It’s just a goddamn Chihuahua, you tell her and really, it’s just a goddamn Chihuahua. Leaning against the refrigerator, fresh beer in your hand, you’re careful to use the word is instead of was. She’s at the kitchen table, still crying. All because, running late for work you accidentally backed over the dog with the pick-up. But you were late, and goddamn it, what part of late can’t she understand.
And you have to work. She just lies around all day and takes care of the dog.
Took care, you think.
You finish the beer in a couple of swigs. Usually, you try not to drink before work, but your morning’s taken on a whole different path.
You called in and told your boss a “family emergency” came up. You’d be in as soon as you could. You didn’t tell him about the dog.
She wipes her nose. You think how she’s never looked so ugly. Snot rags everywhere, half-wadded like origami. And ever since you were married, she’s gotten thick then thicker. Anymore, she’s not filling out her pants, she’s spilling out her pants. And yeah, her boobs got bigger, but downward, like Bassett Hound eyes.
You grab a new beer and tell her you’ll get her another dog. “A better one,” you say, and wiping her eyes she gives you one of these: “Asshole.”
You bite down. “For Christ’s sakes,” you tell her, “he’s so tiny…the hell’d you let him run around the yard for?”
She starts to cry again.
You tell her he’s in a much better place—with God or whatever—and you almost say his name, Spot, but stop, thinking the name too apt.
You put a hand on her shoulder and get a: “Don’t touch me.”
Get: “Just leave me alone.”
And that’s it. Your day’s over before it ever began. You rush off, you’re an insensitive son-of-a-bitch. Try to talk, she’s all, “Leave me alone.” Turning this around is out of the question.
What this is, is damage control.
You scratch your meander scar hairline. “He was ugly anyway,” you say.
If you were single, none of this would be happening. You’d be at work right now, talking to Otis about the billiards tournament next month. Then, you’d come home, mix a drink, and head off to the tables.
Single, you can run over dogs without having to deal with this kind of shit.
•••
So you finally make it to work and your boss isn’t happy. You expected this, so you’re wearing the shirt covered in Chihuahua chunks. When he sees this, he’s like, “The hell happened?”
And you’re just, “Long story.”
Now, you’re busting ass to catch up. But you’ve been thinking about calling the old lady on your break. Maybe even send her some flowers.
Possibly salvage your night.
Earlier, Otis comes around talking about, “What’s up?” You tell him about the dog, and he says, “That all?” He says, “Fucker was ugly anyway.”
You tell him you’re thinking about calling the wife and he’s, “Don’t do it. Be a man. A happy man, like me.”
You tell him he’s not even married, and he smiles and says, “Happy man.” He scratches his nappy hair and says, “Besides, I gets down when I needs to.”
Otis isn’t ugly, but he’s a front tooth shy of a Fred Sanford.
At the door, he turns and says, “Be a man. Don’t call.” And stepping out the door, he’s all, “White people.”
•••
So you call. When she answers, you say, “How you feeling?” She doesn’t say anything and you can tell she’s crying. Still.
You say, “How’s about a movie?”
And you get a: “You know how long Spot was in our family, John?”
You ought to, you think. You bought the little bastard. “Family dies,” you say. “That’s part of life.”
A heavy sigh and you get: “Ever notice how people say life is passing them by, when it’s really the people passing by life?”
She hangs up.
That shit always drives you nuts. It’s always something like:
“I could’ve really done something with myself.”
Or: “I’ve wasted my best years.”
Same shit, different words, like she’s the only one who could’ve done better. You both settled. You both know you both know you settled.
You thought this issue was settled.
What this amounts to is a week’s worth of ass kissing. No drinking or billiards for a while. Whatever. All this and you’re right back where you were before the alarm went off. No better, no worse.
You try to call her back, but she’s taken the phone off the hook.
•••
You’re at a stoplight.
You’ve tried calling all afternoon. Since you got off, you’ve been thinking of the meanest things to say. Things you’ve built up over time, words you’ve stacked in your arsenal for running over the dog type fights.
You stopped off for a couple pints, and after killing half a bottle, you’ve caught a buzz. No matter what you do or say, you’re the bad guy. You can tell her your views and she’ll just sit there, silent. Then she’ll go to bed, and you’ll sleep on the sofa, all guilty.
Home is where you hang your head.
The light’s still red.
You can just say, Fuck it, and hit the tables. Tournament’s coming up, and you’re not about to miss that, damn a dog.
Or, you can go left, down to the bar. Have enough drinks to drown Jaws, then go home and park somewhere in the front yard. Kick the front door in. Punch walls. Yell, for you, life didn’t pass you by. It stepped on your fucking head.
The light turns green.
You can do that and she’d for sure leave. She’d get the house. Your pick-up. You’d get the right to remain silent and a phone call. Still... You can do anything you damn well please. You just can’t see getting all worked up.
It was just a goddamn Chihuahua. |
