The Happiness of Dogs

Margery and BrunoThe peonies were in bloom, but the bathtub soap dish still was detached and the roaches still infesting the patch behind the radiator. Audrey was focusing today on candelabra. If only the right wall fixture could be found she wouldn’t feel so glum.  She could take her collection of rubber duckies and affix them somehow to the brown cement square where the soap dish used to be. Audrey’s dogs, an Australian shepherd and a mutt from the pound, didn’t mind the missing cabinet on the wall or the brown spot on the black tile next to the tub where the soap dish used to be. Audrey tried to focus on the happiness of the dogs. The Australian shepherd, Sydney, bounded up at the drapes in the living room, bit an edge of the drapes coming down on his feet and then spun around after his tail. The other dog, a border collie mix, Agatha, was on her hind legs licking the remnants of butter off the galley kitchen counter. “Agatha Christie, stop licking the counter!” Audrey shouted slapping her hindquarters playfully. “What did I tell you about paws on the counter?” Audrey knew she was infantilizing the dogs, but she couldn’t help herself.

The sky was purple again and the air was heavy enough that Audrey couldn’t bear to keep the bathroom door closed or even the shower curtain drawn all the way. The dogs lulled on the floor, rolling around after their chew toys with their tongues hanging out, but other than the flashing of their tongues, they didn’t show any signs of discomfort. They were similar to shallow, but well-intentioned and kind extroverts, who skimmed the surface their whole lives untroubled. Audrey looked at herself in the bathroom mirror as the fog on the glass from the shower evaporated and studied what looked like the earliest signs of crow’s feet and maybe a specter of a jowl. That’s another thing about dogs, she said to herself. You can tell an old dog by his gait and sometimes an old dog with distinctive markings loses the vividness of those markings, but there’s nothing hangdog in the face about an old dog. If there were, of course, the dog wouldn’t care anyway.

Audrey eyed the pet catalogs on the wooden chest that served as her coffee table and decided what she needed was to see in dogs; instead of seeing her worn human face, to see the face of a dog with tongue hanging out chewing up a sneaker or pair of sunglasses. With her nail scissor and scotch tape, Audrey began cutting up dog pictures from the catalog and taping them to her bathroom mirror. When every corner and square of the mirror was covered over with the soothing lull of dog tongues, floppy ears and bushy tails, Audrey smiled. “I’ve brought myself into the dog house,” she said out loud to no one but the dogs. Soon I’ll be as good as a cocker spaniel.” She then laughed and decided to get dressed as if she were more dog than human. That meant not regarding herself in the long mirror on the living room wall that came with the apartment and picking clothes based on sensory delight. She pulled a light bright green sundress from the closet along with a bright pink scarf and stuffed four-inch purple high heel sandals into her small leather backpack. Audrey then sniffed at the front door of her apartment, keen to the smell of cooking down the hall. Could it be cinnamon muffins or Danishes or maybe just someone wearing sweet-smelling heavy perfume.

Dogs in modern NYC increasingly resemble humans so taking the dog’s stance on life isn’t hard. When Audrey picked out her walking shoes—red sandals with rubber soles—she knew there was a Dachshund somewhere in New York with a similar pair, claws sticking out, maybe even painted claws, sticking out.

On the sidewalk, an invisible leash halting her neck from turning fully around or looking too down or too far off to the sides, Audrey pulled herself to the office, the men and boys glanced as far as she could see on her leash cooing at times like you would at a sweet Yorkie in a sweater or snickering as if they were looking at an infirm animal—or so it seemed. At other times she felt ignored at the back of a diaphanous cage with bars she couldn’t see but were there enough to impede anyone from seeing her. There were so many other animals in front of her she couldn’t even see the stoplight. There were times another’s unseen but felt leash intertwined with Audrey’s and she pushed it off, the other animal glaring back at her. She grunted as a human animal form of barking. “Well, not like I tried to sniff you,” she snapped at one intertwiner. The intertwiner turned back puzzled and even may have said “excuse me,” but Audrey just grunted again and cocked her head. “I don’t have to answer because I don’t really understand her anyway,” Audrey thought to herself. “In fact I hear their words and know their combinations of words but they usually don’t mean anything to me. They’re just commands you can follow or not follow and either get rewarded or punished for.”

The other animals put their nose in the air and head down to the cups they were carrying as if sniffing out their direction. They should have known where they were going but unlike pointer dogs they sniffed down at themselves instead of out. Other animals blew smoke back at Audrey so that she pulled her nozzle away and wondered what kind of animal would deliberately poison itself. Or maybe it was the air version of an octopus’s underwater ink clouds. She ran ahead of them breathing out but not breathing in, unwilling to take in the poison smoke they emitted. She noticed a fur version of a dog—one of her brethren—jerk his head away when one of the cigarette-holding animals twirled her hand in his direction.

At the office, you remained in your enclosure or pen, for the most part. Everyone had a cordoned-off box with desk and chair—at the very least, not expected to sit on the floor. The dogs were allowed to sit on the furniture here. Audrey resumed her language skills being in the office and knowing the full dog she knew herself and others to be had to be suppressed in the business setting. She put aside the urge to bark and became the panting self you to be in an office. Walking alongside her boss, Samuel, to the copy machine, she treaded at his side looking up at him and “Yesing,” “Noing” and laughing with the ends of her dress swaying slightly from side to side. “Oh, that’s funny!” she said.

Samuel didn’t look down too often in her direction; he would look down, give her an instruction and then look ahead again. “Oh, yeah, before I forget, I need you to send me a list of the people you invited to the meeting next week.” Audrey then said “sure,” and as if being unhooked, turned on her heel to her cubicle settling down to her chair though longing for the kind of cushiony dog bed she used to share with her Labrador growing up. Her father and the Lab, Madame, would go out for a walk in the early morning and Audrey would curl up in the dog bed fully asleep again by the time they returned. In her cubicle, Audrey would bunch up one of the pashminas she kept in her desk drawer, make a pillow out of it and curl up under the desk for a nap once in a while. Her cubicle was bound by the wall, so since people could only pass by in front the cubicle rather than behind, she couldn’t be seen under there. People would peep into the cubicle, and not seeing her, assume she had just stepped away from her desk for lunch or a bathroom break.

It was a fire drill day so Audrey and her co-workers were instructed to wait for the bells and then make their way to the top of the staircase at the nearest exit. They were instructed to wait there quietly, listen to the fire marshal’s commands and then think about what they would do in a real fire.  They were told there would be an orange flag to follow as they made their way down the sidewalk to their pre-planned meet-up posts.  “I can’t remember, who are we following today?” Gilbert, one of Audrey’s co-workers, asked as they headed to the exit. He circled her and then bobbed his head forward in the general direction he thought they should go. “Beats me,” said Audrey. “I’m just following all these people. Who knows? When it’s a real fire you know no one will know where to go anyway, right? I papered over my bathroom mirror this morning with dog pictures I cut out of magazines because I was so bored,” she said. Gilbert sniffed critically. “Okaayy,” he said in that drawn out way people do to signify that they think something you’ve said is too weird to consider. “Yeah, I just wanted to see dogs instead of myself all the time.” Gilbert gave no response to this; he just kept motioning with his head nodding in the direction of the exit. Everyone stood up to listen to the fire marshal, but Audrey decided to sit on top of a nearby table. People stared as if there were a rule about not sitting on tables in the workplace. “But I even sit Agatha and Sydney in dining room chairs sometimes,” she thought to herself. People snickered while the fire marshal spoke but Audrey kept her eyes trained on feet, inspecting and considering shoes and shoelaces. She saw half-painted toenails sticking out of flip flops, many pairs of sneakers and the khaki men with their loafers so stiff they turned up at the toe. “Familiarize yourself with your exit plan,” the fire marshal said. “You’d be surprised. You see this area everyday, but when it’s filled with smoke and the alarms are going off, and you have an emergency on your hands, how hard it can be. Everything looks different in that situation. Close your eyes sometime and practice making it from your desk to the exit.”

Audrey stifled her laugh and it ended up coming out like a short whiney bark. She thought that she’d probably get hurt tripping blindfolded before she would ever get injured in a fire. She wondered if she could just follow the scent of the janitors’ heavily perfumed aftershave to find her way out, or the smell of the hair gel of one of the men who sat near her, or maybe the scent of printer toner from the printer near the exit. Wherever Audrey went, she trailed and was followed by the scent of other humans and their vices. She put her hand up to cover her nose sometimes at lunch to avoid the gassy smell of pungent vegetables (was broccoli a vice?) and fried fish and tried to avoid the antiseptic of the early morning that was in the hallways and especially in the bathroom. “I’d prefer an un-sanitized morning for once,” she thought to herself as the fire drill gathering dispersed, passing by the bathroom and kitchen.

Here off-the-leash time was hours away—if such a time ever existed—so Audrey tried to concentrate on her work retrieving files and facts of data to fill in a graph relating to the salaries of different professions. It was a reflexive two-part routine. First she would look up the profession on the US Labor Department’s web site and then she would fill in the graph. Her eyes sometimes mixed up which salaries should go in which rows, and suddenly a waiter had an annual salary of $120,000 and a financial advisor earned $25,000. She didn’t think it mattered that much because she couldn’t imagine ever consulting a graph before making a decision. She liked to bound after her balls. Audrey decided then to put away the graph and begin striding back and forth the length of the office. She carried a notebook and pen with her so anyone watching would just assume she was late for a meeting. She couldn’t go directly back and forth in a straight line because then everyone’s strangeness alert would go up, so she strode first in a straight line to the back of the office and then circled along the perimeter. She stopped at Herman Welker’s desk. Herman had a lazy eye and wore a dress shirt and tie everyday with a pair of jeans. Nobody else in the office wore a dress shirt and tie, but despite his jeans, he felt the need to do it for some reason. “Herman, do you have anything I could chew on?” she asked. “I’m just dying for some gum or one of those chewy candies.”  Herman looked at Audrey and smiled eyeing her up and down and adjusting his tie. “Nope, sorry, nothing today. Why don’t you just go to the vending machine?” Audrey considered this but then decided she didn’t want to pay for something to sink her teeth into. She wanted to be given it as a gift or reward. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was just hoping someone would happen to have something like that in one of their desk drawers.”

Audrey retreated to her desk and sat down to the chiming bell that signaled new e-mail in her inbox: “Calabaster Industries is pleased to announce its partnership with Employment Mile Ltd., suppliers of employment and job aids and related tools,” the memo read. “Leveraging the information databases of Calabaster with the resources of Employment Mile will give customers of both companies unparalleled service.” So, her company had been acquired. The memo didn’t say anything about the employees of the two companies, but as Audrey’s company was the one that had been purchased, her professional fate was not so different from a dog at the shelter waiting to be adopted. Who knows if you’ll be taken, and if you’re taken, who knows how you’ll be treated? Once taken, what kinds of new tricks will you have to learn and what new rules will the new owner’s house require?  Audrey circled around her cubicle shuffling paperclips, pens and pushpins, rearranging all the contents of the wraparound desk that created a nearly half-circle around her. She emptied boxes of paperclips and put the pushpins inside instead and dusted off the surface dipping a Kleenex into an old bottle of water.

Just then Ben, Audrey’s boss, walked up with his clipboard and sat in her cubicle’s spare chair. He was one of those usually happy types because he was too shallow to feel too much of anything so the default was happiness. He was the ultimate dog. “What do you think?” he said waving a printed out sheet with the memo on it. “What do you think? Could be good for us—more money now to position ourselves in the market.” Audrey just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it seems like it could be a help.” She then tried to block Ben out fixing her eyes again to the computer screen and glancing back at him just every now and then, smiling, hoping he would take the hint and move on. “You know we’ll have to watch ourselves,” he said. “It isn’t definite yet, but it looks like all communications with outside groups will go through a review process,” Ben said.  He took out a manual that had been shipped to him via overnight delivery. The cover said “Indices of Recommendation and Approval: Your Guide to Submission.”  Audrey laughed and pointed. “What’s that? Do we really have to use it?” Ben also laughed but instead of tossing it in her cubicle’s trash bin, he opened it up and scanned a few pages with his index finger. “Our use of brand names,” he said seriously. “We need to start adding trademarks and when we make a mention of our company we have to use the tagline—every time—“The Last Word in Employment and Labor News.” Audrey tried to ignore him, typing even as he was talking. “That’s a little shallow and clichéd, don’t you think?” she asked. “We’re aligning our messaging,” he said, “so we can have cohesion and work as a team.”

Audrey paused in her typing, tuning Ben out though nodding and smiling for the sake of avoiding an argument. But in her mind she saw a dog sled like the kind that race in Alaska and herself as one of the dogs in the “team.”  She wondered if Ben realized that he wasn’t one of the mushers leading the sled but one of the dogs. The sad part was she didn’t doubt the sled would get to where the new parent company wanted it to go, but that she wouldn’t like that destination. But what else could she do but move her paws when the musher called? There may not be another “team” to be leashed to for a while, and didn’t she need to be leashed to somebody’s sled?  The thought of wandering off in the snow with her little paw prints covered over fast by fresh powder made her shiver.  “Oh, Ben, she said, “I think I feel like a Husky dog today.” Ben laughed and walked off. “Well, then,” he said.

Audrey returned to her labor statistics, placing numbers in columns and rows and being pretty sure she was transposing figures here and there, and not caring. She could always claim ignorance if anyone asked. The truth was she believed nobody read the articles and charts about labor news that she put together. Who cares how many dentists there are and how much money they make on average, anyway? If you want to be a dentist, be a dentist. Or if you want to be a pastry chef, just be a pastry chef. If you were interested in such a specialty, would you really all of a sudden change your mind if you found out too many dentists were entering the marketplace or that dentists were making a few thousand less this year versus last year?  Then Audrey remembered that Travers Pimbers would be in tomorrow and he liked to review her charts. The good part was with the merger, he may use up most of his time in the office reviewing can and can’ts of the submission guide. The Pimbers Roundtable would convene. That’s what Audrey called the meetings in which Travers sat at the center of the table and pointed to each person to speak with his laser light pen—one of those pens that have a light at the tip. He wielded it like a sword and never smiled. Everyone usually kept silent until Travers pointed at them with the light and then, instead of just saying whatever it was they were thinking of, they always got a worried look on their face like a game show contestant who’s been stumped with an enormous prize at stake–or at least embarrassment in front of the audience. Lean deli meats like turkey and wrap sandwiches would be ordered along with chocolate chip cookies matching the exact number of people expected at the meeting. Audrey brought a pen and paper to these meetings but primarily to have something to twittle in her hand and to draw with in case she felt like doodling.  She would discuss the merger, the guide to submission and the roundtable with Agatha and Sydney, the dogs, that night.

The apartment was in its usual disarray thanks to Agatha’s and Sydney’s housekeeping. Once again the refrigerator had somehow been pried open and the cereal and cracker boxes Audrey kept in there to keep away from the roaches were lying on the floor with some of the boxes’ contents spilled out. Luckily, the only perishable food in the refrigerator was yogurt, which usually withstood being unrefrigerated for several hours. “Agatha and Sydney, how could you do this to me again? After I work so hard?” Audrey said to the dogs who galloped back and forth the length of the apartment in their happiness to have her home. “And what are you so happy about? Is it just me?” Agatha jumped up on her hind legs leaning her paws against Audrey’s stomach and Sydney circled around her panting, tail wagging vigorously. “Happy, happy, happy,” Audrey said. “You’re like some people—always happy for some reason.”

As happy as the dogs were, they did follow a guide for submission and did wait for approval before moving forward. Like many dogs, they sought to please their owner and would often look back at Audrey with a cocked head when she looked at them angrily. They learned that she didn’t like when they hovered around the refrigerator, so they waited now a few feet away, patiently sitting with their heads angled up, noses in the air twitching. Audrey handed them their biscuits as a reward and considered how she and her co-workers would hover near the conference rooms during meetings attempting to overhear. They were never given an incentive to do otherwise so they just hung out at the closed doors waiting for a word about their fate to trickle out. Actually, just the opposite, the employees were motivated to hang around the door to the conference room like cats on a dock waiting for the fishermen to come in. There was always hope that the lack of intelligence would be relieved with left over bagels or maybe a wrap sandwich or Greek salad. The dogs chomped on their biscuits and Audrey planned out in her mind where she would be best situated at the conference room table for first access to the bagels. She realized it would be smarter to focus on preparing information Travers Pimbers might be interested in, but she preferred to focus on bagels, so like any dog, that’s what she did.

Travers Pimbers in his pink dress shirt and khaki pants (his attempt to look downtown NYC hip) stood at the screen at the front of the room pointing at the projection of a laptop computer screen. Audrey looked at the ceiling and at the yellow of the girl’s sundress sitting across from her; she kept her eyes on various fixed points like a ballerina spinning so she wouldn’t become dizzy or lose balance. “The alignment of our core values in everything we do is central to becoming the kind of company our customers need us to be,” said Travers rotating his head and stopping at each rung in the turning of his neck. The slow, stilted way he turned his neck reminded Audrey of opening a child proof bottle of pills—you could almost hear his neck cracking stiffly as he slowly turned it. “That core value alignment is at the heart of our new and vigorous review process. It is our way of saying to customers we hear you and are communicating a unified message,” he said. Audrey reached for a bagel and concentrated on the alignment of the cream cheese, attempting to have an equal distribution across the two halves of the bagels.

The question was why more time wasn’t taken to provide a more fulfilling selection of bagels—or any selection at all. “You know, they make all sorts of bagels these days—blueberry, everything, salt, onion, egg, whatever you can think of. Why always plain bagels?”

“It’s a simple process, really,” Travers continued. “An 11-part approval that aligns our culture. You just begin the process with a self-review first, a critical look at your own communications.” Audrey savored the bagel as best as she could making her eyes go out of focus to avoid the clocks on the walls. The room had been decorated with clocks so there was a clock on every wall surrounding the table; a clock that was ordinary on one wall; another with a Chinese dragon painted on it and the times of all the major Asian countries and then an oversize clock with neon hands and then a clock that told the minutes and hours in tasks accomplished. It could be marked up and erased so the current top projects in the company could be listed on it. With the merger in full swing, the clock was consumed with alignments—“alignment of central and peripheral values, alignment of cross-functional role development, alignment of critical decision-making, alignment of competitive advantage.” A cuckoo clock with a little bird that charged out at intervals would be a welcome addition to the room, Audrey thought to herself. Something to shake up line after line of pre-planning.

Travers was walking around the conference table now smiling and pointing at people with his laser pen. “And Louis here knows just what I mean when I talk about alignment of strategy. Last quarter his group took the poly bag program for our Labor Monthly and added coupons for employment agencies. We did a public service there and provided an additional stream of revenue for a new advertiser. Why don’t you tell us about that, Lou?” Lou smiled and nodded and then glanced around the table. “Yes, that’s true. It has been a real profit center for us, taking advantage of a lot of synergies,” Lou said. There was a pause in which Lou cleared his throat repetitively, looked around the room making eye contact, nodded and smiled. “Yes, we’re proud of our accomplishments.” Travers also smiled, looked around the room and patted Lou on the shoulder. “Alignment of synergies—that’s what it’s all about.”

Audrey felt out of alignment with the cream cheese slopping over the side of her bagel onto the conference room table. She had over-spread, she supposed. “By the way, I don’t buy into the idea that the review process is too comprehensive,” Travers said. “We have to have process.”  The process of eating an overflowing bagel without getting your work clothes dirty in the middle of a process discussion at a “roundtable” in a conference room lined with clocks is hard. For one thing you have to pretend like you’re listening and care about the process being described, so you nod, and then you have to make sure each bite doesn’t dribble cream cheese on your buttons because it’s one thing to wipe cream cheese off a collar or shirt or dress, but another to try to ease it out of the minute crevices of a button. And then every so often you have to (painfully) put down the overflowing bagel and pretend to take notes, knowing all along you just plan to sketch a chain of hearts and maybe some concentric boxes. “Yeah, that’s true,” Audrey said smiling and nodding at Travers and making eye contact with everyone around the table. “That’s a good point. Process is a cornerstone for us.”

Travers smiled, and Audrey thought, winked at her, and tapped the projection screen with his pen. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Audrey. Because process is what we’re getting. At the beginning of every month, or I should say the first Wednesday of every month, I will ask each of you to submit to me 150-word descriptions of all of your current projects including when your manager asked you to deliver them completed and when you estimate they will really be done. You will log into our online portal’s Base Camp at the start of your day and tell us how close you are to getting to the last first Wednesday-of-the-month’s goals.”

Audrey remembered as she polished off the remnants of the bagel that she was trying a new training technique with Sydney and Agatha. She tried to focus on dog faces and away from Base Camp.  Audrey was in the process of training them to go back to their dog beds on command and could get Sydney and Agatha to bring her their toys and then deposit them in front of their dog beds. “Show me your toys,” she would say and the dogs would scamper off and bring back two toys at a time in their mouth. She wanted the dogs to be able to bring her the toys in a particular order, but they weren’t able to do that yet for some reason. Audrey wondered if it was a task beyond their abilities or if they just didn’t feel like it. She had offered dog biscuits as an incentive, but that didn’t do the trick so she was now sprinkling doggie treats in a circular path from their toy basket to the center of the kitchen hoping, at the very least, to be able to determine the path they took when delivering the toys. “Why can’t you bring them to me in order?” she would ask the dogs looking at her with cocked heads.

Travers picked up about five plastic folders in colors ranging from red to yellow to blue and began explaining their uses. “The orange is for the monthly review of facts obtained, the blue is for facts reviewed, stage 1, the yellow is for facts double-checked, stage 2, the green is for cross check of facts via peer review, the purple is for supervisor approval step 1 and the clear folder is the all-clear sign, so to speak, that your supervisor has looked over the document, signed it and is ready for it to be released. We still want you to e-mail and electronically register all projects in Base Camp but the plastic folders offers the added security that should our electronic systems fail, the approval process will continue undamaged,” he said.  Travers then took out his cell phone and opened up one of the folders to a dummy page and took a photo of it. “And this is the way you should document each folder’s contents before it leaves your hands to protect yourself,” he suggested. “This isn’t required, but I strongly encourage you do it for your own protection.”

The meeting over, Audrey kept the dogs in mind as she walked back to her cubicle including the indoor pad she had bought to guard against accidents. She was slowly training Sydney and Agatha to use the pad instead of the floor if she were late getting home to walk them. They didn’t seem to mind having a part of their territory segmented off and designated. Audrey noticed on her walk back to her corner buffeted by window and collapsible wall that multicolored bins had been erected throughout the office. They were drop-boxes for each step of the new process. Audrey couldn’t imagine the patience that would be required to complete each step in the process before finishing a task—the tediousness she anticipated was immobilizing. Sydney and Agatha, her dogs, tromping around the apartment extending paws onto the counter against her wishes, came into her mind and how their torsos jumped upward when they were excited about a person whose footsteps they recognized.  They abided by her rules but consistently leaped past the threshold as soon as she opened the door. Audrey began rolling through the photos of the dogs on her phone as she settled into her corner cube. Agatha shoving a ball at the feet of a passerby on the sidewalk; Sydney with her paws up against the window of a restaurant; Agatha and Sydney rolling around in the grass chomping on a half-deflated soccer ball; Sydney edging away when it was time to put her leash back on to leave the park.  Audrey then sent the photos to her work e-mail inbox. The dogs galloping and raising paws might be useful somehow at the office, she thought to herself. It was a process, alright, but a process featuring the stages of chaos or passionate existence in place of a series of checkpoints. It was the stages of the dogs’ happiness. Rather than working toward approval, they just appeared to be enjoying themselves.

The assignments with spreadsheets and all the quadrants Audrey had to divide her thoughts and work into were tiring. It felt like her brain had been chopped up into a hopscotch course and the ideas that used to be fluid were jumping from neural box to box, each box numbered rather than pictured. The dogs, paws and nose first in front of her, were tapping at those numbered blocks like they would to be let back into the apartment on a cold day. At the office, these spreadsheets did nothing for her, and at home, and she didn’t care to stay longer in the apartment—she wasn’t sure the dogs liked it.  It wasn’t that she wanted to throw away her job, but that she was tired of presenting consecutive spreadsheets. So, an exchange of canine reflections on numbers and boxes was in order. If she lost her job, she and the dogs could maybe move to Montana or some other place where real estate was cheap and start an artist’s colony.

Agatha baring her teeth in her trained “smile” pose: “Agatha, smile, smile, Agatha,” and up and back would go the big dog gums and what you might call a toothy grin would emerge. That image would go in the first folder with an accompanying digital file, just as Travers recommended. Sydney drooling over her half-deflated soccer ball was fit for the second folder and another of Sydney barking a squirrel up a tree was suitable for number three. Agatha slinking away from the table with a pot roast shank in her mouth was the fourth folder’s contents. Now would come the vast approval process—to approve an animal stealing the main course, an animal scaring a rodent up a tree, a drooling tongue-lolling-out animal clinging to a dysfunctional toy. And so many checkpoints for animals caught in the act, red-pawed!

Luckily, Ben, Audrey’s boss, enjoyed critiquing documents, but she suspected he didn’t read anything deep enough to process the information. So he might critique how the papers were placed in the folder or the font that was used to label each dog photo, but he probably would unthinkingly pass it up the chain of approvals. “You really want to present the material so you can see everything at a glance,” Ben said thumbing through the dogs-in-action. “Is there a way to illustrate the key points so the reader doesn’t have to search for it? Two or three seconds is all we get today to make our points—that’s all the modern reader gives us. The reader today really needs everything at a glance.”

Audrey smiled and nodded her head. “Yes, at a glance is really important. I see what you mean. Everything right away,” she said nodding and smiling wider.

“Absolute necessity for the reader today,” Ben said. “And I would align the margins of type with your descriptions of the graphics.”

“OK, sounds good,” Audrey said in her automaton task management voice. She went back to her desk and over the next hour aligned the margins and created a chart under each picture to illustrate for the reader “at a glance” what the dogs were doing. In the picture of Agatha pulling a hunk of meat off the table, Audrey illustrated with a pie chart that showed a quarter of the meal going to the dog and the rest to be shared by the human diners. Sydney chomping down on her half-deflated soccer ball was fit for a bar chart with the level of chomp measured by a blue bar while the level of soccer ball deflation was marked by a red bar.

Next stop on the road to approval was Sandra Davens, the newly appointed head of departmental reviews. Ben liked the “at a glance” charts, so after he initialed the corporate dogs montage, Audrey rounded a few cubicle corners to Sandra who sat with her thin back to the window. She had some sort of condition it was tacitly understood nobody was allowed to ask her about. She was only in her 50s, but her back was slightly hunched, her legs misshapen and her fingers crooked. Sandra smiled at Audrey. “Hi Audrey, what’s up?” she said. She was sympathetic toward the younger women in the office luckily. “Not much; just moving dogs around,” Audrey said. Sandra didn’t smile; she just cocked her head like one of the dogs staring at squirrels against the living room window. “I mean I have these documents for your review,” Audrey clarified. Sandra took a few minutes and quickly scanned over the dogged folders. “These will need to go through our legal review,” Sandra said. “We have to clarify the legal rights to the photos—even if you took them yourself—as to whether you or the company retains rights and whether we run the risk of liability for promoting the behavior depicted in the pictures—whether we would be seen as advocating anything. Anyway, there are a lot of issues. The legal review team needs to see this.” Audrey nodded solemnly and retreated again to the cornered cubicle.

The legal review, which returned with its requested revisions a week later, asked that a disclaimer be put at the bottom of the page stating that the company did not necessarily endorse or encourage any of the behavior seen in the photos. The review team also informed Audrey that the photos would become the property of the company once the document was distributed under the corporate name.

Next came the marketing review in which the dogs-in-action would be subject to a process of deciding whether they fit the company’s brand message. What would a dog slyly hauling off a hunk of someone else’s dinner say about a company, anyway?  “I think it would be a good idea to crop the table out of the photo so the dog is just carrying the meat rather than having the appearance of stealing it off the table,” Carole Duckly of Marketing said. “And I think you should minimize the teeth,” Carole said of the photo of Agatha grinning.

Minimizing the teeth and hiding the taking of the meat from a table not the dog’s own was fairly easy. Audrey laughed to herself as she did it, actually, not caring finally about the outcome of the review. There had always been a review process but this newly expanded review was just too much to be serious about. The reviewed documents in edited and redacted order, Audrey placed them again in the plastic colored folders. The next steps of the review would be at the executive level and wouldn’t involve her unless there was a significant problem. Would corporate releases to the public that consisted entirely of dog pictures be considered a significant problem?

No one seemed concerned about the dogs. Audrey didn’t hear anything for at least a few weeks and when she did get word, it was only to note that she had violated the review instructions by using a type font that was larger than recommended—in violation of the Go-Green initiative to use less paper by using a small type font that takes up less space.

One day as Audrey labored over whether it would be M&Ms, peanut M&Ms, M&M trail mix or a trip down the street for vanilla yogurt with miniature M&Ms, Travers came up from behind. “I saw the dogs this morning,” he said to her chuckling. “Did you see the dogs?” Audrey thought for a moment wondering if he was talking about her special project. “What dogs?” she asked.

Travers turned around and shook his finger wrapped around his laser pen at the office’s back window. There’s a dog show today down the street. It’s part of the circuit that eventually leads to Westminster, I believe.”

Audrey smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I think you may be right. It’s the season of the dogs, I guess.”

Travers put a hand on Audrey’s arm and leaned toward her. “Just between the two of us, I’m thinking of getting a puppy.” He said it in a way that conveyed a deep sense of shame or guilt or maybe just embarrassment. As if you were confessing to not being able to resist a slice of cake or a purchase you couldn’t afford or a thought that was elicit. “There’s just something about them, I’m not sure what—I don’t know, it’s like the way they run off-leash in the park, you know, in the off-leash-appropriate hours, of course,” he said. “I wanted to ask you, do you know anything about dogs?”

Audrey laughed thinking of her recent submission to the internal review process. “Well, not much, but I have a couple of dogs myself.” Travers swung back and forth from the heel of his shoe to the ball of his foot. “Really! I didn’t know that. What kinds?”

“Oh, just an Australian Shepherd and a mutt I got at the shelter,” Audrey said. “I love them—they’re so boundless.”

Travers cocked his head and gave a half smile. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. What did you do about obedience training? How do you get them to not jump on things and bark inside the apartment?”

“Oh, I don’t bother—they jump, they bark, they steal things off the table,” she said laughing. “They have the run of the apartment. You know, I used to try, but it’s useless to try to get them to do what they’re not in the mood to do. What they want to do seeps out eventually. It’s bad enough being shut up in a house or apartment most of the day.”

“Not mine,” Travers said. “I’ve already looked into it. Every Saturday afternoon there’s a dog school that meets on the Great Lawn in Central Park. I’ve read a lot of good reviews about it. It’s supposed to work. I’m looking for a breeder now but I’ve already signed up for the school. You have to—months in advance—there’s a six-month waiting list, you know.”

“There are books, too,” said Audrey. “A lot on reward and punishment systems. You should start stocking up on dog biscuits—especially the ones with bacon inside. You can get dogs to do all sorts of stuff for bacon.”

You could see Traver’s by-color-organized plastic covered folders filled with dog training tips and classifications as he spoke. “There’s a lot to learn,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I wouldn’t turn a dog into a big production if I were you,” Audrey offered.

“You, see, the way I look at it, the training of a dog is a process with steps to follow, Travers said. “You have to have process.”

He smiled, nodded (when Audrey looked at him unresponsive) and walked with his scissor-like legs back to his office.

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Chrysanthemums

flowersI set aside the yellow chrysanthemums and wondered about the oranges, reds and purples. They were arranged one on each step to our house and I thought the colors should be coordinated like an outfit of clothing. Greg, my housemate, didn’t like the care I took with the chrysanthemums every year because he considered them out-of-season flowers—because they were flowers that bloomed in fall rather than in spring or summer. “What are you doing?” he would snap at me. “Didn’t you do enough gardening this summer?”

He didn’t appreciate the full growing season, thinking it should be confined to April or May through the beginning of September and then be done. I tried also explaining crocuses to him, which he saw himself every year in March but dismissed as weeds. He was on the fence about daffodils.

So, while he fixated on changing all our light bulbs to ones he called “energy efficient,” which I called less flattering and more garish, I arranged the chrysanthemums wondering how best to show them off.

Just as I decided to place the purple up top, then the orange and then maybe the bluish followed by the pink and yellow, Greg appeared at the top of the stone steps in a t-shirt and track pants. I always wondered why he didn’t just wear jeans. Was it to give the impression that he was fitter than he really was?  He wasn’t fat, but maybe he liked people thinking he was either about to leave for the gym or just back from a rough workout. He blamed me for liking Hershey bars better than gyms, though I have no idea why. I wasn’t fat either—and with much less effort than he exerted. Why blame me for having a smarter way of living?

“The chrysanthemums again?” he said. “I thought you were done with those and were going to help me change out the light bulbs.”

“I don’t like the light bulbs you bought—and I don’t care about whether they’re better for the environment or more economical. I think the lighting tones they give off are less pleasant than the old bulbs. So, since you’re taking away a little beauty from my life I thought I would concentrate on the beauty I still have control over.”

When I agreed to be Greg’s housemate a few years ago I had no idea he thought efficiency was a good idea over comfort and that he wasn’t tuned into daffodils, tulips, peonies, lilacs, lilies, roses and, especially, chrysanthemums. The whole season built up to them and they were such a soft-spoken, unostentatious, flower. I appreciated that they didn’t take advantage of their end-of-season status to flaunt themselves like a rose. They were outside nearly every shop door and many houses by the middle of October, but they weren’t glamorous. Nobody chooses chrysanthemums for their wedding reception.

Greg laughed and began pointing at dandelions left over from the summer. “What about those?  How do weeds fit into the ‘beauty?’” He liked to look me up and down while he talked, but not in an admiring way—more like an insurance rep who visits a house after a disaster and eyes everything up and down affixing costs here and there.

“Actually, I don’t consider dandelions weeds. I always thought they were misclassified,” I said.

He snickered but I pretended to ignore him and just smiled in return. It was unfortunate that three years after agreeing to share the house (he the first floor; I the second with shared access to the kitchen, living room, garage and outdoor spaces) we still lived alongside one another. I commiserated with the dandelions. They were called weeds because they found themselves growing on the outskirts of someone’s doorstep. They were like flowers except nobody planned for them. My big hope was Greg’s love of adhering to society-approved timelines and the fact that he just turned 36 would mean he’d finally propose to his girlfriend and move out.

“How’s it going with Stephanie?” I said. “If you don’t speed it up and claim her she’ll find somebody else.”

“I don’t know—we’ll see. I’m thinking about it.”

It wasn’t like he was a treasure—balding with glasses and on the short side—so I couldn’t imagine what was keeping him from asking his kind, decently attractive (though admittedly not beautiful) girlfriend to marry him. It’s not like he had a line of girls waiting to go out with him.

“If you think about it for too long, she’ll find somebody else,” I snapped.

He laughed as if to say he didn’t care, and walked back into the house leaving me with my chrysanthemum companions. Stephanie would be over later so I thought I might plant a seed in her mind about leaving him. His lack of appreciation of chrysanthemums and dandelions and the whole growth cycle indicted him as a person who didn’t appreciate wildlife and nature. Did such a person deserve to be given a mate and probably children? That would put him fully in synch with the natural cycle of life, death and reproduction.  He didn’t recognize the beauty of the natural world, so was that something he deserved?

On the other hand, a conventional thinker like that could hope for nothing more than marriage. I imagined marriage as a locked tree house from the male perspective. The roaming bird, haphazardly dropping seeds here and there, seemed the true male mentality. If you have that mindset, what could be worse than being tied down to one place, one person, one garden?

As I heard Greg pattering around the kitchen opening his energy drink-in-a-can, I wondered if the chrysanthemums regretted their pots. It wasn’t like I put them there—I purchased the chrysanthemums already in their golden brass-looking pots. But maybe energy-wise they counted the pots against me. I also wondered whether I was receiving bad energy from the chrysanthemums for not planting them myself—enjoying them without having grown them.

The chrysanthemums only had about three weeks left before the first serious frost would come and shrivel them up, so I thought the right color arrangement was important—like a dying person dressing up to her best since she would want to look good for whatever time she had left.

“I thought you were going to dust,” Greg yelled from the kitchen.

“The chrysanthemums are more important, and I don’t have time to do both,” I said.  “I suppose when this latest blooming season is over, I’ll have no excuse so I’ll have to take care of the dust so it doesn’t interfere with your energy drink regimen.”

“I’m allergic to dust,” he said sniffling dramatically enough that you could almost hear the phlegm going down his throat. “It makes me sick.”

I laughed not to be spiteful but because I really thought it was funny that he was that weak and prissy-ish that he couldn’t stand a little dust. And that he was so petty that he wouldn’t then just pitch in and take care of it himself. When we first became housemates we decided on a division of household chores. Dusting was in my column. He would rather sniffle and choke on his own phlegm than deviate from our assignments.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” I said. “It’s awful not to feel well, isn’t it? I think I’d like to spend more time with the chrysanthemums. I’ll let you know when Stephanie gets here.” His girlfriend was due to arrive in the next hour or so for their weekly Saturday night date.

Stephanie usually wore the same thing every Saturday—tight skinny jeans with an animal print top of some kind. She was a girl who loved efficiency and since she liked animal prints she decided her days-off outfits should be comprised of nothing but designer skinny jeans, various animal print tops—leopard, zebra, giraffe, even cow—paired with a selection of $400+ designer high heels. She said it simplified her life to have this animal print-skinny jean-designer shoe algorithm that she could just plug in to quickly put together an outfit for her leisure hours. Her work hours—as a financial consultant—were spent in pants suits in various colors—red, navy blue, pink, even purplish—with the same high heels she wore during her leisure hours and a variety of decorative silk scarves (paisley, floral, striped, collage, etc.). Her goal was to eliminate the need to think about anything other than what she considered the substance of her days—her work and her quest to get married by the age of 30. She had latched onto Greg because, because, because—well, I’m not sure. I suppose because he was her romantic equivalent of what college seniors call the “safety school,” meaning a man who fit the general profile she was looking for, and was acceptable even if he wasn’t her first choice, or even her second or third choice. Who had time for all that choosiness anyway?

The Chrysanthemums’ petals retained their color. Until they shriveled up after the first deep frost, they would keep it pretty well. At that point, you could still see their colors but their ends would be tinged with brown. It was mid-October, so I thought they might have another month. After the shriveling would come the potpourri stage, when I would collect whatever was left of the colorful petals and throw them in with other petals I had collected from earlier blooming cycles of the year and add pine chips.

Just then I heard Stephanie’s SUV coming up our gravel driveway. She was driving the way she usually did—tentatively. She was going at exactly a mid-range speed for driveway travel, careful not to so much as skim the grass at the perimeter of the gravel. It was a snow leopard day as she emerged from the car with the white and black pattern of the cardigan offset by a red-pink silk scarf and silver stiletto heels beneath her weekend skinny jeans. As she came closer to where I stood on the cement steps, I pretended to be paying most of my attention to the chrysanthemums. I hated that long interlude between the time you see someone walking toward you from far away and when they get to within the zone of hearing and communicating right in front of you. I never know if I’m supposed to wave at them from afar and then continue to stare at them smiling and seeming interested or whether I’m supposed to smile, nod and ignore. So, I just pretended to labor over chrysanthemum decision-making until I heard her heels click close enough for us to talk.

“Hi!  How’s it going?” Stephanie said as she made her way to my chrysanthemums on the steps and me hovering over them. “Oh, hi there, Stephanie! I like that you’re a snow leopard today. Gold and black leopards get all the attention. It’s time the snow leopard had his day.”

Stephanie laughed, but mostly just to be polite. Greg told me that she thought I was strange and didn’t get my humor. I didn’t worry much about that because I couldn’t bear to make small talk. So, I just tried to be nice, but as myself rather than as a person she wouldn’t find strange.

“Is Greg around?” she said. “I’m a little earlier than usual so I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, he’s brooding over his energy drink because he’s angry that I’ve neglected my dusting duties in favor of the chrysanthemum tending and color coordination you see I’m involved with. I guess that’s something to look forward to—the luxury of staying on top of the dust if the two of you eventually move in together.”

Stephanie laughed again and looked past me into the house. “Yeah, I guess I’m kind of a neat freak. I thought the two of you had worked out a shared housekeeping schedule for the common areas,” she said.

“We did, but unlike you, I don’t owe him anything so if I happen to rather spend time with chrysanthemums than with a dusting rag or a sponge, that’s what I do,” I pointed out, smiling proudly. I got lonely sometimes but liked that I wasn’t beholden to anyone except the gardens I created.

Stephanie continued her perfunctory social laughter. “It’s not that bad. I like to keep things tidy, too, so I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t do on my own.”

“I guess you could say the two of you came together over your shared love of the tidy,” I said. I looked at her and giggled and then stooped over the crysanthemums again tinkering with the arrangement of colors, wanting each color to set off perfectly both the color above and below it. I knew they were the last of the season’s flowers, so I wanted to make the most of them. I kept thinking how awful it would be to be a crystanthemum and have colors that didn’t suit me surrounding my pot on all sides.

“Yep, I guess so,” she said. “You know, I think I’m going to go in if you don’t mind and see if I can find Greg.”

“Sure, maybe you can help him with his energy drink,” I said. The chrysanthemums seemed to be aligned properly now color-wise, so I started futzing with each of the flowers in each of the vases. I didn’t want any to be twisted, with chrysanthemum stems tangled. Integrity of the stems was important to me, with each stem set apart from the others even as they all shared the same pot and the same colors within that pot.

I thought maybe each pot of flowers would last longer if the bounty were even side-to-side rather than lopsided, though I knew there was no scientific evidence to back that up. One idea I had that I thought I might follow through with that afternoon was mixing colors within the same pot. So, instead of having orange crysanthemums on the top step, followed by purple, then blue, then pink, I would bleed some orange into the purple pot and some purple into the blue pot and some blue into the pink pot, and then mix things up even further by, say, taking some blue and putting it in the orange pot along with the orange and purple and just keep mixing everything up. But to do that I would have to start ripping up the stems from the roots and turning the pots into vases rather than planters.

“I think you can still go out without your gray pants,” I heard Stephanie say from the kitchen. The screen door was drawn to take advantage of the mild autumn day, so it was perfect for eavesdropping, or impossible to escape private noise, depending on how you looked at it.

“Well, the only other pair of pants I have that’s clean are my jeans, and I don’t feel comfortable going to that restaurant in jeans,” Greg said.

“I’m in jeans,” Stephanie pointed out, laughing. “What difference does it make?”

“Yeah, but it’s different—women can get away with it. Besides, those are designer jeans. Mine are working-in-the-garage jeans.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Stephanie said. “Of course you just don’t want to go. It’s like last year when you said you couldn’t go to church because you didn’t have the right kind of dress pants, and that you didn’t want buy cheap dress pants and so you wanted to wait until you got your end-of-the-year bonus to splurge on a designer suit. The end of the year came and you never got the suit and finally admitted that you just didn’t want to go. If you don’t like the places we go, why don’t you just say so?”

“I like the places we go—I’m just not able to dress for those places tonight.”

Luckily, the chrysanthemums were always dressed appropriately, so I was glad I didn’t have to worry about their wardrobes. I had friends who fretted about what they would wear, but what do you do with a man who uses wardrobe deficiencies as an excuse to get out of things you feel like doing? I admired the chrysanthemums’ colors. They only had one season but they always were attired perfectly. Their colors went well with the oranges, reds, yellows and the remaining greens of mid-October and November and if the season was colder than usual and the leaves just turned brown or fell off early, the brightness of the chrysanthemums offered a colorful counterpoint. Greg, on the other hand, was Stephanie’s stripped tree—a tree that night that had lost its foliage and had nothing else charming, like, say, a fresh coat of new snow, to compensate for its barren offering.

“Oh, alright,” Stephanie snapped. “Just put on your jeans and we’ll figure out someplace else to go.” With that she stamped outside and came to sit on the steps with me and the chrysanthemums. I decided to just admit I’d heard everything because it would be phony not to, and, plus, she knew I was right outside the screen door. And on top of that, she and Greg knew one of my favorite pastimes was eavesdropping.

“It’s hard when there’s a shortage of gray slacks, huh Stephanie?” I said hoping to make her smile, though kind of enjoying their argument.

“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling and giving one of her social laughs. “He’s absolutely ridiculous!  If doesn’t want to go someplace why doesn’t he just say so?”

“That’s Greg for you,” I said. “I don’t even like sharing a kitchen, dining room and livingroom with him, so I can’t imagine spending a life with him. I shouldn’t say this, of course, but to be entirely honest—and I’ve told him this directly already—I think he’s awful,” I said.

Stephanie grinned but didn’t bother with her social laugh this time. She was just trying to meet her age 30 deadline and time was running out. It was pretty much the same as having a week before a big splashy affair you’re obligated to attend yet have no dress or partner for. Now it was a week before the big party and she was racing around forcing herself into whatever “gowns” she could find. I would say she was at the stage where she was ready to just start dialing names out of an alumni association directory along with squeezing herself into a gown that didn’t fit, but she showed enough reservation that there seemed to be still a chance she would decide not to attend after all.

“Well not that bad,” she said staring at the orange chrysanthemums. “He can be insensitive and maybe doesn’t think as much as he should, but he’s not a bad person. Remember the starving raccoon he fed?”

I had to control myself to only chuckle at that one. Greg had discovered a skinny raccoon late one night in our driveway, so he crept into the neighbor’s driveway (a neighbor he couldn’t stand) and opened up the neighbor’s garbage can, scattering empty or half-eaten cartons of food out toward near where the raccoon was wandering so the raccoon would encamp in the neighbor’s driveway for a feast. The raccoon was still wreaking havoc on the neighbor more than six months later. I told all this to Stephanie.

“Huh, that’s strange,” Stephanie said after I told her the true story. “He told me how sad the skinny raccoon made him, and how he just wanted to do something to help. I thought maybe he was becoming more sensitive.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said. I wondered why Stephanie was so intent on the orange chrysanthemums, while she could see how I toiled to coordinate the colors on all the steps rather than fixating on one pot. If I could have pulled up the chrysanthemums by the roots without killing them, I would have interspersed the colors, cross-coloring all the pots rather than leaving each one with just one solid hue.

“I know you’re about to turn 30, but who cares? You could pass Greg by and keep on looking,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” she said, rubbing her fingers along the stems of the chrysanthemums and keeping her eyes away from me. “My mother won’t leave me alone about this. She just keeps hounding me about making plans to get married. She even roped me into asking Greg along on a cruise I was going to take alone with my her and my dad.”

“I never understood why some parents care so much about their children getting married by a certain age,” I said. “Is it because they’re worried about passing on their genes, or is it more because they’re worried their children will be misfits if they don’t get married by around 30?”

She looked at me with an annoyed expression and rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said irritably. “I think they’re just worried about me. They don’t want me to miss out on anything.”

The chrysanthemums next to us were now perfectly color coordinated and were flourishing in their individual pots. They didn’t have knowledge that it was mid-October and if they did have that knowledge I don’t think they would have done anything different. Was it because they didn’t have to worry about finding a mate, or because they had knowledge programmed into their stems that they should just grow according to their internal selves while taking whatever they could from the climate surrounding them to thrive even more?

“Too bad you can’t just be like chrysanthemums,” I said. She laughed probably thinking I was just joking. But, actually, I saw chrysanthemums as a good model for Stephanie, and especially, for her mother. They needed a reminder from beings in tune with the environment as a whole yet unworried about the growth patterns surrounding them. They grew unto themselves, not caring how I color coordinated them or whether they bloomed too late or too early this year to serve as decoration.

“You think so much of flowers and animals, but you know the only reason they don’t do the things you don’t like is because they don’t have the power of reasoning,” Stephanie said.

That was funny to me. The idea that if chrysanthemums could reason they would worry about getting invitations to cocktail parties or be consumed with worry that the right honey bees weren’t coming around or that the trees and shrubbery surrounding them weren’t pruned in a stylish way. Or, in the animal world, that my cat, Halgar, would be embarrassed because he was caught eating a cheap brand of tuna fish.

“I think the peace of chrysanthemums and other plants and animals like Halgar has more to do with a deep-seeded, intuitive synchronicity with the natural world. They’re oriented strictly toward what’s inside them and what comes naturally to them. They focus on whether they want to lie in the sun or, if they’re a flower, which direction to turn their heads to face the sun. Or they focus on whether they’re hungry or tired. It never gets beyond the primal with them, and that doesn’t make them less. It makes them more,” I said.

“I think wanting to mate and reproduce is very primal,” Stephanie pointed out.

“Well, that’s true, except you’ve said yourself that you don’t like children much and that you’re mainly concerned with your mother pressuring you.”

“I never said I don’t like children. I just said that I don’t go crazy for them and I’m not mainly concerned with my mother pressuring me. It just happens to be on my mind a lot lately,” she said.

“Well, whatever the case, I wouldn’t worry about an arbitrary deadline like age 30 if I were you—even if your mother threatens to throw you overboard on the cruise she’s forcing you to invite Greg along on.” I laughed and felt bad about it, but with the freedom of chrysanthemums before me, I found it funny that this girl sitting on the outskirts of my fall garden was consumed with deadlines related to her age and her mother’s opinion. The seasons speak for themselves and you can either tap into what grows during that particular cycle and look forward to the next growing cycle or you can glower about the flowers that either won’t grow that season or whose season has already past. In any case, it didn’t make sense to me to worry about forcing something to grow that wasn’t. If whatever you wanted wouldn’t grow, it wouldn’t grow. Forcing it would be like expecting a rose to grow in your back yard in October while overlooking the ease of chrysanthemums.

From the kitchen, just inside the screen door, we heard Greg fumbling around the cabinets, swearing to himself. Who knew making a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich could be so frustrating? His deliberation of the dress pants complete, he decided that he would have a sandwich with his energy drink to tide him over until he and Stephanie could get to a suitably casual restaurant or find a place they liked that was willing to deliver.

“I guess I better go in there and show him where you keep the extra crunchy peanut butter. It’s funny. I don’t even live here and I know how you organize your kitchen cabinets. He’s been sharing a kitchen with you for the past three years and he still can’t get it through his head,” she said irritably.

“I guess that gives you a preview of your married life,” I laughed. Stephanie didn’t seem to find that funny. Not bothering with her social laugh, she got up and turned on her designer heels to break through the peanut butter and jelly impasse.

“To the right of the refrigerator,” I heard Stephanie say. “No, not the bottom shelf, the top one. You’ve been sharing a kitchen with her for three years now, how do you not know where the peanut butter is?”

Greg laughed a little in a quick, huffy sort of way, the way a person laughs when he only finds something funny because it makes him mad or bitter. But why be bitter over elusive peanut butter?

“It’s not just the peanut butter, it’s everything,” Stephanie said. “How do you live alongside another person for years and not observe their personal habits, likes and dislikes? After three years you don’t know her any better than a person would know a passerby in an airport.“

“Are you saying I’m stupid?” he said.

“No, obviously you don’t have a mental impairment—you’re better at a lot of things than I am. But when it comes to other people, you don’t seem to retain information.”

“I retain what’s important to me,” he said. “I know how much she spends on groceries every week, picking out the stuff I tell her specifically not to. In fact, I think I’m finally going to insist that we keep separate groceries in the kitchen—maybe we’ll mark off my milk from hers; my Cheerios from hers; my butter from hers; my Palmolive from hers with stickers.”

I had to cover my mouth at that point to avoid making my eavesdropping obvious by laughing. If it weren’t for my laziness alongside my love of the garden, I really would have left our shared arrangement a long time ago. On top of that, I was hoping he was one of those people in my life who would eventually remove himself with no effort required on my part. Unfortunately, I was learning that most of the people I didn’t like in this world outlasted me. So, we were really going to have duplicates of peanut butter; duplicates of jam; duplicates of orange juice; duplicates of rye bread. We couldn’t meld so we would duplicate.

Even Stephanie laughed—and her true high-pitched rolling laugh, not her controlled mono-chuckle. “Well, I think that’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?”

“No, I think I’ve tolerated her grocery preferences over my specific requests long enough,” he said, “and I’m pissed.”

I never knew, staring at the chrysanthemums and already anticipating the spring buds (even in late October) that my choice of dishwasher detergent was so upsetting, that maybe I was even causing an existential crisis over it or precipitating a fight between Greg and Stephanie that might blow the whole thing up.

“It’s really not worth getting upset about,” said Stephanie irritably. “And, actually if you paid as much attention as even I’ve noticed just coming over here on the weekends, you would have gotten by now that she has a system for where she keeps things that’s been exactly the same for the last three years.”

“We’re not talking about that now,” he said. “We’re talking about her buying things—brands—that I’ve told her I don’t want her buying with our shared kitchen budget because they’re too expensive.”

There was a long pause at that point and I could hear Stephanie’s heels tapping the floor. She may have been anxiously pacing back and forth trying to figure out whether to continue arguing with an ass for another couple of years—or a lifetime—or whether to cut her losses and walk out.

“I’m not sure what bothers me more—the petty cheapness or the fact that after three years you still don’t know this person you’ve been sharing living space with,” Stephanie said.

“I know the people I like,” he said.

“And what do you have against chrysanthemums?” Stephanie asked. “She said you don’t want her keeping them on the steps up to the front door and that you don’t think they’re legitimate flowers.”

“They’re alright. I just don’t see why anyone would want to bother with flowers in October. She sits out there on the front steps with those flowers like it’s May or June. It’s the fall, so why bother?”

“Flowers bloom all the way from March through the end of October around here,” Stephanie said. “It’s more than just the spring and summer.”

“Fuck the flowers” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s dumb. You’re starting to sound like her.”

My coordination of chrysanthemum colors was nearly complete. I was satisfied that as Greg and Stephanie or Greg then Stephanie or Stephanie then Greg stomped down the stone stairs in a few moments they would pass by a perfect cascade of fall colors.

There was a long silence in which I wondered if there was crying going on that I couldn’t hear from my stone steps or whether the two of them had locked eyes, decided they didn’t care about their differences and embraced. The flowers’ colors in my peripheral vision were calming as I stared at the screen door wondering if anyone would pass through to me on the steps. I had anxiety about denouements. I seemed to prefer long, drawn-out, suppressed sadness to heightened bursts of emotion. Feeling in the middle of the fall was comforting because even if Greg and Stephanie had a horrible climax of emotion in which everything toppled, I was immersed in the seasonal, an unending cycle.

After a few minutes I heard the clattering of Stephanie’s heels followed by the lighter tapping of Greg’s sneakers and moved back from the screen door, pretending to inspect the chrysanthemums. They knew I was eavesdropping but I thought it would be rude to not pretend to try to cover it up.

Both of their faces were inscrutable, though I’m pretty sure they weren’t elated or relieved. They both had what I called stone faces on them as they brushed past me. I smiled feigning sympathy at Stephanie, but she walked past me without acknowledgement. Greg, on the other hand, stooped down suddenly, tore out a couple of chrysanthemums from each pot and with at least five of the flowers in hand snorted loud enough to startle Stephanie and I. “Now they’re good for something,” he said handing them to Stephanie and snickering at me: “Cut myself a slice of your garden. Oh, yeah, nice colors,” he added laughing, as he pulled Stephanie in the car and the two of them drove off.

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You Birthed That Skin

The gilt mirrors surrounded Cynthia and the eight bridesmaids and one junior bridesmaid, a slight Asian child of around 12 who bounced up and down and smiled to her mother about her dress’s “tail.” The bridesmaids, an offset of the local Junior League, were clothed in lime green chiffon. The maid of honor was skeletal with the studded joints of her spine visible and her collarbone-length light blond hair turned perfectly under like a tight roll of toilet paper or the curled-under edge of a ready-made pie crust. The other seven bridesmaids were less coiffed but aligned enough to mostly remember the parts of their uniforms they were responsible for—short strands of pearls, pearl stud earrings and short silver heels.

The bride, Madison Powell, meanwhile, posed in front of one of several free-standing full length mirrors looking up and down again at a book cover in her hand. “On a scale of one to 10, how much do I look like her?” she asked. The book, “The Bridesmaids,” was the story of Grace Kelly’s wedding and featured a photo on the cover of Kelly with her attendants. Nobody had the heart to tell her that despite nailing the hair color and having about equal height, there wasn’t much in her face reminiscent of the Princess of Monaco. She had a similar complexion and eye color maybe.

“Oh, definitely, I can really see it,” Ashley, a chunky, olive-complexioned bridesmaid said, patting Madison on the shoulder. Ashley considered Madison her style advisor and may have been the only one able to believe Madison bore a small resemblance to Grace Kelly. She taught Madison how to cook and provided the steadying influence Madison’s mother wanted when she pressured her daughter to join the Junior League. Luckily, Ashley wasn’t secure with her figure and didn’t care about fashion, so Madison was able to play the superior role in at least one area of their relationship.

Then there was the bridesmaid, Lara, who had bullied her way into the bridal party throwing a tantrum when a month went by after the announcement of the engagement and no bridesmaid request was made. Cynthia, seated on a folding chair at the edge of the room so as not to disrupt the preparations, overheard Madison complain to Ashley that Lara had been tipsy and kept asking one of the other bridesmaids whether her husband had “jizz” on his tie. “Can you believe that?” Madison said. “She’s just so jealous of married people she’ll do anything to annoy us. If I had known this was the way she would be, I never would have asked her. I just felt sorry for her.”

Every once and a while Madison would pat Cynthia’s arm or shoulder in passing and smile. “It’s so great to have you here!” she would say. “Ashley, have you met my dear friend Cynthia?” She would smile then sympathetically in Cynthia’s direction and then return to her preparations. Her sisters-in-law had just arrived—also bridesmaids—one about 25 with black curlicue hair and at least 50 pounds overweight; the other a petite, golden-skinned college freshman with tidy straight brown hair. The groom’s mother accompanied them, and it seemed the older, more portly of her daughters took after her. “Do you mind, hon?” she said to Cynthia. “Could you spray my skirt with Static-Guard?” Cynthia smiled as graciously as she could muster and made a circle around the mother-of-the-groom spraying gluey-smelling Static-Guard as she went. “Thanks,” mother-of-the-groom laughed self-consciously.

Cynthia was off to the side in the folding chair, up against the wall, her back to one of the mirrors surrounding the room. But she was called on repeatedly. If not to Static Guard mother-of-the groom then to hold the bouquet or to hold a piece of a skirt’s train up while a shoe was put on or a tight corner was negotiated. She had come from New York City to Chicago for the wedding and had been asked at the last minute, the night before, if she would be interested in spending the morning before the wedding with the women of the bride’s side of the wedding party as they got their makeup done. She and Madison had been close friends for 10 years, and with the exception of two of the nine bridesmaids, she had never heard about or seen any of these girls before. If they were such good friends that Madison wanted them to stand by her side at her wedding, wouldn’t Cynthia have heard of them before?

Madison was now walking back and forth in front of one wall’s series of mirrors trying to imagine what the guests at the church would see as she walked down the aisle. “I look like a fashionable bride, right?” she asked Lara who was concerned with the assessment of her own rump. “Definitely! I wouldn’t worry—you look great!” Lara said.

Madison didn’t bother to return the compliment to Lara who kept looking at herself in profile and twisting around to try to see what she looked like from the rear. Instead, Madison began to make lunch plans. “Hey everyone, I’m going to order pizza for lunch, but not that thick Chicago-style pizza—I’m going to get skinny pizza—the kind with the super-thin crust,” she said. After all, she didn’t want to give the impression to her Junior League friends of a person who took didn’t take the dangers of deep-dish pizza seriously.

“Hey, Cynthia, come sit with us,” Madison gestured offering Cynthia a seat with the bridesmaids in the middle of the room. “I was just telling Ashley that you also spent some time down South.” Ashley was from Birmingham, Ala., and Cynthia guessed that Madison thought geography was the only thing Cynthia could possibly have in common with Ashley.

“Yeah, I went to the University of Georgia, and really liked it. It was a culture shock, but really interesting to live in another part of the country.

“I’ll bet,” said Ashley. “But I wouldn’t know—I’ve lived in Birmingham my whole life—though I did help start a new chapter of my sorority at Ole Miss and so spent a few months in Oxford, Miss. I took a trip to Europe with my family last year.” Cynthia laughed socially and smiled. “Wow, that sounds great going to Europe with your family.”

The slow-going conversation was interrupted by a long-sleeved, bright coral thin figure. With a wan, drawn face and short feathery blond hair, Madison’s mother had arrived. A bottle of chilled Chardonnay was waiting for her in a nearby refrigerator because that was one of Abigail Powell’s expectations—that whenever possible chilled wine be waiting upon her arrival. She had a facelift and microdermabrasion 10 years earlier to un-crease and smooth out her face, but the 10 pounds she lost on an already slender frame left her face gaunt and hollow. “Cynthia, nice to see you,” Abigail said. “It’s been a while. How are you doing? How are your parents?”

Cynthia smiled, suspecting she wasn’t a favorite of Abigail’s. “Nice to see you, too. We’re all doing good. Just enjoying life in the Village,” she said.

“Oh, are you still ‘single in the city?’” said Abigail.

“Yeah, still living the life of the single girl,” said Cynthia.  Abigail shot looks to Madison every minute or so with raised eyebrows.

Cynthia excused herself back to the mirrored room’s periphery. “Sorry, but I have to make a phone call,” she said backing away. She looked directly at Abigail and smiled again while pulling back. Abigail and Madison continued to exchange looks with Abigail shaking her head and patting Madison’s hand. Cynthia looked away toward the periphery of mirrors and saw herself at the corner and the bridesmaid-strangers toward the center framed by yet another circle of mirrors—free-standing head-to-toe mirrors. Madison’s rotund, frazzled-gray-haired future mother-in-law and the younger, prettier of her daughters were getting primped by the make-up artist. The make-up artist was taken by the daughter’s smooth golden skin. “Not a blemish. Gorgeous,” the woman said. One of Madison’s aunts laughed knowingly and patted the mother-in-law-to-be’s shoulder: “You birthed that skin!”

Cynthia laughed to herself thinking how interesting an anthropologist would find the bridesmaids preparation room with an aunt congratulating the mother-of-the-groom for “birthing” the skin of her daughter. The daughter just smiled smugly and nearly winked at herself in the mirror. More bridesmaids had filtered into the room in the meantime—one a woman with the kind of vaguely brownish purple hair that can occur when a home hair dying job goes bad. This woman Cynthia remembered as Julie, an old roommate of Madison’s who she thought had done enough to wipe her name off the bridesmaids roster. She had borrowed Madison’s computer to send e-mails to her friends making fun of Madison. Cynthia, who happened to be living for free in another apartment pet sitting for a friend, had given her room next door to Madison so she could escape from living with Julie. Cynthia became anxious and began slowing making a circle around the room passing varying images of herself as the mirrors all seemed to have a slightly different shapes and were under slightly different lighting. There she was bright and skinny and here she was wide-set with shadows under her eyes and there she was washed out by a stray white light. The girls she passed checked out their rear views, how they looked in profile, how their calves looked peeping out from under their lime green chiffon and even how they looked side-by-side to gauge how they would look in group pictures and maybe secretly to see how they each looked compared to one another.

Madison and her mother were still seated at the center of the room talking in soft tones when Madison’s eye caught Cynthia’s. “Hey there, you!” she said playfully. “What are you doing walking around in circles?” Abigail frowned raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips. “Just stretching my legs, I guess,” said Cynthia. “Getting a sense of the scene so I’ll always remember it—it must be the writer in me.”

Madison looked sympathetically at Cynthia realizing maybe for the first time that her “dear friend” had spent much of the day as the sole observer rather than as a participant. “I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you,” said Madison. “Are you having fun?” Cynthia smiled and nodded. “It’s been interesting watching everyone get ready,” she said.

“Well, actually,” said Madison, “I have a job for you—if you don’t mind. I’d like you to hand out the programs.”

“Sure, I would be honored,” she said. Cynthia stared awkwardly at Madison after that waiting for her to pick up the conversation.

“So, how do you like my friends?” Madison asked her.

“They’re nice, but—but, it’s weird, I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about them before,” Cynthia said. Madison smiled at Cynthia and cocked her head like a person talking to a slow child.

“The Junior League. I met them through the Junior League. We get together sometimes, we—”

Abigail cut in then: “They have a lot in common. Madison has a lot in common with those girls.” Cynthia smiled again and nodded.

“It’s funny. People used to say that we sound exactly alike,” Cynthia pointed out to Madison and her mother who looked back at her with blank stone faces. “Anyway, it’s just funny, I’ve never heard you talk about them before.”

Madison began fidgeting in her seat and her face became flushed while she and her mother kept exchanging looks. “Well, you’re one of my closest friends who doesn’t live in Chicago,” she said. “I never wanted to have nine bridesmaids, you know, I—“ Abigail reached out and squeezed her daughter’s wrist. “Remember what Dr. Samuels said,” she whispered. Cynthia ordinarily would have pretended not to have heard, but her feelings were hurt at having been suddenly pushed to the periphery of her once close friend’s social circle. “Madison, who’s Dr. Samuels? Is that your new psychologist?” Madison smiled and didn’t seem too embarrassed.

“How did you know? It’s like I told you, Mom, Cynthia can always—“

“Well, I know you like to see psychologists and I didn’t think anything was physically wrong with you, so I just figured when you were talking about a ‘doctor,’ that’s the only thing it could be,” said Cynthia.

Madison and her mother began exchanging looks again, wiping the smile from Madison’s face. “Well, maybe it might be a good idea for you to tell Cynthia what Dr. Samuels said,” Abigail suggested nodding her head and patting the top of her daughter’s hand.

“You’ve been a great friend,” Madison said, “but Dr. Samuels says that sometimes friends can be ‘unintentionally toxic’ because they don’t share the same life goals as you. So, they accidentally lead you away from the things you want.”

Cynthia could see the logic in theory, but wondered how it applied to her. “I know we’re different, but I feel like I’ve always been supportive of you,” Cynthia said. “I never cared one way or another what you wanted to do.”

“Actually, Dr. Samuels says that’s part of the problem—you’re not working toward the same goals—getting married and having kids—so you don’t keep me on track the way these girls do,” said Madison, waving her hand around the room at the nine bridesmaids straightening their skirts, looking at themselves sideways, from the rear and back again. “They’re good judges,” said Madison.

“And you want them to judge you?” asked Cynthia.

“No, it’s just—it’s hard to explain,” said Madison. “I do and I don’t. I mean I want to end up the way they are, I—it’s like we’re all on a diet together. And you’re not on our diet. So, we keep each other on track.“

“Don’t want to end up like me,” Cynthia said, completing her friend’s thought like she often did.

“No offense, but yeah,” said Madison laughing.  Cynthia again smiled and kept her gaze over Madison’s head focusing on the reflections of the bridesmaids getting ready and looking one another over. The inspections seemed endless.

“You know I think you’re great,” said Madison, “it’s just that I think we’re on different paths. I definitely wanted to have you here, though, to be part of the day, you’ve been a really good friend. I mean I wanted to include you—I never wanted nine bridesmaids, I had to include some of them and some of them were family. But I wanted you to share the day—I mean that’s why I invited you to spend time with us while we got ready.” Cynthia stared at her, mouth slightly opened.

“Anyway,” said Madison, “I’m glad you’re here—and—do you still want to hand out the programs? I understand if you don’t, but—“

Cynthia smiled. She felt backed into a corner having made a special trip away from home and having already spent money on airfare and hotel, but most of all, she didn’t want to embarrass herself or create “a situation” by leaving abruptly. “Sure, I’ll still do it,” she said.

“Good, would you mind holding this again?” Madison asked, handing Cynthia her bouquet. “What do you think of it? My mother thought these calla lilies would look good but I actually wanted roses.” Cynthia smiled and nodded her head, her eyes rotating around each of the mirrors. Each reflection was of a lime green-uniformed bridesmaid or junior bridesmaid twisting front to back and conducting a self-inspection. Madison also took another look at herself sucking in her stomach and looking at her profile again.

“I lost about 10 pounds. Can you tell?” she asked an unresponsive Cynthia. “Can you tell?” Cynthia nodded her head and smiled. Madison took an appraisal of the nine bridesmaids reflecting in every direction. “Oh, wait! Not everyone is wearing pearls,” Madison said. “Didn’t you all get my e-mail last month? I told you to keep checking your e-mail. Oh, well,” she laughed with humor. “Oh well, no big deal. See how easy I am?”

Cynthia, as it turned out, was wearing a short strand of pearls. She ran her fingers across it protectively. The battalion of bridesmaids were slowly prying themselves from the mirrored circle, lining up to march outside with Madison for a group picture of the wedding party. Madison’s mother-in-law and the prettier of her soon-to-be sisters-in-law were again the center of attention. “Look at you!” one of her mother-in-law’s sisters said to Madison’s future sister-in-law. “Your skin is just glowing!” The mother-in-law to-be smiled proudly. “I like to say I made her myself,” she laughed. The sister patted her on the shoulder. “Well, you did!  You birthed that skin.”

The wedding coordinator handed Cynthia a small box with the wedding programs and she took her place among the bridesmaids trailing Madison out the door of the hotel and into the street, across the way to a park where the whole wedding party would assemble, stretched out in long phalanxes on either side of Madison and her finance. There was construction work on the far end of the street but no dust, luckily, one of the bridesmaids observed. The bridesmaids looked at each other continuing their appraisals and adjustments. “Yeah, just push that strand off there”; “Sure, that looks fine”; “What do you mean? You look great?” Meanwhile, Madison fretted about the anxiety-induced red blotches springing out on her white upper chest. Her doctor-bridesmaid reassured her: “Don’t worry, that’ll clear up before the ceremony.”

Cynthia stared at the clouds and the tops of trees looking for birds or squirrels to concentrate on, and then, happened to glance down—maybe she wanted to check out the bridesmaids shoes to see what their selections said about them the way she checked out people’s feet on elevators and buses. And that’s when she caught sight of it—dozens and dozens of nails spread wide apart enough on the street not to be immediately noticeable. In fact, it seemed she was the only one who had noticed at all. The bridesmaids were still smoothing one another’s hair and dresses and offering reassurances. A few of the nails lodged into the ends of Madison’s dress and into a portion of the short train which her maid-of-honor had let slip from her hands. Cynthia reached out to tap Madison’s shoulder but then retracted her hand. She wrung her hands anxiously as if in a neurotic dilemma and reached out again for the bride’s shoulder. She did it again—reaching out for her friend’s shoulder—and then retracted her hand again, her eyes fixed on the birds at the edge of the park jumping from branch to branch and then settling.

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Life and Times of the Introvert: The Door Ajar

The crutch and the walker had been there for nine months, and Art had intimated that he eventually planned to remove them. “I was wondering if I could take those down to the curb?” Kate asked him the last time they intersected in the hallway. “Oh, sorry,” he laughed. “I’m kind of attached to them for some reason. I think I may use them in one of my theater productions.” Art was part-time therapist and part-time experimental theater man. He advertised his therapy sessions on street lamps and utility posts throughout the East Village in New York City, where he lived across the hall from Kate.

The other day he skulked through the hall complaining that someone was tearing down his signs—photocopied sheets of printing paper with grainy photos of himself, a brief description of his expertise and slips with his phone number. Leaning closer than was comfortable to Kate, he reenacted what he said to the culprit: “You do that again—and I’ll kill you.” Kate knew Art wasn’t violent, but he said the man he caught tearing down his signs seemed afraid.  Art said, as a therapist, he understood why the man would tear down his signs. “There’s something about signs—they can really mess with you—do something to your brain,” he said drilling a forefinger into the side of his head as he said it.

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Kate said, backing away slowly toward her apartment’s door, trying to make a graceful exit from the conversation. “Are you sure you don’t want help taking that stuff down to the curb?”

“No,” Art laughed again. “I’m sorry about that, but I’ll do it. Really, I’m sorry,” and he laughed again.

“It’s OK, but it—eventually—it would be nice if you could take it to the curb,” Kate said.  She laughed a little, but it was forced. She was irritated by the stack of books, the walker and the crutch that made the end of the floor their apartments shared look like an invalid’s ward. It was depressing to see those signs of decrepitude on the way in and out of her home everyday.  Art had a hip replacement surgery nearly a year earlier and hadn’t used the crutch or walker in over six months. Kate hadn’t seen him for months, and had just been grateful for the quiet. Then one day she saw him hobbling to his apartment on crutches and presumed he had suffered an accident. “How did you hurt yourself?” Kate asked. “I didn’t hurt myself at all,” Art said irritably as if she should have known. “I had both hips replaced.”

Art was liable to catch Kate in a conversation any time she came or left her apartment because his door was nearly always ajar. But Kate never looked inside to acknowledge him. She considered the slightly open door with radio on full blast or Art on the phone as an intrusion of her privacy—he was encroaching on the hallway’s shared space.  “What’s up? How’s it going?” he would say, popping out from the slightly opened door like a jack-in-the-box. Kate began to dread leaving and returning to her apartment, wishing there was a backdoor or an easy way up and down the fire escape.  She had never heard of anyone living in an apartment building in New York City with their door nearly always open a crack, and she found it disturbing. One morning while brushing her teeth, she heard Art watching pornography.  When she was awoken at around 4 a.m. one morning by Art arriving home (he usually left around 7 or 8 p.m. and came home between 3 and 4 a.m.) and kept awake by a door ajar with a blaring talk radio show, she left him a note tacked to his door.  The next day Kate found a note from Art (written on the reverse side of the note she had left him) posted to her door with his profuse apology. But the door continued to stay ajar throughout the day, including overnight with NPR blaring out. After confronting him several times face-to-face about turning the radio down and closing his door, Kate gave up, bought earplugs and used her ceiling fan (even when it was cold) to drown out the noise from his apartment.

But the noise flowing from his apartment in the middle of the night and early in the morning wasn’t enough. Art, who once lived on a kibbutz in Israel, seemed to crave the communal life and couldn’t resist spreading himself out into the hallway. The walker, the crutch and the stack of books may have been his way of reaching toward her, Kate thought. She realized that it was probably related to his love of living a communal life rather than insensitivity to her comfort, but she still felt irritated and encroached upon.

“But the crutch, the walker and the stack of books?” she said to Art during their latest hallway interaction when Art was on a tangent about experimental theater in Berlin (where he hadn’t been for at least 20 years). “Do you think it would be possible to remove them from the hall by next week?”

“Oh, sure, definitely,” he said. “What’s happening next week? Are you having guests?”

“No, it’s just getting cumbersome for me with all this stuff abutting my door. It would be great if you could get rid of it. I could help you take it down to the curb tomorrow if you want.”

“I’m sorry, I feel horrible,” he said. “I’m going to get rid of it this week. I’m going to move it to my office.” Oh, his office, thought Kate. She imagined a room at a YMCA or in a low-income housing building of some kind. Art bragged to her when she first moved in that his rent was only $370 a month, so she supposed he took advantage of that low rent (having lived in their rent stabilized building for at least 20 years, having his original rent set when the neighborhood was a slum) to also have an office.  His therapy sessions took place at the office and he also could be heard some mornings as she left for work talking to therapy clients over the phone from his apartment.

“OK, well, if you could do that that would be great,” Kate said, turning on her heel into her apartment. “Well, have a good night.”

The next few nights were quiet, with Art staying away from his apartment from around 7 p.m. to 5 a.m., as if he had a night shift job, which Kate knew from forced conversations with him that he didn’t. When she first moved in she figured he had a job like overnight subway engineer or operator that necessitated his strange schedule. When there was a mass transit strike a month after she moved in, and she heard Art’s radio blaring in the middle of the night, she was forgiving because she thought he was listening to find out if the strike were over and he would need to go back to work.  When the strike let up and there were no other local crises and the overnight blasting radio through the door ajar continued, she was less forgiving, and one night at around 4 a.m. , had enough and banged on his door to no avail. The door wasn’t open wide enough to see him and she was too shy to push it open so she slunk back to her apartment to wait out the rest of the night and confront him the next day after work.

“I had no idea you could hear it in your apartment,” Art said apologetically. But why shouldn’t she hear his radio in her apartment, which was across a tiny hallway with his door ajar, Kate wondered to herself.

“I think if you could just keep your door shut all the way and maybe turn the volume down slightly—at the same time as you shut the door all the way—it would help a lot,” she said. “It’s just that my bedroom is directly across from the front door to your apartment, which you’re leaving open.”

Art raised his eyebrows at the mention of a bedroom. He lived in one of the building’s un-renovated apartments, which meant his apartment had just one large room with a kitchen at one end and a “living room” at the other end along with a small room with a toilet. There was a bathtub in the kitchen that was covered with a board during the day. The board allowed it to serve as a kitchen counter when it wasn’t in use as a tub.  He hadn’t done much to spruce up the place. He barely had any furniture—just a gray upholstered easy chair that looked like it came from a garage sale or the Salvation Army, possibly a small desk with a chair, and maybe a single bed in the corner. Every time Kate talked to him with her own door ajar in the hallway between their apartments, he eyed the inside of her place with longing, but not to live there. He just seemed to want to be let inside. “Wow, Reynolds did a good job with the renovations,” he said of their landlord as he looked over her shoulder into the little bit of her apartment he could spy from the hallway. “It’s small but it works for me,” Kate said trying to be kind as she backed into her doorway ready to shut and bolt lock the door as soon as she slipped inside.  “Anyway, if you could shut your door all the way and turn the radio down overnight, I would really appreciate it.”

The next night the same occurred. This time Kate didn’t wait until the next morning to confront Art. Instead she knocked on his door at around 2 a.m. “What’s up?” he said pushing open the already slightly opened door. “It’s 2 a.m. and your radio is blasting with your door wide open,” Kate snapped.  “Could you turn it down and shut your door all the way?” He looked at her, finally annoyed: “Well, I have to be able to hear it myself.” Kate thought it was funny that he seemed put out that he should have to worry about keeping his radio on low with his apartment door shut in the middle of the night. “It’s just the time of day—it’s not like it’s two in the afternoon,” she said. “But this is the only time I’m home,” he said.  Kate was eager to get back to bed so she didn’t take it further. “Alright, well, do whatever you can.” With that she stepped back in her apartment, closed, locked and drew the bolt chain across her door and went back to bed. Later on she wondered how it could be true that was the only time he was home.  If that were the only time he was home, then wouldn’t that time have to be reserved for sleeping rather than listening to the radio? She wondered where else he might sleep. Could he sleep on a bench or on the grass in a park, or maybe on a sofa in his office? She was puzzled but didn’t want to ask him any questions. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him to start conversations with her.  When the summer came and he was gone for most of the night, she imagined him sleeping outside in Thompkins Square Park like a bum to escape the stuffiness of his un-air-conditioned apartment.  He appeared one day with a tottering pile of old books under each arm.

Kate smiled and said hello as she turned toward him in the hall after securing the lock on her door. “All these books were just left on the sidewalk,” Art said. “Someone must have died and his kids didn’t know what to do with all these books.” He was almost breathless he was so excited. “Oh,” said Kate smiling and trying her best to be friendly, or at least not off-putting, “You could sell them to The Strand.” Art had a more nuanced strategy. “They’re all mystery and true crime books so I’m going to sell them to this bookstore in the West Village that specializes in mysteries.” Kate couldn’t imagine to going to that trouble and found it sad that some old man’s collection had been left on the sidewalk instead of being distributed among relatives. The collection was probably a prized possession and it was now in the hands of Art who would sell it for pocket change. It was depressing.

“You probably won’t get much for them—you could keep them or give them to friends,” Kate said. Art gestured toward his stagnant and building stack of books in the hall and laughed. “Don’t have room. Do you want some of them?” Kate didn’t have any room either, so she shook her head. “How are you going to be get them over to the West Village?  Won’t the cab fare be as much as you’d get for the books?” He laughed and nodded his head. “Maybe, but I’d like to see. You want to come with me?”

“No,” Kate said immediately without considering it. “Thanks for asking but I’m in the process of organizing my kitchen things.” Art laughed as if he didn’t believe her and began loading the mystery books into an abandoned grocery store shopping cart he kept in the corner of his kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

Kate didn’t see Art for a few days but heard and smelled him through the crack in his door as she passed by on her way into her apartment. His radio on full blast, she could hear it as she climbed the steps and smelled what she thought might be mustiness as she paused just long enough to turn the lock on her door. She sped through it always hoping he wouldn’t pop his head out at her—“How’s it going? What’s new?” Kate jumped as Art’s door creaked open. That creak had become like an alarm clock from her inner world. She tried to just smile, say hello and turn on her heel into her apartment, but he stopped her. “I saw you today on Broadway but you were somewhere else,” he laughed. “It’s like you didn’t even see me.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” Kate said. “I’m a big daydreamer and pretty spacey.”

“Take a look around you, see what’s around you,” he said.

“Yeah, you’re right, I should, but I like to live life in my inner world. I’m more of an introvert.”

“Don’t miss what’s happening around you,” he said sounding to Kate like a preacher or motivational speaker.  As long as he was hyped up and inspired maybe now was the perfect time to push him to finally move the walker, the crutch and the stack of books from the hallway.

“I was wondering,” she said, “if it would be possible to move that stuff in the hallway into your apartment?  I understand if you don’t want to throw it out yet, but if you could move it into your apartment, I would really appreciate it.”

“Oh, gee, I’m really sorry—sure thing. I’m just waiting to hear back from my friend Fred who works at the Salvation Army and my friend Amy who works at a thrift shop down the street to see if either of them wants it. I should know in the next few weeks.”

“OK, thanks.” Without the energy to argue about, it Kate went back into her apartment wondering when to involve the landlord who wanted Art out anyway.  Kate hesitated to involve the landlord not for Art’s sake but for her own. She thought it was unlikely the landlord would be able to kick Art out—he had been trying for years—and also that once Art found out she had complained about him, her situation would grow worse. Then, on top of living across a narrow hall from a perpetually ajar door with noise streaming from it, she would be living next door to a hostile neighbor. So, she would give Art exactly three weeks to get rid of his hallway junk—and then, and then—what? She knew she wouldn’t go to the landlord, so maybe she would just take the stuff to the sidewalk herself without asking, and if he objected, she could then point out that she gave him his chance and he wasn’t doing anything himself, so she took matters into her own hands.

Sure enough, three weeks went by and the crutch, the walker and the stack of books remained, so after coming home from work one day, Kate carried it all to the sidewalk to be hauled off by the next garbage truck making its rounds. She didn’t see Art for the next few weeks, but a week after dropping his junk off on the curb she noticed a new assortment in the hall—what looked like an urn with a Chinese-style trim of dragon designs; a painting of a clown, a child and a dog; and a straw basket with office papers and a pack of cards. It was like there was an ongoing garage sale in the narrow space between their apartments. He didn’t seem able or willing to keep his personal belongings to himself.

Kate peered into the as-usual ajar door and saw something she only glanced at for a split second before gasping, swinging on the balls of her feet and dashing into her apartment, locking and drawing the bolt chain across her door—Art with a shirt but no pants or underwear (big bare white rump) in the window frame. She guessed the cool breeze must have felt good airing out his private parts, and she couldn’t blame him, but that’s definitely the kind of thing a person should shut and lock the door before doing—and make sure there’s no unsuspecting person on the front receiving end of that view. Luckily, Kate believed his window looked out onto nothing but a vacant ally, but he should have known she would be passing by in the hall from the rear perspective.

A few days later, when she ran into him, Kate was too embarrassed to bring up the bare-rear-in-window-view incident, so she stuck to the new gathering of junk. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had to take down that stuff of yours to the curb last week. I had family visiting and wanted it to look nice,” Kate said lying about the visiting relatives. “Sure, no worries,” said Art.  “I was planning to get rid of it myself. You just beat me to the punch,” he said laughing. “Actually, about this new stuff,” said Kate, gesturing toward the urn-like vase, clown painting and straw basket filled with office papers and playing cards, “I was wondering if you could also move this stuff into your apartment or have it thrown away? I’m happy to help you carry it out to the curb, if you want.” He looked at her and laughed. “Here we go again! I’m sorry, no, no really. I’ll get rid of it all soon. I just have to get in touch with a friend of mine who wants me to donate it.”  Kate smiled and tried to laugh to be cooperative and keep the tone friendly.  A few days later the vase that looked like an urn was gone but a large white board was now leaning up against the wall (along with the remainder of the other junk—the basket with playing cards and the clown painting). It was a rotating carousel of personal junk connecting her closed, locked door to his forever ajar.

Kate decided to give Art one final warning before calling the landlord.  “I hate to do this, but I don’t know if I can live with all this stuff constantly in the hallway,” she said to him the next afternoon.  “If it doesn’t stop I’m going to have to talk to Reynolds about it.” Art looked surprised but without panic. Kate guessed she wasn’t the first person to talk to the landlord about Art. “It’s not getting in your way is it?” he said. “You can still get in and out of your apartment, right? You know, this is a common space between our apartments, for us to share. I choose to—from time to time—store a few transitional items in my share of the space. Did you ever think of it that way?”

Kate nodded and smiled politely as she listened. In fact she had thought of what he was saying, but the sprawl of the inner life of his apartment into the space she had no choice but to walk into everyday was disturbing. “Yes, actually, I have thought of that,” she said. “But, as a space we share we also have to be respectful of each other’s comfort, and I hate to say this—sorry, don’t mean to be difficult—but I’m not comfortable with all this stuff in the hallway all the time.” Her voice rose defensively toward the end and she looked away self-consciously. “Ok, Ok,” he sighed. “I’ll get rid of it.” Art was annoyed and turned away from her, ducking back into his apartment but, as always, he kept his door slightly open even with his back to her through the opening.

Not surprisingly to Kate, he didn’t get rid of it, so she called Reynolds, the landlord”: “I hate to complain about this—I feel bad about having to do it—but I was wondering if you could talk to my neighbor, Art West, about removing his stuff from the hallway we share? But don’t tell him I asked you. Maybe you could just say it needs to be removed because it’s a fire code violation.” Reynolds laughed in a big snort. “What? You don’t need to apologize. You don’t want his junk in the hallway, so he needs to get rid of it.” Kate began to panic thinking she’d just unleashed an uncomfortable situation for herself. “I know I don’t have to apologize or lie about it, but I don’t want to create an uncomfortable situation with Art. He’s my neighbor, so I have to see him all the time. I just want to keep things pleasant.” Reynolds laughed in a snort again. “OK, your choice. I’ll just ask him to get rid of the stuff. I won’t tell him you asked.”

A month later Art’s personal extensions still sprawled into the hallway. Kate wasn’t surprised because she knew she was easily disregarded—she was often disregarded for some reason—but she didn’t expect the landlord who had the power to kick Art out to be ignored. So, she gave Reynolds a call to see if he had ever bothered to talk to Art about the problem, like he said he would. “I talked to him, dear, but he’s stubborn. I can’t do nothing about it,” Reynolds explained over the phone. “It’s mean, but what if you told him that if he doesn’t clear out the hallway, you’ll kick him out?” Kate suggested. Reynolds laughed. “I wish it were that easy. He’s been living here for 30 years—with the laws in this city, it isn’t easy to get rid of him. I can’t even raise his rent more than 1, 2 percent a year. I tried, but he don’t listen to me.”

Kate began to think of her alternatives and searched the listings for apartments in her neighborhood, but soon became discouraged, finding nearly everything comparable out of her price range. Her building was rent stabilized, and to top that off, Reynolds hadn’t bothered to raise the rent at all in over five years.  Just when she was at the point of resolving to ignore Art’s encroachment, she came home to a succession of cages lining the walls—albeit with a space around her door so she could still access her apartment.  The cages looked large enough for those big colorful parrots who sit on pirates’ shoulders, but there were no parrots or any other bird—or anything else—in any of them. But they were all painted colors like bright pink, green, red, orange, neon yellow. The colors were brilliant and the cages might have made an interesting experimental art display at the Whitney Museum, but they surrounded her door waiting for a foot to get caught in them, a toe to be stubbed or the corner of a long coat or dress to catch. As Kate inspected the cages, she heard Art clamoring up the stairs, his sneakers squeaking. “What is this?” she asked irritably. “Oh, this,” he said, sweeping his hand across the cages. “My friend Bernice is having an art show for charity next week and Sandra, her brother-in-law’s cousin is doing a cage motif—an allegory, actually–” Kate interrupted him at that point, not able to continue listening because she just felt so mad to be surrounded by bright cages with just enough room to creep into her apartment at the end of the day. “Actually—actually, I don’t care!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I can’t live like this! This isn’t fair to me.”

Art smiled kindly when he heard her voice breaking and saw her eyes begin to tear. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea it bothered you so much! But you can still get into your apartment, right? It’ll only be here for a few more days, I promise.”

Kate tried to suppress her crying, not wanting to embarrass herself. She downplayed her anxiety about the personal garbage surrounding her door. “It’s OK. I would just prefer to keep the hallway clear of our personal stuff. It’s nicer looking that way and safer—so nobody trips.”

Art was already on to something else by then, traipsing back into his apartment and out with a full-length mirror. “How do you think this would look stuck right here?” he said, pushing the mirror up against the dead end of hallway bordering their apartments. “Sure, I guess—whatever you want to do,” Kate said forcing herself to smile and then quickly getting away from him and behind her closed, locked and bolted door.

The next few weeks were a revolving hall of boxed nuisances liked birthday party noisemakers, dog chew toys that squeaked when brushed up against and novelty gags like plastic vomit and whoopee cushions. Art said it was for one of his upcoming experimental theater performances. The show, he said, was about adults who regress into their six-year-old selves remembering all the things they got punished for as children.  Kate was not amused. She was getting madder by the day and wondered constantly if the spillage of Art’s personal pursuits into their shared hallway was malicious and done out of spite.  She was so angry she wondered how to get rid of him. The landlord wouldn’t or couldn’t do a thing and he wasn’t going anywhere—he had been there nearly 30 years, after all, and at a rent that had barely changed since he first moved in.  Kate thought about making up stories about him to push him out; thought about giving him a shove out his window; about even buying a gun to get rid of him with. She would just claim self-defense (she was at least 50 pounds less). Or even buying a dozen fertile rats to throw into his always slightly opened doorway. Well, what are you going to do? You leave your door open a crack long enough, who’s to say rats won’t get thrown inside?

When Kate saw the stocky, balding, t-shirted frame of Art hanging black and white photo after photo on the concrete hallway wall one afternoon—she had grown so hopeless, she didn’t bother to question it anymore—she came up with an idea. “Oh, Art, I heard something I wanted to mention to you,” she said. “What’s up?” Art said in the springy tone that always made Kate think of a Jack-in-the-box. “Well, I noticed some men in here the other day who wouldn’t say who they were but were taking photos of the apartments and jotting down notes.”  Art looked up excitedly, raising his eyebrows and licking his lips like a dog contemplating whether to run for a ball. “I tell you, we’re getting closer and closer to living in a police state. I’m going to call Reynolds about this,” he said. Kate assumed her charade would end once Art called Reynolds, but she was having fun with it anyway. It was as if she was exacting a kind of revenge for the discomfort he brought into her life.

When Kate ran into Art next, a few days later, she prepared herself to control laughter as he told her how it turned out it was nothing—that he had spoken to Reynolds and the whole thing had been a misunderstanding. Instead, she found Art drilling into his door. Could he be installing a heartier lock—surely not. She bet it was just another of his crazy hallway art/personal garbage installations. “Hi,” she said smiling as she passed him by. “Another of your art projects, or should I say, a friend of a friend’s art project? ‘Eye through East Village Key holes?’” she joked.  Art didn’t laugh.

“You have no idea how devious these people are. I bet Reynolds hired a private investigation firm to check up on all of us—especially ones like me who don’t pay much—to see if he can find something on us to get rid of us with. You have no idea who these people are. Of course he denies it. I called Reynolds up about those photos you saw being taken and the people writing notes, and he played dumb—like he had no idea what I was talking about .You have no idea how devious these people are,” he ranted.

Kate felt a miracle had occurred. She wasn’t sure why she had lied about the spy photographers in the building except that it was fun, but now she couldn’t believe it had finally closed the door on Art—locked it actually. The coming weeks saw the removal of his personal extensions from the hallway into his locked apartment (Art couldn’t have the landlord’s spies taking pictures of his personal belongings, after al) and a door that was firmly closed and locked regardless of whether he was home. But the only problem was Kate still felt put upon whenever he popped out of his apartment after hearing her come up the steps or when they ran into each other on the street.

So one day: “Art, you know it was the funniest thing—I feel kind of dumb mentioning it—”

“No, no, nothing is dumb—never be afraid to ask questions in life,” he said in a voice that he saved from his days in the kibbutz in Israel.  “Well, yesterday, when I was coming up the steps, I overheard two men I had never seen before talking about a new security system Reynolds was installing,” Kate said. “I didn’t hear all of it, but I heard them say something about capturing images of people leaving their apartments and then the apartment building so they would have a record of comings and goings in the building and also would be able to keep track of movements in the hallway to prevent apartment break-ins. It’s kind of nice in a way—like that security camera they installed last year above the door to the building.”

Art smoothed back what was left of his hair several times and looked up and down repeatedly as if he were contemplating the capture of himself in still life. “Believe me, they aren’t doing us any favors. You have no idea how devious these people are,” he said. “We’re losing our freedom every day. My friend in Berlin is doing a show with monkeys and circus performers that’s an allegory for the repression of the state and you try to do that here—forget it! We’re losing our freedoms everyday. You watch. This hallway monitoring is just the beginning.”

Whether or not the citizens of the East Village could have a performance with monkeys and circus performers that criticized the government was interesting to ponder, but mainly Kate listened with interest as Art showed signs of retreating further into his apartment, shutting the door fully and drawing in the extensions of himself that had drooled out into their shared hallway for the past five years. Any sensible person would simply call the landlord, ask about the hallway monitoring and be satisfied that it was all a misunderstanding when the landlord informed them that no such monitoring was going on. But Art was more hysterical visionary than sensible person, so no matter how much Reynolds assured him nothing was going on, Art would never believe it. He preferred to believe we were in a fight for freedom. Kate just felt, on the other hand, that she was in a fight to keep her neighbor’s personal self from intruding on her. “Yeah, that’s true,” Kate said trying to knit her eyebrows together and not smile. “Well, anyway, I better get going. I have to give a friend a call.”

Now, not only was Art’s door shut most of the time, but Art no longer lingered in the hallway and no longer left his personal junk in the space between their apartments. The fight for freedom meant evading the cameras Kate let him believe surrounded them. Kate could still hear Art’s radio from her apartment when she turned off her light before going to bed, though.  One day with a spring in her step noticing a hallway free of the personal, Kate knocked on Art’s now firmly closed door. He answered in a faded t-shirt and long cotton shorts that hit just above his knees. If a woman had worn them years ago they would have been called culottes. She smiled and tried take on the look of a good Samaritan. “What’s up?” he asked in his jaunty way, the radio blaring NPR behind him and through the hall and down the building’s staircase. “Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to let you know what I heard last night.” Art raised his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together alert to the excitement of new oppression. “Oh?” he said. “Well, those same guys who were installing the hidden cameras a few weeks ago were back and I overheard them talking about how the landlord (our Reynolds, of course) thought the building could be even more secure if he could monitor the sounds in the hallway,” Kate said biting her lip not to smile. “No!” Art exclaimed. “Well, yes, actually. So, I know how you always listen to NPR and how I can hear it from my apartment sometimes and I know how conservative Reynolds is—“  Art was just shaking his head and looking up and down as if to say “God have mercy on us all” to himself. “Don’t say anymore—I get it.”

Following that last episode, it became very quiet at their end of the hall, or, as Kate called it to herself and friends, “monastery chic.” It baffled Kate that some people became anxious when things got too quiet. There was nearly nothing she loved more. With Art’s radio no longer blaring into the hall and throughout the lower half of the building, she rolled around in the cleanliness of the quiet, savoring the absence of the outsider’s personal belongings and emotions. She had her own inner world now and nothing more to corrupt it like a stranger tracking sawdust through an immaculate house.

Then, one night a few months later, she heard odd tapping and scraping outside the building.  She thought at first it was just kids bouncing a ball off the side of the building or someone drawing graffiti against the front door like they did from time to time. But it sounded different and as though it was coming from above. Could it be the long-promised apocalypse? Or maybe just the helicopters trailing the Occupy Wall Street protesters again. Kate decided to take a look from the roof, so she climbed the five flights of stairs up there, hearing the scraping and banging and tapping getting ever louder. When she pushed open the door, she saw all the usual things—untended to asphalt, stray cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, a few abandoned lawn chairs, all with a faint smell of pot in the air. “Glad it’s pot and not cigarette stink again,” she said to herself. “My thoughts exactly,” answered a voice from the periphery.  “Hello? Is somebody there?” Kate said. Nobody answered for a few seconds and then she heard a kicking sound against the building. “Yeah, right here,” a struggling voice said. Kate then noticed a balding head rearing itself from the edge of the roof. “Art! Is that you?” she said. “What are you doing?” Art pulled himself up so his elbows were resting on the asphalt and his legs must have been resting against a gutter or the top of a window. “Can you believe it? The city won’t let me post ads for my therapy practice on lampposts any more. So, I came up with this idea—to hang some banners down along the side of the building about my practice. Plus, those cameras you were telling me about—the cameras may not be able to see me up here. I guess it’s a private and public place up here—above the cameras but with all those people right down there,” he said gleefully.”

Kate wondered how long it would take Reynolds to have the banners taken down—and whether the whole thing was worth dangling from a rooftop for. Was it that important to establish communication? “Why don’t you just advertise online someplace, like on Craig’s List?” she asked. “The ones I’m trying to reach don’t have computers,” he said irritably. “Who are you trying to reach?” Kate asked sincerely. She couldn’t figure out who he hoped would wander into his apartment or happen to see a homemade banner in crayons dangling from a roof and decide he had finally found a therapist he could trust.  “People around here who need help,” he said like it was obvious. “People who need me—my services.”

The best thing to do Kate thought would be to help Art up from the roof but she wondered if it wasn’t best just to leave him there with his banner. He could be his own best advertisement. “Should I leave the door open for you?” she asked, pointing to the door that led to the rooftop. She had wandered over just far enough to the edge to catch a glimpse of him hanging there. “Nah,” he said pounding the top of his banner into the gutter. “I’ll be here for a while.”

Image

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Phasology: Just a Phase I’m Going Through?

Looking for a Door in the Moon

Drilling the edges

shy of center,

my saw carves off the corners

light trickling

from the periphery

catching

my hands

forearms

sides of my legs

but glancing away

from my face.

 

Moon Skewers

Skewer me moon

my cocktail party

needs thank you

favors and no one else

can offer

personalized moon

cut-outs.

A thousand dollars

here

and there

is all it takes

for my friends

to not find

moon skewers

any place

but mine.

 

Asking You to Stay

Dropping a hint

at the full moon’s

rising

I pulled

from the roots

daffodils

tulips

peonies—

spring’s best

in full light

of a full moon

hoping to hold

this phase

in place.

 

Failing at Forcing Waning

When it’s full,

screw the top off

see if you can force it

to be half

or less

than half

or waning.

When you don’t succeed

at forcing waning,

give up and invest

in night-blooming gardens.

 

Moon on My Fork

Similar to

a baked potato

I thought I could

stand on a tree

look through a fork

at the moon

and see through fine

slats

if it was done.

I knew I couldn’t touch

even the rim

but I thought

if I gestured

in the right direction

I could get a sense

of level

of done.

Up a tree

looking through

forked slats

the light is refined

and if I squint

the moon goes away

but doesn’t come

nearer

and doesn’t tell me

how close to done.

 

Moon In Search of a Day Job

Bored to be the moon

so looking

for a good cloud

or spare sun

to transpose with.

When you’ve got

a night job

everyone else

sleeps through

you prefer

the sun or just

to have a function

people are awake to.

 

Chip Off the Old Moon

Chip off the old moon

just finding rocky

scraps of unnamable

fragments in the garage.

You told me

they came from the moon

and you’re not

an astronaut

it’s true

but I like

to believe you.

Holding said

moon chips

up for light

I have to remember

not to turn off

the garage light

with the moon

you said

these came from

now, throwing off

no light tonight.

 

Gardening on the Moon

Gardening on the moon

little light

but no passersby

to interfere

with my nocturnal

blooms.

Working in the laboratory

I keep churning

hearty cross-breeds

planning a send-up

of gold folds

or pink layers

of earth bloom

fit for a replanting

with no sun

no water

but a long rocky

face to themselves.

 

Moon Police

Moon police

is that crater

approved for inhabiting

or just one-day

excursions?

Remember to declare

moon dust

at customs

try not to smuggle

moon rocks

not sold

by certified moon

vendors

and please

turn the light off

before you leave.

 

Lunatic Highway

Driving alone

through the moon

I couldn’t belive

how smooth

the cut of clouds

seemed to slice

the moon in two.

Setting my wheels

upward with nothing

filling my engine

to could get me

there

I attempted

the lift through

the lunatic highway.

 

Moon’s Solitude

Solitude

the moon

doesn’t mind saying no

to lingering on a phase

or allowing a tide

to stay longer.

Alone in its movements

the moon doesn’t mind

being the only

moon

among clouds

stray planets

being the only

one

who can move

the ocean.

 

Couldn’t Be Your Waitress

Couldn’t serve you

couldn’t be your

waitress

said the moon

traveling as I am

on high

forever monitoring

sky oscillations

I have nothing

I’m willing to

give you

as you are

so low

but I drop

in passing

light shreds

you can use

as you can.

 

Choices of the Moon

Inspecting your choices

you had none

but to endure

all the phases–

fluctuating light

and often insufficient

darkness to sleep,

but you knew

your favorite phase—

the one unseen—

new—

would be back.

 

Moon Climbing

Learning to climb

the moon staircase

wasn’t hard.

I just repeatedly

looked up, longed

for light

and sought the mid-

night solace

of alone with spot

light instead

of cocktail

party.

Looking at the light

alone

repeatedly

it was easy

to see myself

in the moon.

 

Moon with a View

To dine

with a view

from the moon

is to forget

the crumbs

on your plate

the howling

dogs at your feet.

Table set

the crumbs

howling animals

don’t matter

seeing through

blackholes

burned out

stars

abandoned space suits

flags

ripped apart

by errant astronaut

forays—

looking back

with a view

of home, far enough

away to appreciate.

 

Smothering a Moon Half

Sliced in half

I wondered

at the other half

I hid under

my pillow.

Half as a bright

for twice as long,

I slept well

atop smothered light.

 

Absent—Gone to the Moon

I forgot to count space

absences

the same as your others.

Suited in space

technologically advanced

gear

ready to explore

the universe’s largest

nightlight,

I stood by pretending

the light you traveled toward

was you.

The light in my lone room

I thought was you

as you kept trekking

away

the suited alien

from earth.

 

Dying Star, Full Moon

The star burning out

leaped past

in dying streak

the full moon

wondering if

brightness at its peak

so near

would diminish

its final showing.

 

In the Moon’s Hand

Poem written

on the moon’s face

the moon blushing

with harvest color

yellowish, a little

like a juandiced

baby;

the script of passing

clouds, stars dying out

winks at us

an inscrutable poem.

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The Life and Times of The Introvert: The Vise

“I’d like not to see you again,” I told Marcy. She laughed and continued washing dishes she then loaded into the dishwasher. “Did you hear me?”  Sucking at my grape gum, and concentrating on the swirling of my saliva around the gum and the smell of the sugared-up grape and the sound of the chewing inside my head (I could only hear it because I always chewed with my mouth closed), I opened my eyes wide and glared.  I feared my glare would be wasted because her back was turned to me, but luckily Marcy turned around just as I was in mid-glare.

“I don’t like living together. I find you too cheerful,” I said without smiling. I liked to laugh, but this time I was humorless and ready for business. “I think you’re a nice person, but I don’t want to see you again.”

“Too bad,” she said in her insensitive way. She was lucky in that nothing much penetrated her skin. She kept everything she had on the outside of her skin like body makeup she could just wash off at night. Nothing stained her and nothing seeped into her skin with permanence. “We have a lease that I’m on with you, and you’d have to find another roommate, and I’d have to agree to move out.”

“That’s what I’m asking—for you to agree to move out,” I said. You’d be surprised how comfortable I was with this exchange, and even how good it felt. I enjoyed fighting it out once my passive aggressive default mode was pushed past its limit. I tended to erupt in such anger at that point that I needed the catharsis of a good fight. I even sometimes picked fights with strangers on the street. Most of those strangers were a lot bigger and nastier than me, too. I hit the jackpot in that none of them had yet raised a hand (or foot) to me.

I disliked a lot of the things Marcy was guilty of, like whistling, which happens to be one of the public offenses I’ve fought over with strangers.  There were these Cheese Whiz looking Midwesterners in town for the Thanksgiving Parade lumped in a sidewalk-tromping group with my mother and I. And the man was whistling that annoying non-harmony that people usually tend to whistle in varied, unmelodic tones.  I didn’t know where it was coming from, so I said loudly, meaning to be overheard, “Who’s whistling?  I keep hearing whistling coming from somewhere. Who’s whistling?”  Just then a big, burly corn-fed looking man, blond, and his also big and burly, also blond, wife or girlfriend strolled past and the man said, “I’m the one whistling.”  “Well, it’s bothering me,” I said. “Too bad,” he responded. Of course I couldn’t leave it at that. So: “You’re very rude.”  “Thank you,” he said, and then turning to his wife or girlfriend: “Did you hear that?  She thinks it’s rude that I was whistling?”  “Oh, that’s funny,” the wife or girlfriend said.  What I wanted to say looking back on the exchange, but didn’t think of at the time, and would have been dumb to say anyway is: “Go back to your cheese.”  They looked like the kind of people who put cheese on everything.  They probably thought I was a New York snob, though I didn’t actually have enough money or any connections (not even one) to be considered a snob.

I bring this up because I told Marcy this story to hint to her how much I hate her whistling, and she took the side of the cheese-born couple. “Those are just your crazy rules. Anybody is free to whistle on the sidewalk.”

Another thing that bothered me about Marcy was she had enough energy to clean properly. I was obsessive compulsive, but about troubling thoughts—like picturing bumblebees or car wrecks. Marcy, on the other hand, cleaned the apartment every morning before leaving for work and looked askance at the dust piling up on the dresser in my room. Some would consider it a benefit to have a roommate eager to clean, but it annoyed me because it connoted a person with so much energy she needed to expend it doing superfluous housework.  The reason she had so much energy was she didn’t take anything within her.  There was nothing inside her sucking at her energy, and I considered that a character flaw. Her happiness and bounding energy to me meant she didn’t have adequate inner anxieties.

“Why aren’t you more troubled?” I asked one morning after her vacuum woke me up.  “If you were more troubled I bet you wouldn’t be so eager to wake up early.”

“Yes, I guess I’m just lucky. I’ve always been a happy person,” she said.

One of the things about Marcy—happy or not—was she always had to be in a romantic relationship. She was a “people” person (I personally preferred cats and other fur-laden mammals to humans, but go figure). So, she treated her boyfriends like jobs. When one looked like it was winding down, she would look for another one to avoid time alone. The idea was an unbroken, seamless transition between boyfriends.  I suggested she come up with a way to find them and keep them in reserve—that she could can them the way you would can extra produce.

Steve Slumberts was the latest of them. “How’s it going with Steve, by the way?” I bated her, knowing she was keeping her eye out for someone new (I liked eavesdropping). “He’s good, but we don’t actually see each other as much as we used to.”

“You know, it might be good for you to spend some time alone,” I said.  I loved seeing her usually vacant face filled with terror.  She thought there was no worse fate than spending the day—let alone months—without a person whose function it was to be called on whenever she needed company.

“I’m a relationship person,” she said, quoting some woman she liked to listen to on the radio.

“But you don’t have a relationship with yourself,” I said.  I had already lost her concentration by that point, as she turned on her heel heading towards her room.  She often didn’t stick around to listen to me complete my thoughts, and sometimes would ask a question, like “How’s it going?  What’s up?”  And then shift on her legs back and fourth and dash off, too impatient to stay to listen to my response.

I suppose she was about to get ready to go out—to a place I would loathe, no doubt. Probably one of those dance clubs where there’s no place to sit down and no way to talk above the pulsating music.  For a person who claimed to like people so much it was funny that the music she liked best sounded like it was created by robots. Generally there were no words and no discernable instruments played. It was exactly like it would be if a computer were programmed (by a human?) to make a calculated succession of sounds, guided by a mathematical formula.

What if I were a missionary, I wondered.  I had no religious affiliation, relying for spiritual salvation on my sense that whatever there was of a God lived inside of ourselves instead of in a church or temple or through an appointed religious representative like a priest or rabbi. But I wanted both to get rid of my roommate and—more out of arrogance than humanitarian reasons—show her the folly of her ways.  I remembered stories of Christian missionaries who traveled all over the world “saving” the natives. I betted my vacuous roommate could use some help.

“What she needs,” I thought as I heard the shower droning, “is an in-house religious retreat.”  When the water switched off and I heard her bedroom door click shut, I slipped off my sneakers, and crept in my socks to her door. I was the one who asked her to move in rather than the other way around, so I knew things about the apartment we rented that she hadn’t heard about. She wasn’t one for history, so I doubt she would have been interested anyway. The apartment dated back to Victorian times, and came with keys that locked from the outside of the rooms. If you locked the doors from the inside, they didn’t require a key and locked just by pushing in a button. The thing was, the keys the landlord gave me just as a point of interest, or a novelty he thought I’d enjoy, overrode the internal locks, so that you could lock a person in her room!  The landlord told me the family who lived here years ago had unruly children, and the parents were such Victorian disciplinarians, they had the peculiar locks and keys made to lock the children in their rooms when they misbehaved.

Marcy hadn’t misbehaved, but she could learn a lesson about self-reflection and meditation.  I bet she hadn’t spent more than 10 minutes alone her whole life. Imagine preferring people to quiet reflection!  At the very least, she needed to know what it meant to spend time with only herself.  I would be doing her a favor.  I retrieved the key from my room as fast as I could (as fast as I could, that is, on tippy-toe), and, as quietly as possible, turned the key in the lock, shutting her in—for as long as I felt she needed to experience solitude.

I felt no ethical qualms about what I did. My only regret was she had a clock in there so she wouldn’t lose track of time. I felt sure a person like her not only needed a dose of first-time-in-her-life aloneness, but also that she needed to divorce herself from the clock and its connection to her “activities.”   Why are people so consumed with filling their days with activities?  I’m happy just dreaming with my eyes open out the window.

Now the fun began.  I heard her bare feet pad across the wooden floorboards and try the doorknob. “What the heck!” she said. Marcy didn’t use swear words, so “heck” or “Oh, fruit” was about as bad as it got. “Hey, Amanda,” she said to me. “I can’t seem to open this door. Can you help?”  I stifled a laugh and, leaving the key in my pocket, twisted the knob vigorously. “Huh, that’s strange. I can’t open it either.”  I heard her laughing, and knew the right thing to think was “Gosh, I really admire how she always keeps her spirits up.” But, instead, I thought it was time she learned how not to be cheerful. Could I lock the shallow laughter out of her?

“Well, unfortunately, I guess you’ll be stuck there a while. It’s Sunday, so the super isn’t around, and it’ll be hard to find a locksmith,” I told her, making my voice serious and somber even as I smiled broadly. “It’s a shame that you’ll miss your date tonight.”

At that point, it seemed as if her laughing, which continued, morphed from that grating social laugh of hers into a nervous laugh.  That suited me fine. It was time she experienced a little anxiety.  “No need to panic, of course, I’m sure since you have a half-bath in there you’ll be fine. I can always slip you some thinly sliced cheese or cold cuts under the door, I suppose.”  Now I was having fun.

She laughed, of course. “Well, I’m sure we’ll get in touch with someone soon who can help.  Or, I mean, you will. I just realized I don’t have my phone in here.” Another piece of luck for me.  This could go on quite a long time indeed.  It’s a rare opportunity when you get the chance to cordon off a troublesome person in your life, so I meant to make the most of it. “Oh, yes, I’ll be sure to do that. I wouldn’t want you to have to stay in there too long.  I think I’ll go now and see if I can find someone.”

I had no intention of finding anyone to help, so I took a walk around the block, looking for popsicle and ice cream sandwich vendors. I wanted something I could eat at her door, but which I couldn’t slip under the door, so I wouldn’t have to offer her any. My chocolate and vanilla ice cream sandwich in hand, I felt empowered. The only wrinkle in my plan was Marcy’s sure request to push some finely cut vegetables under the door. I have no idea why cheerful people usually like fruits and vegetables, but they do. I’d take a plastic roll of Hostess Cupcakes over roughage and apples any day.  Apple pie and other dessert tarts was the closest I got to health food.

Returning, I heard the word-less, rhythm-ful, bass-heavy music she liked reverberating from her room.  I forgot about that. Since she moved in I had been tortured by the pulsating throb of robot communications she called music.  The worst part was when I put my head on my pillow at night, I could feel the vibrations of it beating against my head, even after I dulled the sound with earplugs. I had spoken to her about the need to turn the music off at some point during the night, but to no avail, so I gave up trying, and, instead, used earplugs and the whirring of a ceiling fan to blunt the disturbance. But the officious beat she projected, I could do nothing about.

I knocked on her door several times as loud as I could. “Hi there, I’m back. Unfortunately, we have no vegetables, but I have some cold cuts—all red meat, unfortunately—that I can fit under the door.”  Oh, yes, so unfortunate, as Marcy tries her best to lead a healthy lifestyle. She says red meat gives you a greater chance of having heart attacks and cancer. Though I say her brain has been shriveling up for years, so why worry about it?

“Do you have anything else?” she asked, giggling. “How about some of those thin wheat crackers?  I bet those would slide under the door OK.”

“Yeah, alright,” I said.  After I retrieved the crackers and slid them to her, I thought about unlocking the door, but came to the conclusion again that it was for her own good to stay put. A person needs to find out what it’s like to be alone. I had spent my whole life alone, so why should she get away with never experiencing solitude?

“It must be a change of pace for you to have so much time to yourself,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s kind of sad. I don’t know how you spend so much time hidden away in your room, as if you were locked in there yourself. What do you do in there anyway?  I’ve been going crazy in here,” she said.

“I think of my room with the door locked as my sanctuary,” I said. “It’s the rest of the world that makes me feel crazy.” I felt as if I had done her a great favor locking her in her room, enabling her to experience what it’s like to have a sanctuary, but she wasn’t capable of appreciating the experience. True, the loneliness was a part of the experience, and it could be difficult, but what you gained in exchange for the loneliness—the richness of an inner life—was worth the discomfort.  One thing I hadn’t considered before occurred to me—what if Marcy was incapable of having a rich inner life? Were some people born without an inner-self, so that when left alone, they had nothing inside themselves to draw on?

“I just like getting to know new people. Whenever I meet someone new, I feel like I’ve just discovered a new TV show,” she said.

I would have laughed except it was touching that she knew herself well enough to describe what “new people” could be most accurately equated to; but, on the other hand, she wasn’t conscious enough to feel embarrassed about the analogy. She didn’t realize there was anything funny about new friendships seeming like TV pilots.

“Are these people generally good new shows?” I asked, “Or the kind of shows that go off the air without getting picked up for the regular season?”

She didn’t laugh immediately as I expected—since she was one of those people with a tittering social laugh that was similar to the canned laughter of a stage audience. I think she was puzzled that I thought her metaphor was funny. “Yeah, mostly good,” she said. “They’re company anyway.”

“You know what’s funny to me?” I said, “The way you need someone to study with you at the library. If you’re studying, and you’re studying for different classes and different subjects, what’s the other person there for?”

“I like knowing someone is going through the same things I’m going through even if their version of it is a little different,” she said.

I had always looked at suffering as a solitary trial, and even though I knew about “support groups,” I didn’t think they made any difference—at the end of the day, your suffering was your own. If a thousand other people felt the same pain, what difference did it make to your own pain? I could see if by gathering enough co-sufferers together you could dilute the pain or make a deal whereby you all share the pain by taking different shifts, or signing up for different months or years to endure it. But just knowing of the shared pain wasn’t enough for me.

“You’re never going to figure anything out on your own,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I snapped. “If you’ve got a problem, the last thing you want is a group of people arguing with each other about the right thing to do. You need time for quiet reflection—especially since, in the end, you’re the one who’s going to have to make up your mind about it.

It sounded like birds outside her window, rapping against the glass, and I could smell fresh air seeping from under the door. I felt my planned casement threatened. Her window was too high up for anyone to scale in, and even if it were possible, her cell phone was sitting on an end table in the sitting room, so she had no way of alerting anyone but me to her problem.

“What’s that funny sound I hear?” I said. “It sounds like in desperation you’ve put a bird and squirrel cocktail party together.”

“No, nothing that creative,” she said. “Remember, I don’t have an inner-life or creativity, so I can’t do stuff like that.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “And animals don’t seem to like you too much.”

“Yeah, but Jasper, Susan and Igor do,” she said.

“Who in the world are they?  Let me guess—you couldn’t restrain yourself, and became friends with homeless people living below your window.”

“Kind of. Do you remember the fair I went to with Chip last week?  And how Chip got me the puppets?  Well, I just put them on the shelf over my desk and forgot about them, but with all this boring alone—that is, self-reflection time, as you call it—I’ve gotten to know them better. I hung them from my window pane and we’re having drinks” she said in an even voice.

I always thought Marcy lacked enough self-awareness to understand irony, so I felt certain it wasn’t a joke. I had never known her to make any jokes outside of repeating lines from sitcoms or comedy club shows her latest boyfriend took her to.

“Yeah, Jasper was just telling me the funniest story about this bar, The Sacrosanct, he went to last week—the bartenders were all male models and there were free Jello shots,” she said.

“Was it Puppets night?” I asked, laughing. She stayed silent. “You know, like ladies night, where bars think they’ll get lots of women for men to hit on by offering the women free drinks? So, I guess there’s a new puppet fetish I didn’t know about.”

Marcy often had little intelligent to say, but she usually offered up enough vacuous conversation to avoid silence (a thing on her list of most dreaded), so I found it odd the way her long pause just kept continuing.

“Well?” I said.

“Of course, Igor and Susan have been going out for a while, so they’re not really into The Sacrosanct,” she said.

“The Sacrosanct isn’t for everybody,” I said. “I guess you have to know the right people—or puppets—to get in.”

“Igor has an in, and, of course, he got Susan in, who begged him to then get Jasper in, too.”

Hmm, talking puppets heading to nightclubs, getting their puppet friends in past the velvet rope. This sounded like an endeavor for me. I fished the key to her bedroom door out of my pocket.

“Well, what do you know?” I said, opening the door, “I found the key, after all. Turns out it was at the bottom of the draw near the sink in the kitchen, Marcy.”

I expected her to run to the door like a puppy released from a pen (to think of her more kindly I usually needed to pretend she was a cat or dog), but she didn’t acknowledge my entrance or the opened door.  She didn’t bother to turn around to look at me. Instead, she stayed in a crouched position over her puppets, making them dance over the floorboards under her. “Looks like Jasper’s really having a good time tonight,” she said. “I’m so glad they came to visit me tonight. I hate being alone.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, Marcy,” I said. “Did you hear me? I found the key, and was able to unlock your door. You can go run around town now, the way you like.” I snickered at that, thinking of her continuous, thin conversation as she trotted from one trendy club to the next, partly soothing herself, partly social climbing.

“It’s just that Jasper isn’t ready to go yet, and Igor and Susan want to dance some more,” Marcy said, turning to look at me, but only peripherally, looking more to the side of my face than directly at me.

She seemed enthralled, and even happy, similar to how she seemed when I ran into her on her way to her room after a coming home late on a Friday or Saturday night. I would be turning over on the sofa with my book, and in would come Marcy exhilarated about all the stuff I couldn’t stand being around—masses of people jumbled up together in a relatively small space with “music” so loud you couldn’t have a conversation.

Now the puppets she dangled in each hand enthralled her. She was socializing with them.

“So, you’re really enjoying their company, ha?  I guess they’re not so different from your other friends, right?” I laughed, and walked over to her side to see if she heard me. I was waiting for her (irritatingly) good-humored reciprocal chuckle.

“Igor, Susan and Jasper aren’t ready to leave yet, remember?” she said.

It was the oddest thing the way she didn’t seem to hear me, or that she heard me but didn’t care now to escape from her room and her animated puppets.

“The door is open, Marcy. You can go about your business now. Isn’t that lucky that I finally found the key?  It was in the back of one of the drawers in the kitchen. Isn’t that funny?”

Well, it was the oddest thing, but the little twit didn’t seem to care. Should I have felt horrible about continuing to think of her as a little twit?  I didn’t think so.

“The door’s open, Marcy. It’s wide open. You can leave now. I’ve managed to unlock the door.”

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Dog’s Tale: Doggerel

You Mean You’re NOT a Dog?

Dog ears

secure

you were surprised

people forgot

you were human

and believed

you to be a dog.

You ate

with fork and knife

sat upright

at the table;

you even

tucked a napkin

into your collar.

But we all

just kept looking

for your leash

and canine teeth.

Glad I Don’t Have to Give You Anything to Hold

Your paws on the glass

look like hands

but I’m happy

they can only tap

the glass

and not grasp.

I would hate being

responsible

for giving you

things to hold.

Your paws

dig holes

nudge and tap

but can’t secure.

Your Head Held High; Mine Tugged

The collar

you’ve asked me to wear

isn’t comfortable—

at least not when

attached

to a leash.

Strolling through the park

your head held high

you didn’t notice

mine

tugged to the side

and straining

to lift up

as we walked together.

Why the Clock and Not Our Hunger?

The clock

the humans

pointed to

as I waited

for under-the-table

scraps

didn’t make sense

to me.

I knew time

by my hunger.

How or why

did they refer

to a clock

to dine?

You’re in the House with Me, Unseen

Deft with my nose

I can smell you

sense you

hear you

in the house

with me—

before you ever

reach my floor.

Alone with my

allotment

of water

and dry food

I hear

smell

nearly taste

you

on the the floorboards

above

and below

me.

Who’s Sleeping in My Dog Bed?

Sleeping

in my dog bed

again?

While I was

out walking

I returned

to find you

in my bed

having pushed

my bone

out of the way

sidelined

my chew toy.

I went back

out the sliding glass door

hoping you’ll be

gone

when I return.

My Water Bowl Saves, but Doesn’t Satisfy

My water bowl

isn’t up-to-the-top

full—

not exactly empty

but not full enough

not to be

thirsty.

Repercussions of Cheap Dining Service

Good to know

you’re economizing

on my behalf.

The half-price

kibbles

aren’t so bad

and neither is

my burglar-present

nap.

I Know Bones

Definitely

a bone

you pushed

to the side

and covered

with sweet potatoes—

but my eyes

and canine teeth

know a bone.

Edging Near Your Tablecloth

The teacup

the saucer

the tablecloth

the gently pulled

chairs

the guests

nicely dressed

with appropriate

gifts;

my teeth

latching onto

the rim

aiming to pull

tablecloth

place settings

hors d’oeuvres

out from

under you.

Competing with the Astronaut Dog

The astronaut

dog

makes me feel

bad about myself.

He’s been

to space

and I’ve only

been

to the park.

Salvaging a Posey

Always angry

about forsaken

roses,

the tulips

or peonies

I dug up

may have been

salvaged

for your posey.

You Can Have My Bones; I’ll Have Your Pasta

The Roman dog

only ate

pasta

but his owners

kept feeding him

bones

thinking he’d finally

be convinced

he was a dog.

But he stuck

to pasta smuggling

pushing his bones onto his human

companions’ plates.

A Tranquilizer for You, Too

The tranquilizer

for the flight

worked but

I wondered

why you didn’t

knock yourself

out too.

Your conversation

is much worse

than my barking.

The Cliff’s Turn—Unheeded

The horses

paid no attention

to me scurrying up

the mountain

alongside them.

Passengers

on their backs,

they didn’t hear

my barking

nipping at their

heels

as we rounded

the cliff’s turn.

Taking a Pass on Your Sausage

The hanging sausage

doesn’t tempt me

because I’d have to

come into your store

to jump at it.

The idea

of wagging my tail

begging

on hind legs

cocking my head

so you’d think

I was cute

doesn’t appeal enough

to jump for sausage.

My Pet Human

I take you on

your walks

though you refuse

to wear a leash

like me.

I trust

you’ll heel

come when I bark

and eventually

play dead.

Put a Trace on Me

My paws

in sand

and snow

can be traced

but my paws

tapping with

unclipped claws

across your kitchen

tiles

to your buffet

leave no trace

except

missing pork chops.

My Wolf-Kin

I feel bad

for my wolf-kin

you hunt—

it’s me

in the wild

with fiercer

teeth

silver fur

and greater abilities

to hunt.

You’re killing me

because I don’t

fit on your

living room sofa.

Focus on the Black Birds

Eating my kibbles

still eying your

steak,

you keep telling me

to focus on shooing

the black birds away

to get my eyes off

your plate.

But my kibbles don’t

taste good

and all the black birds

ever on our lawn

won’t distract me.

Happiness I’ve Ripped Up

The daffodil

bed

I don’t respect

so have dug up.

There’s nothing

I won’t dig up

creating a dirt pile

for my bones,

taking happiness

in the garden

I’ve ripped up.

I Got Dirty Because You Dragged Me There

Itchy ears

a tail that drags

in your backyard’s mud

doesn’t mean I’m only

fleas and dirt

trailing through

your home.

The dirt and pests

I bring to you

came from where

you dragged me to.

When You Turned to Ask for the Butter

The scraps

are satisfying

but only because

they’re scraps

you don’t know about—

your pork chop

sliding off the side

of your plate

as you turn

to ask

for the butter.

Microchipped Home

The way home

is encoded

in my brain

and by rote

in my paws

but you’ve microchipped

it under my skin

even though

yours may not be

my home forever.

I’ll Stop Barking When You Do

You told me

to stay quiet

in your purse

at the bank

because I wasn’t

allowed

and to stay quiet

under the table

at the restaurant

where I also wasn’t

allowed

but meanwhile

you never

shut up

yourself.

I’m Not Graceful; Just Your Companion

The cat’s been let out

for the night

so why am I left

neutered

to sleep on top

of your slippers?

If you could only

catch him

you say you’d neuter

him too

but he wails

to be let out

climbs so well

hunts

de-mouses

and creeps along

windowsills

with grace

while I’m just

your companion.

King’s Dog

The king says

I have to abide

by his side

as he sits

on his throne

walks along the beach

the people we pass

asking if they can

pet me.

I’d like to sneak off

and be one of their dogs

but they always

cluck their tongues

saying how lucky I am

to be the dog

of a king

and move on.

Tracking my Owner

My owner

wears a cologne

that makes him

easy to track

on the golf course

his easy chair

the backyard

the toilet.

I try to ignore

his scent

(hard for a dog)

wishing he’d go

someplace

more exotic.

Your Belongings Are My Chew Toys

The dump truck

towed the belongings

I gnawed at

as if they were useless—

a chewed up armchair

the toys

I ravaged

but I could still have used them—

your belongings

to you

my chew toys

to me.

Civilization of Talking Dogs

Will the people

of the future

finding my bones

leash, collar

and water bowl

suspect

21st century humans

were talking dogs?

Panting at the Base of the Tree

The birds sing

and I bark

to keep up

with the cat’s

track up their branches

swiping at them

making a noonday

meal of them

while I circle

the base of the tree

panting.

Splashing Back

Getting de-fleaed

the bath stings

and the water

is too hot—

so I splash it

in the eyes

of the one

who plunged me

in.

Picking Up On Your Crap

Doing the walk

with you

is laborious

but I’m the only

one who picks

up on your crap.

Can’t Find the Moon

Howling but can’t

find the moon

so digging deeper

because I can’t

find the sights

in the sky

my wolf relatives

handed me,

or at least

howled toward

themselves.

Shadow of a Bat

The shadow of a bat

on the stairwell

had me leaping

and barking

at 4 a.m.

which disturbed you,

but you brought me hunting

so often

I thought it was a bird

to retrieve for you,

stumbling out of your room

in your underpants.

Invisibly Fenced In

At the edges

of the gate

my nose tapped

the electric fence—

pushed back

by the invisible

current,

fur bristling

while the other dogs

in the park across

the lawn

played without me.

My Second-Grade Meat

The pot’s on the stove

and I smell stew

and see a cake

waiting to be placed

under rich icing

and I see my kibbles

and second-grade

meat in a can

on the floor.

Gardening with Dog

The basket

you pushed me off from

happened to include

your bulbs

for next year’s

crop of dug up.

Extensive Fur

The vet says

I’m too fat

but how does he

know it isn’t

especially

full-bodied

fur?

My tail is looking

bushier than usual

and my paws

are robust.

My belly is all

muscle

under extensive

fur.

Garden for You

Sitting on top of the tulips

my tail up

a daffodil,

I’m taking the spring

garden in.

The mud on my paws

tracked over your

new carpet

my way

of bringing the garden

to you.

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