The Dog Log

by Richard Lucas

  I enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke, and I enjoy Stasya. In the beginning, she used to only watch me in contemplative silence, one eyebrow raised over the long, thin, glowing cigarette. I could sense her worry for me, as if she were helping to breathe in my anger, hold it, and then exhale it away forever into the speechless night air.

  But now we talk. She’s insecure about her English, so she speaks in careful, short phrases, three or four words at a time, but the philosophical weight of her thoughts manifests itself as with the restrained touch of a thundering poet. She liked Roxy. Since Roxy is half Russian, they occasionally shared a Virginia Slim and chatted in Russian. She likes to talk to me about her. And she smiles. Though her teeth have been decimated from decades of Soviet-era dentistry and tobacco, it’s a beautiful smile to me. The embers of her cigarette reflect in her eyes, and they sparkle with hope.

  Tonight, she reassured me—on Christmas day. “You are the man.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “My Richard, you have the power,” she said, touching my arm, smiling.

  “I don’t know what to do. Time’s going by.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” she insisted. “Love is love. It does not break. She needs to think. And she loves you. I know this in my heart.”

  I pray that Roxy’s Russian side feels these things.

  “Does she love me enough that one day she’ll smoke outside if I need an oxygen tent?” Stasya laughs. I guess living the bulk of one’s life under tyrannical oppression gives a person a decent sense of humor. Her finger brushes the hair behind my ear. The touch of a woman’s hand is a smooth tranquilizer, even when it comes from the outstretched arm of a cigarette-smoking mailbox.

  These conversations always do me good. “Love is love. It does not break.” She occasionally speaks in Russian to me, and though I don’t understand a word, it makes these moments seem as timeless as the stars. I now go toward the incense of Virginia Slims like a moth to a Goodwill bin. Stasya gives me hope and strength about love’s endurance. But I don’t know if she’s a shepherd or a Judas goat.

  10:00 PM

  My arm is still killing me—this rash or whatever keeps growing. Ally says I’ve got shingles, like an old person. She says it’s from stress, like an old person. Ibuprofen isn’t even touching it, like it wouldn’t for an old person. I should get that medical marijuana. Ally’s against it, believe it or not. “‘Altering’ your mind isn’t ‘changing’ your mind,” she says. “That’s what you’ve got to work on. You should try Tai Chi.”

  “My knee won’t let me stand on one leg. They seem to do that a lot.”

  “It’s low impact, and it would help you with everything, even Irene.”

  “I’d have to be Tai Chi–ing all day long. Irene’s the one who should be doing Tai Chi for her balance.”

  “Getting shingles at your age doesn’t prove anything to you?”

  “Yes, chicken pox sucks. We should eradicate it. I’m going to dedicate my life to that.”

  She’s overnighting me some “colloidal silver, proteolytic enzymes, and olive leaf extract” to rub on it. Oh boy.

  I’m trying to write a response e-mail to Roxy. I want to tell her that I want to talk, that I’d listen to everything she has to say, and that I can change. But I’d said all that already, in pieces, on the day of the Breakup Bags. Do you think I even should e-mail her? Plus, so far, I have no changes to talk about, except that I’ve gotten rid of my wallet chain, and that I’m doing pour-over coffee since my machine broke. The problem is I want to say too much, and it’s radioactively pathetic—and how embarrassing to be back at square one with a worse dog next door? I don’t know if there’s another man. I don’t know if she thinks about me. I don’t know if she’s angry that I haven’t reached out to her enough. I’m scared of everything. Why’d she tell me she loved me that day?

  This is all getting to be too much. I cry about it, or everything, just about every day, to be honest, Sheriff. Every day around this time. If not cry, I at least collapse on the couch, defeated. I just haven’t been mentioning it. I think it’s sundowners, i.e., depression. Old people get it when the natural sunlight dissolves at the end of each day. This is when I start drinking. Now. It helps. I can’t get her off my mind, and the evenings tide in with insecurity and longing because it’s social time, especially Fridays and Saturdays—and Sundays. Damn, we loved watching the Steelers on Sundays. Even being together on any weeknight means dinner and wine.

  I’m crippled. Plus Lauren. My friends still hang out with Roxy sometimes. I hate feeling “betrayed,” because we’re all adults, and people make choices, and there should be no sides, but I do feel it, even though I know it’s selfish and irrational. I don’t know what she’s doing, but she’s single, right? Why wouldn’t she be out there having fun by now, making herself available? And it’s the holidays—no one wants to be alone. It’s her right, and my friends’ rights, and my shit’s not together. I can’t just snap my fingers. I hate the sunset. Alcohol keeps the light at least one finger above the horizon.

  I feel like I’m in the psych ward at the downtown jail. I told you I’ve been there. Maybe I saw you when I was there? Did you know the chaplain, Father Will? I knew him because he also taught a few history classes at Crenshaw. He’d wanted the jail job, and he said he’d been a shoo-in because he was an African American Catholic priest, something “all too rare” in Southern California. He liked my songs. He thought I’d find my “Johnny Cash moment” if I spoke with some inmates. I went with him six times. One time we went into the psych ward of the “hospital” wing. Have you been there? The din of screaming—a haunted, indiscernible language of pleading madness—agitated my every atom, with smell and taste already struggling in my stomach all morning. We approached a cell door and were confronted by a loud, color-coded sticker: DANGER TO CARETAKERS. DANGER TO SELF. FECAL/URINE/SPIT/HIV.

  Father Will and I hadn’t been offered any precautions—no masks, gloves, shields. I didn’t say anything. I trusted him. The guard opened the door, and we stepped forward through what may as well have been a gateway back to the middle ages. There was a metal cot with a two-inch-thick foam mattress on which laid a man clothed only in an adult diaper, his ankles each chained to corners of the cot, and his right arm cuffed to the side. Only his left arm was free to move. I’d compare the scene to a beast of burden, but I’d never seen an animal shackled with such extreme. Beads of sweat slid from his limbs, ticking seconds off into puddles on the concrete floor, and he moaned elongated syllables from some anguished conversation in his ghosted mind.

  Will knelt at his side and took his hand. “I’m going to pray for you, my son,” he said. “What would you like me to say?”

  The inmate stared at the ceiling. “I . . . I need to stop jerking myself off,” he said. Then his bony hips twisted slightly, and he pulled his diaper away to reveal massively swollen testicles. “I can’t stop.” His rabid eyes turned toward Will. “I’m . . . I’m . . . hurting myself,” and then he went back to mumbling.

  Father Will improvised a prayer. I don’t know how much of it the inmate heard or understood. Or how much God heard or understood. This is one of his creatures, is he not? Am I not?

  December 26, 12:50 PM

  Oh, man—bad news. Weird news. I don’t know. Irene just fell. I mean a real fall, Sheriff. Outside. I’d just gotten out of the shower when I heard my name called out from the front, “Richard!!” Then “Ooow . . . Ooh! . . . Help me!”

  I ran outside to see her lying on her back in a patch of grass under the bush next to my steps.

  “I think I broke my arm,” she moaned.

  I thought of my mother as she must have fallen and lost her last breath. “It’s going to be OK,” I said.

  “I can’t move.”

  “You shouldn’t move. I’m calling 9-1-1 right now. Lie still.”

  The paramedics were here in about six minutes. (I’m glad the dispatcher didn’t tell me to write a six-month Broken Arm Log
.) Irene grew surprisingly calm by the time they were at her side.

  A small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, mostly older people from the building next door. Casino and Jazmine came running. Stasya stood by. People are drawn to sirens, witnessing pain, as they need to be reminded of their own limitations.

  “What happened to her?” they kept asking me.

  “She just fell, that’s all,” I offered, trying to keep everyone at ease. But falling is a very different accident for someone in their seventies than it is for you or me. Roxy’s dad passed away eight weeks after a “he just fell” incident because he contracted an infection that took quick advantage of his old age. It doesn’t seem right to “just fall” and then die, as if the earth can suck you into it at will. But I didn’t want to worry. This isn’t my mother or Roxy’s dad. Irene is a foul, angry, selfish human being who has housed the furry bane of my existence for the last three years.

  “She was very calm, not complaining,” I told the neighbors as the ambulance rolled away. “I think she’ll be fine. The paramedics didn’t seem overly concerned. She’ll be OK.” None of them were friendly with Irene. The older neighbors were wanting me to tell them that they’d be fine, too, if they were to fall. It was hope talk.

  5:20 PM

  I haven’t heard anything about Irene yet. It’s been five hours. I don’t know from whom I would hear. I’ve never seen anyone come over to visit. Other than the hospice patients, where are her people? Do they know that something’s happened? Lauren’s barking like a banshee. Nelson is probably manic, too. I wonder when Irene will be sent home? Man, this is weird.

  10:00 PM

  I wish I could call Roxy, but I can’t. I feel like I should tell her about Irene. I miss Roxy. It’s bad and terrible. All I think about. The midnight texts. Playing gin rummy until we fell asleep on each other’s shoulders, the cards all over the place in the morning. She kept a running tally of our scores in a composition book, months and months and months long. I miss—I apologize, Sheriff, too much wine tonight. I miss running my index finger down the curve of her spine, how she breathes when she sleeps—a single, tiny little snore every three or four minutes. I miss how she slept in little socks and would press her feet against mine until they got warm. I miss gently rubbing ice cubes on her nipples and watching her lose control. Her kisses, so long and soft, and slow. She had a “sexy face” she could make with her eyes during sex that could make me come pretty much whenever she wanted. She’s an early riser, and she sometimes used to rub my shoulders for a few seconds before she left the bed. In fact, sometimes my hair gets all matted and wild against the pillow. She’s got a whole series of morning-sleep photos of me. She couldn’t get enough of laughing at that. I hated it. I miss it now. Damn it. And it’s football season. The Steelers are 9-5 and might make the playoffs, and we haven’t even talked about it. A girl who loves your teams as much as you do—wears the jerseys—sometimes just with boy shorts, Sheriff. I can’t even face Sundays.

  It’s money, right? She’s been working on her master’s, eyeing a PhD. Money makes a difference. I’d planned to become filthy rich. Now I pocket my quarters and trudge my drunk ass up to Launderland to wash my fading clothes.

  I’m drunk-dog-logging. Dog logging Under the Influence.

  I’ve filled a big box with Roxy’s stuff. It’s been sitting here like a coffin at a Catholic wake this whole time. I folded everything nicely, included some of her old notes and photos. If she wants total separation, then here it is. I thought of just donating everything, but I can’t. Probably should have done this sooner, but I couldn’t. I can’t stand the box being here. But I can’t move myself to send it. I have to put some kind of note in there. Have you ever had to do this? What am I supposed to write?

  Here are your things, Roxy, your cosmetics, soaps, pajamas, T-shirts, yoga pants, extra jeans, emergency little black dress, lingerie, fuck-me heels and stockings, our bear, Franklin, your linen pants . . . the rummy book. I miss you. It feels like I’m tearing off my own skin.

  That’s all I can think of. Feeble—in other words, honest. She knows how I feel. Maybe there’s nothing more to the point than silence.

  She’ll look for a note or a little surprise. I could always make her laugh with some goofy purchase from Big Lots or the 99¢ Store. Maybe what she needs is time with me not being around, not being thought about 24/7. Maybe no message is a good message, a show of self-respectability.

  11:55 PM

  It’s midnight, and I’ve heard nothing happening next door except Lauren’s barking—and now light whimpering. No one’s coming to check on the dogs? It’s been nine hours.

  I have that key to Irene’s from the fire. I’m going to go over there, see if they’re hungry or anything. Wish me luck.

  12:20 AM

  Holy shit, I can’t believe what I just saw. I’m hardly able to get my breath back from holding it for so long, because the air over there blasted at me like an open furnace of bacteria. It’s a filthy madhouse at Irene’s. She’s a hoarder. I only managed to stay in there for about ninety seconds, but from what I could see—the light is burned out in her front room—it’s all junk: bags, magazines, books, newspapers, Tupperware, linens, video cassettes, garbage. The dogs must not be trained at all, because the floors are a sloshy cesspool. I’ve seen her walk them. I guess not enough. I could find nowhere to step that wasn’t trudging through a shallow swamp.

  The dogs were penned in the kitchen behind a wrought iron gate. Lauren squealed and squealed at me as if an elephant were kneeling on her neck. Nelson kept leaping against the gate, making it pound against the loose latch like a prisoner’s old-time tin cup. Presuming that Irene didn’t want the dogs in the living room, I stepped over the gate and into the kitchen hoping to find some food for the two of them, who were now darting around in a panic like loose fireworks.

  The floor was damp brown with what looked like mud but smelled of much worse. I kept telling myself it was mud, but I wasn’t very convincing. There were wet patches and dry, caked areas. The dogs’ hair was matted with having sat in this for so long, as if neither had been bathed since leaving the warm amniotic fluids of their own mothers’ wombs.

  I couldn’t take the smell in that ammonia fog. Having my T-shirt pulled up around my nose was quickly running its course. Finally, among the bags and dishes and containers that covered the counter, I found their dry food, tossed a handful into each bowl, and fled for fresh air through the front door like a rescued miner.

  I took off my shoes and left them outside before I came in my place and went straight to a hot shower. I could still hear Lauren barking when I’d come clean. I hope they can settle down for the night. I’m sure that Irene’ll be back tomorrow.

  2:00 AM

  Can’t sleep. I’m in shock. Can’t get the smell of Irene’s out of my sinuses. Is that old age, what I saw next door? Ending up alone, fading into oneself—one’s worst self ? Letting everything go? She’s her own prisoner over there, trapped by her mind the way my father was trapped by his own body after the stroke—just sitting there waiting for the rest of his body to go. At Irene’s, the prison will build up around her until she suffocates. And that smell, the smell of death—no, the smell of waiting for death—reminded me of the jail visits. I met Richard Ramirez, the “Night Stalker” serial killer, there, also waiting to die—surrounded by horror, facing death row.

  Through the small, thick, scratched, permanently fogged window of his cell door, Father Will introduced us and then politely offered Ramirez a prayer. Ramirez politely refused, and then, with great pride, pointed our eyes toward the large pentagram he’d laid out from wet, rolled-up toilet paper on the floor. Then Ramirez turned to me. “What’s it like teaching kids today?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s not bad,” was all I said. We didn’t really hit it off.

  Then I witnessed the moment when Father Will offered the promise of forgiveness and redemption through prayer to that man. Amazing. I almost asked Will for a prayer of my o
wn that day. Today’s the anniversary of the day my father died. Always a tough day for me. I think about him and me, and forgiveness that I can’t give.

  I told you he was an alcoholic, a severe man, and my mom had consigned matrimony to acrimony. That was our household. I can’t remember a day as a child when I didn’t want to be somewhere else, with another family, friends, our hippie neighbors—anyone, anywhere. My best and worst attempt at running away came in the first grade. I’d told my friend Dale about being afraid of my father, being hit with his belt, and together we devised a plan. After school one day, I’d get on Dale’s bus, go to his house, and from there he’d walk with me to the Greyhound bus station on the square downtown. Then I’d ride the 120 miles south to Philadelphia. That’s where the Liberty Bell was, and I loved the Phillies, so it all made perfect sense.

  On that day, I’d packed an extra duffel bag with underwear, a pair of Toughskins, my Steelers pajamas, and a Pink Panther T-shirt that Ally’d given me for my birthday. All progressed without a hitch until our teacher, Miss Lord, approached us in the line for the bus. “Excuse me, Smiley [my nickname then], do you have permission to go on Dale’s bus today?” she asked, pointing at my extra bag. “Because I wasn’t told.”

  “Yes.” And she didn’t stop me. We felt like we were in Hogan’s Heroes. At Dale’s house, we spent an hour in his room figuring out when we should leave. But the sun was going down, and as the aroma of pot roast crept up the stairs, Dale thought he might not be able to go. Then his mom came into the room. “Richard, your father’s on his way. You can stay up here until then if you like.” Miss Lord had contacted him. Dale and I silently fumbled with his plastic army men while we waited.