It’s a sad day whereupon you realize your dog is smarter than you. Cuter, a given. More popular with the neighbors and random passerby’s, sure. But smarter? That’s a tough pill to swallow, even if your medicine cabinet’s pharmaceutical hall-of-fame material. Stuffed. Aligned with a veritable rainbow of pills to counteract anything your body might ever do. And you slam ‘em back like a faded film siren, or the wife of a man who’s succeeded in business by trying really, really hard.
For me this day came last Thursday. Everything that happens to me happens on a Thursday. Don’t ask me why? I was born on a Thursday, lost my virginity on a Thursday, graduated high school on a Thursday. It’s gotten to the point that anything that happens to me on any day other than Thursday is not important. Which is why I schedule all medical exams near the beginning of the week, just to give Thursday a wide berth, in the event this streak pertains to bad stuff as well. As I found out it most certainly does, this past Thursday.
The neighbor arrived at the door, looking for something, for anything really. More specifically, I think it was a drill he was looking for. I told him I don’t have any tools for the practical reason that when I look into a toolbox, it explodes. He didn’t laugh, and asked if I’d follow him to the bowels of the parking garage and hold the door open while he searched his storage locker for one. I don’t know my neighbor that well, but he persisted, explaining that the woman that lives above him was once trapped in the cold, desolate storage room for thirty-six hours when she went in search of her snow boots. I said they were probably really hard to find, under some old photo albums or something. He didn’t laugh and I followed him down to the parking garage, which always has small pools of water on the floor no matter the season or time of day. It’s like the polar ice caps are slowly melting through the sub-basement of our building.
As his giant buttocks bobbed and weaved in front of me like Ray Robinson on the ropes of a prize fight, and he tore threw his less-important, storage-relegated belongings on his hands and knees, muttering all the while about the damaging effect the concept of the lost and found has had on his life, I thought about walking away and letting the door cascade shut behind me. Leaving him to face his claustrophobia once and for all. But thought better of it as I have a reputation of an upstanding, model citizen to uphold. Also, I wouldn’t want to be purposely thrown into the middle of a cornfield maze with only my whiles and counterproductive sense of direction to guide me. Don’t ask, it’s a recurring nightmare I’ve had since adolescence.
After five long minutes I knew the drill wasn’t there, anyone would. The way you somehow know the cable guy isn’t showing up, no matter what the idiot on the phone told you, he’s simply not coming. Not today, maybe never. Maybe the buzzer’s broken, you think. Then you call someone who won’t show up to fix that. Now you have two trades’ people wandering aimlessly around the city avoiding you. Alas…
We’re in my car now, driving. I’m driving, he’s chatting. I’m not sure how this happened. He looked at me all weepy, his joules drooping beside the corners of his mouth, like a Bernese mountain dog, they always appear sad. Like they somehow know they age seven years for every one of ours, and their glass is perpetually half-empty. He’s talking about his son. John. He says the name again as if repeating it will affix it permanently into my brain. John. Why is it everyone’s son wants to do what I do, in some form? I don’t even know what I do, particularly when I’m doing it. Nevertheless, he’s inquiring about my time. Perhaps I could have a chat with him, the son, John? Inform him of my process, my routine, maybe I could explain the importance of discipline, an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay? I inquire if John would be interested in my mortgage as well. He doesn’t laugh, and we arrive at the hardware store.
There we are, the two of us, strangers, for all intents and purposes, wandering around a cavernous commercial utopia. The handy man’s wet dream. Too bad neither of us looks handy, or remotely close to a state of ecstasy. In fact, we couldn’t look more awkward. Like Ned Beatty and a far less-handsome Jon Voight on their way down the backwater rapids in rural Georgia, blissfully unaware of the trouble lurching around the corner. The faint sound of a distant banjo ricocheting off the ripples of the water ahead of us.
It takes half an hour to stumble into an area containing the drills. He’s scanning, his eyes darting around from drill to drill with the focus and precision of a man anxiously making his way down the menu to find the ribs. He’s reaching, and I’ll be darned if I’m not nearing a state of ecstasy. I begin to see light at the end of this ridiculous tunnel I’ve found myself in. It’s midway through my sigh of relief that I realize the search is still ongoing. He’s not content to replace his drill, no no, he’s looking to find an exact replica of the one that should be in his storage locker back at the apartment: a red handle with apparently some of the paint worn off, and a white connector for the bit. With two perfectly willing and able drills in his hands, a smack of dread leaves his lips, as my neighbor mutters under his breath something about all these drills having black connectors. Which should be a good indicator of a great many things: his state of mind being first and foremost atop the list.
His pudgy foot is squirming restlessly between my clasped hands now. I’m not sure how this happened. I couldn’t possibly have thought it wise to hoist this jolly fellow into the air, amidst the shelves of drills in search of what he thinks may be the one. Particularly someone who outweighs me by eighty pounds. However these are the travails one must overcome I say to myself, as I feel my spine begin to shred into two elongated halves, and my neighbor wheezes incomprehensibly. How he is out of breath remains a mystery, and as we topple over onto the shiny reflective hardware store floor, I begin to entertain thoughts that betray my common sense.
He’s certain his shoulder is dislocated. He lies on the floor, his limbs arched in all different directions from his torso. He looks like a jigsaw puzzle with seven or eight pieces missing. A drill with a black connector clasped within his chubby fingers, as a group of lookie-loos has formed a semi-circle around us, peering on as you do when you’re thrilled to be on the outside looking in. Still, no employee has arrived to assist us as per company policy. My neighbor begins to lose consciousness. He’s a babbling brook now, his eyes opening and closing at indiscriminate moments, clearly beyond his control. Suddenly he looks up at me, his neck straight and tight, his eyes wide like those of a startled forest animal, and instructs me to speak to Pedro. Pleads with me to speak to Pedro. I nod and this recognition seems to be all he needs. His face relaxes into a grin as his head clunks against the hard, reflective floor. At long last an employee arrives and asks if we need assistance. I inquire about drills with white connectors and the possibility of a staff member named Pedro (they have neither), before loading my neighbor onto an awaiting orange dolly and packing him off towards the parking lot. As we’re leaving an eccentric looking woman with no business entering a hardware store, who is either a millionaire or an abstract painter, or both, and must have a standard poodle at home named Chanel, stares at the sight of the two of us the way an airline steward might who has no willingness to help you no matter what you’re about to ask. She glances down at my neighbor, laid out across the dolly, one foot hanging over the edge, lodged in front of the wheel. I tell her to watch out for the cheetah. She doesn’t laugh and I roll over my neighbor’s foot and make our way out the double glass doors to the car.
Beside a gurney’s the last place I thought I spend my Thursday. Well…the Middle East, then a gurney. My neighbor lies on his back, his gown continually sliding open to the crotch. For some reason, at this moment, I notice he’s wearing cologne as the attending staff bring over the smelling salts. Saliva flees his mouth as he snorts and blinks his way back to consciousness. They pepper him with questions after hitting him with the salt, but seem dissatisfied with his answers (perhaps they should try different condiments). This strikes me unfair, as in fact many of their questions appear either subjective or rhetorical in nature. Nevertheless, they aren’t assured that he’s fit to travel and suggest I hunker down for a while. I plead with them to speak to Pedro but they just furrow their collective brow and whip the curtain closed so we may hear, but not see, them prod the next semi-conscious stiff.
The son’s here now, John, doing his do diligence as future pants-wearer. He looks nothing like I imagined him to. He’s youthful sure, anyone could have predicted that, but his eyes are mischievous. Like the villain in a Hardy Boys caper, or someone who just finished masturbating somewhere he shouldn’t have. He wears a black toque with all the authority of a sous-chef at some middle of the row chain restaurant, and snickers when nothing funny has been said, sometimes when nothing has been said at all. I enquire about his budding career as a writer, as per my understanding with the old man. John looks puzzled and bums a smoke, hitting the parking lot for a much needed sabbatical. But not before spilling the beans about his parents unraveling marriage and his sister’s black boyfriend. I take my leave before any secrets about his grandparents emerge.
I’m at home now. I don’t know how this happened, literally. I can’t make out how I arrived. I’m certain I left earlier in the day with my car, but now am certain it is gone. Probably for the best, it’s what Pedro would want. I don’t laugh, and we’re out the door. The pooch and me. She’s sweet, she always waits up for me, that little darling.
We walk down to the ocean, near our apartment that hovers majestically a few feet away from the grand Pacific. The water looks crisp tonight, as if it could cut paper, the faint sound of a picking banjo in the distance. The pooch dives in with gusto, with no thought to the temperature at all. She loves to swim does that pooch of mine. I watch as her head stays just above water, and I imagine for the umpteenth time her little legs moving a mile a minute under the surface. Ironically, it appears like complete effortlessness on her part, as if she’s not moving a muscle under there and only her will keeps her afloat. She moves swiftly further and further from the shore, past the point where my body straightens instinctively to accommodate my growing concern for her wellbeing. I check my watch and notice it’s 12:04 a.m. It’s Friday, and my dog is swimming home, or to Mecca, or to Madison Square Gardens, I’m not sure. But I know in that moment, she’s not coming back.
***
Regan Payne
Regan Payne’s first professional job writing came at the age of eighteen, when he penned the script for a one hour docu-drama for CTV (Canadian Television Network), entitled, Youth Violence: What’s Out There.
Upon completing his degree in Communications from Simon Fraser University, Payne wrote sporadically for various Canadian publications, while developing his own production company, Omnipresent Productions.
Through Omnipresent, Regan has written, directed and produced two movies. Follow the Leader (2002), selected for entry at seven international film festivals, told the story of a high school deluged by corporate sponsorship, while, Alone in a Foursome (2004-short), selected to the New York International Independent Film Festival, took in a breezy round of golf between four friends desperate to find their place in the world.
Payne has also been the writer of record for approximately 100 technical scripts for companies producing media through Omnipresent Productions, including Sears, The Law Courts Education Society, the Ives Training Group Geosmack Enterprises, and Bountyfull House.
In 2008, Payne turned his attention back to fiction writing, and has written nearly a dozen short stories this year.
