks and move them from side to side to avoid what the seeing-eye people miss. But then I think this is stupid and so I stop thinking about it.
A month or so later we’re both off from work on the same day. Frank Garcia is in his backyard raking and I’m finishing the deck in mine. I hear the leaves rustling through the weathered fence. Three men from the electric company are going from yard to yard, cutting down trees and limbs that hang over the lines. Snow isn’t far off. One of the men is hooking himself onto the tree between our houses, whose branches reach into both our yards. In a minute or so, he’ll fire up his buzz saw and get to work. He is wearing camouflage pants, but I can see him clear as daylight. Given how high he is, I’m sure Garcia can see him, too.
The Problem with Green Bananas
