Lila and I have finally reached a town. La Plata, established 1855, population not mentioned on the sign. It’s bigger than the last town, at least there’s a separate gas station and grocery store. As we get closer, passing buildings and apartments and warehouses, my stomach starts to rumble with the scent of food. Pizza and Mexican and Italian. We’re still pretty far from the cheap restaurants, but I can smell it over the exhaust fumes and sewage. Hot dogs. I smell hot dogs most.
That would be because there’s an old man in the parking lot of a strip mall selling hot dogs out of a silver trailer. Not a trailer big enough for someone to sit inside, out of the weather, but a cart-like deal. The man is sitting on a stool reading.
I’m standing in front of him before I even decide I want a hot dog more than an entire double-cheese-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.
“What can I do you for?” he asks, putting his book aside. It’s On the Road by Jack Kerouac, which I’ve actually read. I found it lying on a park bench last summer, and I must have read it five times between that summer and that winter, before I holed up in the abandoned house and found other things to read.
I look over the four hot dogs roasting on the grill. “I’ll take all of them,” I say. “Two on buns with ketchup, mustard, relish… everything except onions. And the other two plain. For my dog,” I explain.
“Sure thing.”
With practiced hands the man prepares the hot dogs. He’s not as old as his white hair makes him look from far away. His hands are big and strong, worn with years of work.
“Anything to drink?”
I order a soda and a water and add two bags of chips, then pay with bills I’ve peeled off the roll hidden inside my sweatshirt pocket. I toss one of the plain hot dogs to Lila and stuff one of the loaded dogs in my mouth.
“Have a nice day,” the man says.
“Thanksh,” I mumble around the food in mouth. His mouth quirks in a smile that softens his face a bit.
Lila sits at my feet chewing on her hot dogs while I make a seat out of the curb. Food never tastes so good as when you’re hungry. My eyes are half-closed in the savoring of it. I try not to think about the winter coming and the scarcity of food. It’s the here and the now and hot food in my belly and the sun on my face.
When I’ve devoured everything on my plate, I put it on the ground and pour some of the water in it for Lila to drink. Not the world’s best doggy dish, but it serves its purpose.
The strip mall is small. There’s a convenience store, a Dollar Store, and a Laundromat. The door of the Laundromat is propped open and lets out the rolling sounds of the dryers and the industrial hum of the washing machines. It’s been ages since my clothes smelled like lemony detergent. It’s been ages since I had deodorant, too. At least I had a shower yesterday. Most of the time I can find a gas station bathroom to clean up in, but a full shower?
Let’s just say it was a long while before I ended up in the shower in Paul’s hotel room.
None of the stores here look promising, so I ask the hot dog vendor. “Do you know of any places around here that sells clothes?”
The man looks up from his book, squinting at me. “Clothes? Huh. Not much of a shopper myself. There’s a Walmart up to Kirksville, that’s where I go for pretty much everything.”
I’ve got no clue where Kirksville is, but if the town is anywhere near as spread out as this one, it’ll take two days to get there.
(unless I hitch a ride and I don’t want to do that)
“Do you know of anyplace closer?” I dig the toe of my sneaker into a crack in the pavement. “Like a secondhand store or something?”
“Sorry, son.”
He looks like he’s going to go back to his book and I turn to walk away, then he says, “I’ve got some extra clothes at my house, belonged to my boy. I usually head home after the lunch rush, if you don’t mind waiting. If you’re interested?”
My senses strain to decide if this offer is some kind of proposition. “Doesn’t your son need his clothes?”
I bring myself to look at his face and I’m surprised to see his eyes glassy and far away.
“No, he doesn’t need them anymore.”
I don’t ask anything else about his son. Instead I look away, scratch my neck. “Yeah, okay.”
Leaving the man to his book, I walk over to the Dollar Store and browse through their outside display. Lila follows me, sniffing at the things I pick up.
“Stay,” I tell her, and head inside the store.
I walk up and down the aisles, taking in all the cheap things I could actually buy but don’t need. I don’t like to be weighed down with things when I could black out and wake up with all those things gone. I do find an aisle with stuff like socks and underwear and I buy a pack of each.
The end of one aisle has all kinds of pet care products. I pause, looking over the collars and leashes and chew toys. There’s a tan-colored collar that would match her fur, but no matching leash. I pick out a sturdy blue one and then a small box of dog treats.
“Five twenty-one,” says the bored kid at the register. He doesn’t look much older than me but he must be, if he’s working during the school day. Or is it Saturday?
I grab my stuff before he can put them in a bag and head outside, shoving the underwear and socks into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. Lila’s sitting beside the hot dog man, and he’s scratching her ears. Can’t say I’m not a little jealous, but she jumps up as soon as she sees me.
“I got you a present,” I tell Lila as we walk back over to the curb.
I give her a doggie treat first, and while she’s occupied with that I try to put the collar on her.
She yips and jumps away, leaving her treat on the ground.
“What? It’s just a collar,” I say. “All the cool dogs are wearing them.”
She watches me warily from a few feet away.
Never having a dog, I have no idea how to convince one to do something she doesn’t want to do. I try holding the collar out to her. “You can sniff it if you want.”
No dice. She stretches her neck out a bit to get a scent of it but doesn’t move forward.
“Come on. It’s not that bad.”
She stares at me with something like betrayal in her eyes. The man is watching us now which I try to ignore.
“Fine,” I say, and put the collar and leash down on the ground beside me, out of her sight.
It’s a few long minutes before she’ll come back to my side. I try tempting her with treats but she doesn’t take the bait. Finally she inches back and sits near me, nibbling at her milkbone.
When she seems calm enough, I drop my hand down. She doesn’t notice. Then I’m grabbing the collar and wrapping my arm around her neck and trying to wrangle it on her.
Lila thrashes like crazy, her paws scrabbling at the air and her throat growling. Her teeth are bared but she’s not biting at me. “Come… on…” I pant. I can’t get both hands free to buckle the collar. Finally I let her go and she runs across the parking lot before stopping to look at me with her ears pinned back and her tail low.
Frustrated, I snatch up the collar and leash and shove them into the pocket of my sweatshirt, even though they’re too bulky. “What am I supposed to do if the animal control people come by?” I yell at her. “They’re gonna think you’re a stray. You wanna go to the pound?”
Of course she doesn’t answer, just looks at me with her sad eyes.
“If you don’t want to be my dog, you can get your own damn treats.”
I sit back down, disgusted with her and disgusted with myself. It’s not like I’m gonna chain her up out in a hot yard with no water. I’d treat her nice. The leash and stuff is just for show. How do you explain that to a dog? At the same time, I feel dumb for wrestling with an animal in a parking lot. I should’ve left her alone. I know if I was a dog I wouldn’t want some random kid slapping a collar on me.
I don’t want some cop demanding to know Is this your dog? Prove it and taking
her away when I can’t. Looks like I don’t need a cop to take Lila away. I chased her away all on my own.
The time drags on while I get more and more miserable, Lila panting in the shade of a bush on the other side of the parking lot. I’ve nothing to do but be miserable. Wish I had a book or something.
Finally the hot dog man starts closing up shop. He didn’t sell a single hot dog after me. “Do you need any help?” I call to him.
“Eh, I’ve got it down to a science,” he says.
I get up and help him anyway. Securing the tubs of condiments and fastening the flaps on the sides. The cart is attached to his truck by a trailer hitch.
“That about does it.” He shuffles to the driver’s side door. “Hop on in.”
With a look back at Lila, I open the passenger door.
“You gonna bring along that dog of yours?”
“I – I don’t know.”
“She can hop on in back,” he says.
I look at Lila. Part of me doesn’t want to try calling her over, in case she decides not to come. That would just about kill me.
I whistle softly.
Her ears perk up and she steps forward.
With a slap of my leg I whisper, “Come on, girl.”
She comes.
-15-
Lila’s panting in my ear. The old man, who tells me his name is Robert but I can call him Bobby, won’t let her sit in the front with me. Even though she’s got the little backseat to herself, she’s got her paws up on the back of my seat and is pressing her head between my head and the open window.
The buildings fall away and we are back out in open country again. Not for long, and not as wide open as before. Bobby drives down a bunch of random little roads, passing houses that get smaller and shittier as we go. Dust flying everywhere, lawns that are more scorched dirt than grass.
Bobby pulls into a dirt area that I guess is a driveway. His house is actually a trailer baking in the sun. It’s kind of a cross between a house and a trailer. It’s got an awning pulled out with a screen draped down from it, and inside the screen area sits a lawn chair next to a little table, making it look like a porch. There’s some plants in there too.
The truck bounces to a stop and I wait until Bobby gets out before climbing out of the passenger side, Lila jumping to the ground beside me. She dances out of my reach, still nervous after the collar incident. It isn’t until now that I stop to think that I’m gonna have to walk my way out of here, unless Bobby’s heading back for an imaginary dinnertime rush.
You’re so stupid.
“Home sweet home,” Bobby says, parting the screen curtain and holding it aside for me and Lila to walk through. “Bobby Junior’s clothes are in a box in the spare bedroom, if you want to come in and sit a spell.”
I bob my head.
“The dog can stay out here. Not much space for a dog in here.”
“Stay,” I tell Lila unnecessarily. She’s already found a spot to lie down.
What if he’s got chainsaws and hunting knives hung up on his walls, an operating table in his kitchen?
I step up into the old-people-smelling living room of the trailer.
What makes you think you can trust him?
“Shut up,” I growl at myself. Bobby’s already down the hall so I don’t think he can hear me. I thought he was joking about the spare bedroom but it’s a pretty big trailer, almost like a little house. Cluttered. There are dirty clothes on the couch, the tables full of dirty dishes and wrappers. Messy. My nose wrinkles at the undercurrent of moldy crusted food and musty newspapers. I think I can even smell how long it’s been since he vacuumed this worn carpet here.
I can hear Bobby in back, moving things around, so I take a seat on the couch next to the window so I can look out and keep an eye on Lila. She seems perfectly content to lie out there. I imagine if she’d actually gotten a whiff of Paul she would have freaked out. I should have listened to my own instincts and run.
“Here we are,” Bobby says from behind the large box he’s carrying. I jump up to help him. “Not sure what all’s in here anymore, but I’m sure there’s some that’ll fit ya.”
“Mostly I need a winter coat,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows at me and I can practically hear him thinking, Winter? It’s only September! He doesn’t say it out loud, though, and I breathe easy.
The inside of the box smells even mustier than the rest of the trailer. Bobby starts pulling clothes out and flinging them everywhere. “Too big, too big,” he mutters.
I begin to wonder if his son simply outgrew these clothes, until I see the shrine.
Not a shrine with candles and shit, but there are a clump of framed photos there on the table next to the television. No dust or used tissues or candy wrappers on that table. I look away before Bobby notices me noticing it.
He dumps a few pairs of pants into my arms, t-shirts and sweatshirts and not one but two winter coats and tells me to try them on. “The bathroom’s right past the kitchen.”
It’s also the size of a closet. I struggle to maneuver in the tight space. Both pairs of jeans fit better than the ones I stole from Paul, and the cargo pants. All the shirts too. The winter coats will be nice and warm, filled with down. I return to the living room.
“Everything fits,” I tell Bobby, then shamefully drop my eyes. “But I don’t have a bag or anything.” I hate to be begging this way. I’d prefer not to have a bag, but with winter coming I should be thinking about gathering supplies. I don’t need another winter like last winter.
“Ah, we can scrounge somethin’ up for ya.” He says this as he is sitting on the couch tuned into the television. Yet he doesn’t look like he’s going to get up and scrounge around for anything.
Unsure of what to do, I make myself look busy folding the clothes and stacking them neatly on one end of the couch. The television is playing a soap opera, not something I would have expected Bobby to be watching.
Then I hear the snoring, and I know Bobby isn’t watching soap operas. He’s taking a nap.
Should I take the clothes and beat it? No, Bobby will wake up and his son’s clothes will be gone off with some stranger and he’ll become suicidally depressed. Should I leave the clothes and take off? I really do need a winter coat, and you can’t beat a free one.
I sit down on the other end of the couch.
The soap opera doesn’t hold my attention for long. I find myself staring out the window at Lila, who is herself napping out on the makeshift porch. The afternoon wears on until my focus drifts to the inside of the trailer.
It’s been so long since I’ve had any kind of a home that the mess of this one bothers me. Bobby’s lucky enough to be able to stay in one place and live here without worrying about winter and starving to death, yet he can’t even wash his own dishes. It’s been so long since I lived at home with my parents that I don’t even remember if I was a neat freak or if my room was as messy as this.
I start by gathering up the trash from the coffee table and floor. I smell the trash can in a cabinet under the sink, overflowing with garbage. I close my eyes and inhale. I catch the faint scent of new plastic in a narrow closet in the hallway and find a box of new trash bags there. Within only a few minutes of cleaning the bag is near to full. Then I start on getting all the dishes near the sink and run the water, using liberal amounts of dish soap.
The housework puts my mind into a lulled, zen kind of place. I don’t have to think about anything more extraordinary than scrubbing off crusted eggs and ketchup and tomato sauce overgrown with mold, and dishpan hands. I can pretend I’m an ordinary kid, resigned to doing ordinary chores.
I have finished the dishes and am in the process of sweeping the dirt and food crumbs out the door of the trailer when Bobby says behind me,
“What have you been up to?”
I turn to look at him, a guilty expression creeping into my face. Is he offended that I found his place disgustingly messy? Then I see the smile in his
eyes, and my shoulders relax.
“I might have to keep you around, Dannyboy,” Bobby says.
Instantly my hackles are up again. No nausea or dizziness this time, just a different voice echoing in my head,
dannyboy dannyboy what have you been up to dannyboy
Lila whines from outside the open door. Her eyes look up at me like she knows something’s wrong.
“You interested in some dinner?” Bobby hasn’t noticed the way my hands are clamped around the broom handle, or the cold sweat pushing through my pores.
“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth.
I hear him rustling through his cabinets. “Let’s see… you like mac and cheese?”
I nod, swallow, then say, “Sure,” trying to keep that edge out of my voice.
He doesn’t know, I tell myself. He doesn’t know that’s what my father used to call me.
I step outside and lean the broom against the wall of the trailer, and sit in one of the lawn chairs. Lila comes over and puts her head in my lap.
Hug her squeeze her throttle her
My fists remain clenched. Can’t touch her – don’t want to hurt her.
Staying here is a mistake. Staying here puts Bobby in danger. Lila too. I should be alone, like I’ve been for the past three years. Monsters don’t have pets, or nice lonely men to be their surrogate fathers. Monsters don’t deserve these things. And I am a monster.
After I eat, I’ll thank Bobby for the clothes and take to the road again. Maybe I can even leave Lila with him.
-16-
You might think that after those two loaded hot dogs for lunch only hours ago, I might have less of an appetite for dinner. Three bowls of macaroni later, I finally feel full.
“I knew it was a good idea to make two boxes,” Bobby says.
“Thanks so much for… for everything,” I say as Bobby pushes away from the table. He picks up both of our bowls and puts them in the sink, then shuffles off to the living room again. “Uh, you know, for dinner, and the clothes and all?”
“Don’t mention it,” Bobby calls over his shoulder.
I stand and hesitate near the sink. If I want to have any light when I head off I should leave now. But I can tell Bobby will leave those dishes in the sink until mold starts growing again, unless I wash them. And what harm could it do? Bobby has given me so much, the least I can do is one last sinkful of dishes.