by Bill Boggs
“Couldn’t help but notice,” Bud says, “and you think that we can actually help you?”
He falls back into his chair, and dust and pollen and spores come shooting out of the cushion.
Bud’s having a coughing fit, like the time he swallowed the lit microroach.
“Here’s the deal, it’s real—the CIC is paying…”
“CIC?” Bud asks.
“The Christmas Industrial Complex.”
“Ah, that’s a new one.” Bud nods.
“Right, and outta sight. The CIC is paying big bucks to fight the de-Christmasing of Christmas. Think a bit, each year should be a hit—but are the tree growers happy with warning signs marching around the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree? Are the Hallmark people having orgasms that you can get fired for sending the wrong kind of card to someone at work? Are the inflatable Rudolph people pumped up about not selling enough Rudolphs? No! So! My man, my dog, I’m one of hundreds across the country this year who’re being paid big to set forth rigs.”
“What rigs?” Bud’s askin’.
“Each one’s different”…snap, snap. “Mine’s a giant flatbed with a good old-fashioned politically incorrect Christmas display—music, the works, and here’s the hit, there’s no mystery…. It’ll be history. Santa and Jesus—arm in arm for the first time—singing duets of all your holiday favorites. But it’s not over without a closer, right? So how about a dwarf who’s no stranger to a manger popping out of it as baby Jesus and leadin’ the crowd in ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ while we pass out virus-free made-in-China gingerbread houses…and I’m launching the gig that’s my rig at the High Point Square Park.”
“Do you want Spike, like, to dress as a sheep in the Nativity scene? What’s up here really, man?” Bud asks. “What are you asking for?”
Snap, snap, snap. “There’s no show without promo…. We can’t get permits for public displays with Jesus, let alone my big stars, transgender Mary and Joseph. There has got to be a crowd, then, boom, we appear without fear…”
“So…?” Bud asks.
Snap, snap. “My dog! Every kid in the Piedmont Triad wants to meet you after Vegas.”
Who’s counting? But I’m nodding in agreement. My fan mail’s currently thirteen-to-one to Bud’s.
“Note how I’ll promote—a ‘special appearance by Spike The Wonder Dog,’ no mention of Christmas, and all he’s got to do is stand in the light so the crowd gathers in the night.”
“So technically the show is illegal, ’cause you don’t have a permit, right?”
Bud asks, using his talk-show-interviewer voice.
Snap, snap, snap. “My man!”…snap. “But only Mayor Gordon in person can shut us down, and from what I hear, he won’t be near, ’cause he’s not movin’ much, not even with a crutch.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Bud asks, which is a dumb question, ’cause I know what’s wrong with him—he’s married to that woman who’s still campaigning to have me neutered.
“I’ll keep the rumor mill still”…snap, snap, snap. “So are you into sayin’ Christmas is no sin?”
“I love Christmas,” Bud says, “but Spike is technically an employee of WGHP, so I have to talk to Lombardo, ’cause this is not actually legal.”
I always like a meeting with Lombardo. He’s got a soft, clean rug, and I can stare endlessly at my reflection in those spit-shined black shoes.
He’s standing behind that big clear desk lecturing Bud and watching three TV monitors at the same time.
“I’m all for kids watching Christmas action,” Lombard says. “I’m all for Santa not being seen as a microaggressive terrorist. But you’re dealing with this suspect semi-holy man where everything he touches goes down the tube, and his sworn enemies, who are two PC anti-Christmas fanatics. Mayor Gordon actually had a sidewalk Santa arrested last year and kept the money from the red pot. And then there’s his wife, Doris, who’s consumed with rage that I’ve still got your increasingly famous…What do I say? Oh yeah, reproductively unrearranged dog working for me. Why risk putting that dog in the show?”
“Well, I tell you,” Bud says. “He’s nuts, but I kinda’ like the rabbi, although he says he’s not a rabbi anymore, but beyond anything else, I’d like to help put one over on the crooked mayor and his neutering-obsessed wife.”
Lombardo’s nodding and starting to enjoy Bud’s pitch.
“You tell me how a guy who was literally the dog catcher, and his wife, who ran an animal shelter out of her one-car garage, now have a beachfront villa in Cabo, a Cadillac Escalade, a mansion in Rosedale Park, and a full-time live-in servant, all just three years after he becomes mayor?” Bud asks.
“Total graft,” Lombardo says, “straight out of the Paul Manafort playbook…and the soup kitchen can’t even afford to buy soup. You’re right, goddamn it, screw ’em both. Put that dog up there and shine a light on his balls, and let Santa and Jesus take selfies with every kid in the state.”
“Anyway,” Bud says, “I think we’re safe ’cause the rabbi told me only Mayor Gordon in person could shut down the show and order arrests, but he said that Gordon isn’t leaving his house.”
“Right, that’s what I hear; he’s not moving much, and I’m sure Police Chief Mulrooney, who’s a devout father of nine children who love Christmas, won’t stop you.”
“But what’s up with Gordon?” Bud asks.
Lombardo sits down to explain, and starts scratching my head with nails way smoother than Bud’s.
“According to what Tim the cable guy accidentally saw at his house, and some Google research he did, the mayor’s now so obese, he might not even be able to get out of bed. Theory is he and Doris are in some kind of kinky ‘feeder-gainer’ fetish relationship.”
“What?” Bud asks, leaning forward, ’cause I think the word “kinky” has some appeal.
“It’s two crazed people who get off on one making the other as fat as possible.
Tim says he accidentally opened a door looking for the Wi-Fi router and spotted Doris pouring an industrial-sized container of hollandaise sauce into a big green funnel with a tube going into the mayor’s mouth. Doris was cackling, ‘No pain, no gain, Herb,’ while the mayor was making gasping noises and swallowing and swallowing.
“Tim said it looked like Gordon was being waterboarded with salad dressing. He says the mayor’s probably weighing over four hundred pounds, and that’s why he’s running the city by phone from his mansion. He’s probably too heavy to move much.”
Bud’s mouth is hanging open as he’s staring at Lombardo blinking. “Gainer-feeder relationship, what the fuck?”
“Yeah, that’s what we think. Go ahead, on with the show,” Lombardo orders.
For the next two weeks the Zebe is promoting my special appearance as: “Meet Spike The Wonder Dog and Friends.”
It’s real windy and cold for High Point the evening of the show. Bud and me are on a flatbed truck with the sides up. I’m peering out at a crowd of kids and their freezing, bored parents, who are frustrated trying to type on iPhones with gloves. Everybody’s waiting to see me and whatever special guests they’re fantasizing I’m going to produce.
“Trust me, kids,” I’m thinkin’, “there’s a big shortage of superstar talent on this truck.”
The Zebe is snap, snap, snapping away while puttin’ people in place for the Nativity scene. The Three Wise Men are teenagers from the Greensboro Special Needs Center; each one’s holding a leash attached to an old wrinkled man in a Joe Camel headdress. They’re furiously puffing on Camels, which Zebe got as a sponsor.
Jesus is the guy who performs Ethel Merman sing-alongs at nursing homes, and Santa’s his boyfriend, who does Judy Garland tributes. Mary and Joseph started the year as Joseph and Mary, but they’ve been discharged from gender reassignment surgery just in time to gingerly walk up the steps to get on the truck as Mary and Joseph.
Danny the dwarf, who’s playin’ baby Jesus, is running around in a Depends diaper with a green and red
peace sign drawn on it, handing out red cherry gummies and telling everybody, “Have fun; they’re gummies!” I lick several off the floor just before I hear the Zebe snapping and telling Danny not to give the pot edibles away until after the show.
I’m not happy about what I consumed, ’cause right after I swallowed them, I started to feel strange. I realize I’m contemplating one of the sheep by the manger like she’s a long-lost relative. The sheep’s staring back at me like I’m some teenage kid in Scotland trying to pick her up for a Saturday-night date.
Ten minutes later, I’m wobbly as Bud leads me out of the truck and up to the ledge. All I’m supposed to do is stand still in the spotlight.
“You OK?” Bud asks me. “No reason to be nervous, Spike.”
I suddenly think I can talk, but all that comes out is barking. The crowd hears it, and the kids are screaming and pointing at me. I’m on display standing on a pedestal in the spotlight, paranoid that I might not have a clean rear end. Just as I’m thinking things couldn’t get worse, I spot one of the animal control’s mobile “Mr. Fix-It” neutering vans pull up with the mayor’s wife, Doris Gordon, at the wheel blasting the horn.
The wind is howling, the Nativity scene’s on display, and suddenly it’s like Jesus and Santa are belting out “Winter Wonderland,” and it’s the best music I’ve heard since….
The mayor’s wife starts screaming through a bullhorn, “Stop the show!” Police Chief Mulrooney is waving her off. The Zebe jacks the volume way up. Everything I see is spinning around. I just want to be home in my orange doghouse eating as much as I can—a gainer-feeder relationship with any dog in North Carolina would make me happy right now.
Everybody’s gleefully singing along with Jesus and Santa. I’m staring straight ahead pretending to pay attention to people gaping at me, but I feel like I’m falling backward through outer space. I hear the mayor’s wife yelling, “That dog’s not licensed or leashed; if we capture him, he’ll be neutered!” Bud’s looking at me like “Don’t worry, pal, it’ll be OK.” At the same time, he’s got an anxious expression, ’cause he just realized he never bothered to get me a dog license. Actually, I prefer not havin’ one—it’s like “going commando.”
Santa and Jesus are singing “Toyland.” I gotta ask, why did no one think of teaming Jesus and Santa musically before? Zebe’s three little kids in astronaut suits are piling gifts in the manger, and Danny the dwarf is frantically tearing them open, when I smell cheeseburgers, and the scent’s comin’ from a large flatbed truck roaring toward us. It pulls up right under my pedestal, and my tongue’s hanging out.
In the back of the truck I see the head of Mayor Gordon sticking out of a giant blue nylon tarp. There might be a baby elephant under the tarp, but I’m guessing it’s all mayor.
Outta a bullhorn, he’s yelling, “Officer Mulrooney, I order you to close this show. There’s no permit for use; arrest that rabbi. Animal control, apprehend that ugly dog. Bring Mary and Joseph, I mean Joseph and Mary, or whatever the hell they are now, bring them in for questioning, and for God’s sake, keep them out of all restrooms.”
A wind gust lifts a corner of the mayor’s covering, and I see piles of McDonald’s Triple Cheeseburgers. It’s not easy, but I steady myself and leap down to the truck and crawl under the cover. As I stand up with a cheeseburger box clamped in my jaws, the wind catches the tarp and blows it way up in the air. It flips over the mayor’s head, mufflin’ the sound of the orders he’s screaming about capturing Danny the dwarf for tax evasion.
The crowd lets out a loud “Oh my God” as they see a body that’s a mountainous blob of rolls and rolls of pink-white flabby fat. The blob seems to be quivering and alive, like a giant jellyfish I saw on Animal Planet. I’m volunteering to help him reduce by swallowing what I hope are dozens of his burgers, but a guy with a mean smile and bad nicotine-stained teeth is tryin’ to snare me with a wire loop on a stick. Bud’s running to stop him but gets blocked by two animal control men.
My heart’s poundin’. I dodge the wire and jump off the truck. I’m shaky, stoned, scared. Not good. Need Bud, who’s yelling, “Run, Spike.” I’m movin’ down the street way slower than normal, but people are cheering me as the guy with the wire stick is losing the chase.
I feel this sharp pain in the back of my right leg, and someone yells, “They shot The Wonder Dog with a dart.” I’m breathing harder and harder, legs gettin’ floppy and heavy.
At the red light, there’s a dusty old Nissan pickup with the bay flap down. I stop. I’m weak, but I gotta jump up. I hear the stick guy’s boots. He’s closing in. I feel the strength of my ancestors in my legs. I leap and manage to crawl on. A couple of darts bounce off the truck as the light changes. The Nissan chugs off into the night.
8
On the Lam
The next morning as I’m coming to, I’m dreaming that CBS medical correspondent Doctor Jon LaPook and me are doing an investigative report on the dangers of edibles for pets. I’m interviewing Snoop Dogg’s dog about a couple of bad trips he’s had.
I’m lyin’ there with a full-body hangover that’s a ten on the widely recognized Keith Richards International Hangover Scale. None of my vital dog senses work—can’t smell, got blurry vision and no sense of direction. I could be in China except I’m right where I passed out last night, and a dirty little kid with freckles is pointing at me yellin’, “Mister Smith, a pig got into Mister Kelper’s truck!”
Mr. Smith slowly shuffles over puffing a cigarette. He’s old and creaky, but he manages to lift me outta the truck and lead me into his smoky-smellin’ little trailer. Mrs. Smith gives me a warm greeting. She’s got a faded red cotton dress hangin’ on her. She’s real skinny, with a wrinkled face that looks like she saved a lot of money over the years not buying sunblock.
She’s mighty happy to have a canine visitor, and puts down three slices of bologna and a bowl of water. I’m eating so fast, I bite my tongue while frantically chewing. It’s the worst pain I’ve had since Bud accidentally hit me in the nuts doing swings with a Big Bertha driver on the show. That hurt, but this time, I’m thinkin’ I’ll pass out from tongue pain.
Mrs. Smith pulls the dart outta my leg, and sticks it in a cork bulletin board next to a certificate from PBS sayin’ “Emma Smith was on the ‘Trailer Trash Treasures Edition’ of Antiques Roadshow.”
The Smiths look like people who dedicated a big part of life to inhaling thousands of cartons of cigarettes, which they’re now likely regretting, judging by the oxygen tank Mrs. Smith is dragging around, and the one in the corner for him. They’ve given a place of honor to three things that are hangin’ a little crooked on the wall over their little yellow ’50s dinette set—an autographed picture of Andy Griffith, a soldier with a light blue ribbon and medal hangin’ on the picture frame, and an Employee of the Month certificate from Walmart.
They’re grillin’ me like a Senate subcommittee investigation on missing pets:
“What’s your name, big fellow?”
“Are you from the trailer park?”
“We never seen you before?”
“Where’s your dog tag?”
“Wanna stay with us?”
“Our dog Marty just died. He was sixteen.”
“How’d you get shot with a dart?”
I like the Smiths, and that’s a shame about Marty, but my head hurts so bad that I close my eyes and drop off to sleep.
Nobody’s around when I wake up, but they left the TV on and there’s a report on what happened last night at the park. It’s the story of the mayor’s appearance and my disappearance.
They got video of the Zebe bein’ led off to jail surrounded by little astronauts. His wife’s twirling around for the cameras in the new fur coat. I see Bud tackling the guy who shot the dart rifle.
Police Chief Mulrooney says no charges have been made against Bud, but the animal control officer’s accused of public endangerment for firing tranquilizer darts on a crowded street.
The tarp flap
pin’ up over the mayor is being played over and over with a medical expert sayin’ the mayor is in the superobese weight category.
The city council’s president is calling for his resignation unless the mayor can show up at City Hall and conduct business in “a normal fashion.” But his wife, Doris Gordon, is lying saying that the mayor is heavy because he went on a low carbohydrate diet that somehow went terribly wrong. “He’s now taking laxatives,” she announces, “and the condition will clear up soon.”
There’s video of me runnin’ down the street. I’m relieved to see my rear end is clean, but it hurts to watch the dart hit me as I disappear into the dark.
Doris Gordon has all her “Mr. Fix-It” vans on the lookout for me. “We will find him, and like any unregistered stray, we will neuter him. Based on information on the license plate from video surveillance, we have a strong idea as to the whereabouts of the so-called Wonder Dog.”
Bud’s on next with a thousand-dollar reward for me, and news that Lombardo’s tryin’ to get a court order for the information on the surveillance tape. At the end of the report, they flash headlines from the High Point Enterprise:
“Former Rabbi Arrested for Illegal Christmas Show
Says, ‘Wait Until Next Year’”
“Mayor Displays Eating Disorder
Children Frightened”
“Tranquilizer Dart Hits Baby Jesus
Hospital Sets Up Manger”
“Wonder Dog on the Lam
Animal Control in Pursuit”
I go outside through the door port Marty musta used and take a leak, but stop fast when I realize I’m pissing on Marty’s grave. Not good. I’m making a New Year’s resolution: “Look first, piss second.”
The dog senses are returning. I sniff around a chewed-up doghouse, and it seems like Marty was a good dog. I’m smelling the air, looking at the sky, tuning in on the ancient animal powers of magnetic direction I’ll use to get home to Bud. I’m figuring I’ll head west, but not bein’ real enthusiastic about capture by a neutering van, I’ll travel by night. Or maybe the Smiths see what’s going on and call Bud. Hope so.
