Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (15 page)

The Kid couldn't tell if she hesitated or if it was just the way she went through the door. Then she was gone.

On a rainy day the year before, Olympia fell asleep on his couch for a minute and he watched her. It was the most intimate thing he'd even done with anyone, and it encouraged him to think that when he got old enough to get a driver's license, he and Olympia would probably get married.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, finished gelling his thick black hair, then picked up a hand mirror and had a look at his profile. Impressed, he stepped back for a wider view. Addressing himself in Abe's voice and then his own:

What are you gonna do when you grow up? / I told you, interview the Crab Man.

B
ecause of her day off, Olympia had some free time is what she told the Kid, and the Kid told Abe. Two days later it happened, a meeting was arranged. He rolled the cuffs of his jeans almost to his knees, then went to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee, drank it, then left for the warehouse.

A
be figured that neither one of them knew enough about painting to know how good he was. How could they? But when he was done, they sure as hell would.

B
y the way he stood at the easel, the Kid could tell Abe thought he was doing something important, but so far all he was doing was staring at Olympia.

She was wearing a short gray skirt, kneesocks, clunky brown shoes, her summer postal outfit, but it wasn't summer. The Kid could see goose bumps on her legs. He didn't like that Abe could see what he saw and didn't like that she cooperated so easily.

How do you want me?

Abe was so engrossed with what he was about to do, he didn't answer. A turtleneck is what he was wearing, paint-stained, pink, and too tight for a skinny guy, but it hid the blisters on his neck. The Kid sat on a stool, keeping a distance, but after a couple minutes of being ignored:

You guys know where Moscow is?

He wasn't expecting anybody to say Russia, but they didn't say anything.

In the barn, next to Pa's cow!

It was his favorite joke, but nobody laughed. Olympia lifted her arms, dropped her head back. Abe kept staring at her but didn't lift his brush.

Then she tried another pose: got down on the floor, put her chin on her knees, pouting and pretty. Abe circled her, considering the angles, but didn't go back to his easel. The Kid hawked every move.

Olympia dragged a chair across the floor. Lounged on it, skirt hiked, legs splayed. Inspired, Abe finally began to paint. The Kid didn't say it too loud, but he said it:

Why don't you show him a little leg?

She acted like she didn't hear it. She was busy not moving. Abe was doing it in oil, sketching fiercely, his brush meticulous and quick, and his eyes never blinked. After a while, Olympia came to life on the canvas, and Abe seemed pleased. But Olympia was getting tired of posing, almost an hour had gone by.

When do I get to have a break?

Stay where you are!

She didn't seem surprised to be yelled at. The Kid was; it woke him up. Abe was almost done, but Olympia had begun to fidget. He tried to relax her.

So, what kind of mail the Kid get?

He doesn't—

Don't move!

He doesn't get any.

What about his dad, what's he get?

Postal workers aren't supposed to talk about other people's mail.

T
he Kid watched Abe smile and didn't like it. If it wasn't for him, Olympia wouldn't even be here. He could bring up the letter that Abe wrote, but wasn't sure how to go about it.

Does Abe get much mail?

For the first time, she looked at the Kid and was about to say something, but Abe didn't give her the chance.

The Kid says that you're hard to understand.

I never said that!

She didn't care who said what; Olympia was tired of being an artist's model.

Do I get any money for this?

The Kid was surprised to hear it brought up. Money was never mentioned. He waited to see what Abe would say, but Abe didn't say anything.

He's not gonna give you anything, are you, Abe?

Who said anything about money?

She did.

They were quiet awhile. Then the Kid had an idea.

Maybe he'll give you one of his paintings.

Abe acted like he didn't hear.

Look at that blimp, Olympia. Maybe you should take that.

Her eyes skimmed the walls, the jungle of colors, the brazen faces. She stopped on the blimp. Abe kept working, but he knew she was looking at it.

Put your head back like it was, please.

Olympia resumed her pose.

I'm not so sure I want that blimp, if that's what it is.

Abe stopped painting.

What did you say?

I'm not so sure that I like it, the blimp.

The Kid was disappointed to hear it and came to the blimp's defense.

When you like a blimp, you like it all the way, doesn't make any difference if you're not sure. Right, Abe?

That's right, Kid.

The Kid got to his feet; he was feeling better now.

Maybe you'd like it more if there was a dog in it.

Abe never heard anything so stupid.

No dogs!

Sniffing the nozzles.

There's no nozzles!

There's gotta be, else how could it get inflated?

It's already inflated!

The Kid didn't care, he stuck with the dog.

What about a Chihuahua, Olympia?

Olympia was starting to like the idea.

A Chihuahua? Bet a Chihuahua would be hard to paint. It's hard to say:
A Chihuahua would . . .

Not for the Kid it wasn't:

A chihuahuawouldachihuahuawould.

He did it without a hitch, but the painting Abe just finished was what got the attention. Abe lifted it off the easel and held it up to show. Olympia's beauty looked uprooted, scrambled, urgent but easy, almost floating. The grace of flesh and bone, the bushy butter of her hair, the luster of her skin, and the dark of her eyes, all of it simple, but grave, unforced. The Kid didn't like it, didn't like Abe showing off.

Take the blimp, Olympia. The blimp is better, don't you think?

But the blimp was forgotten; her heart was touched by poor, scrawny, hardworking Abe. Fact was, the painting captivated her.

How did you do it so fast? It's really good! You gotta sign it!

Why, thank you, Olympia. It's just a preliminary sketch, really.

It could be worth lots of money. It should be in a museum.

The Kid laughed—it sounded like a bark. Abe looked right at him.

You oughta get an appointment with Doctor Zitmore, Kid.

Who?

Abe tapped the corner of his mouth. The Kid had a pimple there. There was a sudden quiet. Olympia came closer, reached out to touch it—now she was having a go at him. The Kid batted her hand away, and it was Abe's turn to laugh:

See Zitmore, Kid.

He looked from Abe to Olympia, hated the way she was smiling at him.

It's right to have a pimple at a certain age. Who knows, you might have to start shaving someday.

Listen to her, Kid, words of wisdom.

T
he Kid knew it wasn't wisdom, it was bullshit, and he wanted to go. But he couldn't move. Affliction was in play, and Abe realized it, that it was unseemly to have picked on a ten-year-old. Abe decided to rectify it:

Hey, nobody's at fault here. We're all part of the same event. I couldn't have done this without you guys, but sometimes things get wobbly, we don't know what and don't know why. It's like a Johnny thing.

Johnny who?

The Kid could have told her, but he's not up for it yet. Abe takes it:

It's an Insteadman kind of thing, or a Howeverman kind of thing. A bowl of pet chow and the sound of the dog in the yellow pavilion of the owner's ear. American men with nutmeg on their shorts, the heels of their wives' mules encrusted with droppings of one kind or another. A one-armed guy in the moonlight pissing in the grass, smoking a cigarette kind of thing.

What are you talking about?

Abe could tell she wasn't comfortable with unusual ideas, so he tried to explain:

First person singular talking to himself in third. Johnny plays the field. Right, Kid? Normal-minded folks enclosed by what goes on in the corners of their eyes. Like a painting. Life in the streets.
The Crab's Welcome
.

The Kid was glad that Abe brought the Crab into it and nodded emphatically. Olympia didn't want to hear about the Crab Man, but she was curious about the streets:

What streets?

Brooklyn streets.

The Kid corrected him:

Red Hook.

Same difference. Then back to the keyholes up on the Upper East Side. Now I hear he's out west.

Maybe so, but this is still Red Hook, Abe.

Abe didn't care, he'd gone beyond that:

We have to look forward now. It's your call, Kid. Your future. And your tall friend here, if she wants to come, she can.

A
nd the three of them departed, left the slanted light of the warehouse for a darker place. A windowless room with one door. In the center of the room, a man-size cage with straw on the floor. That's where the Crab Man squats.

The door of the room was partly open. A piece of the street could be seen, quiet and bright out there. He lived without perks, but got no credit for it. People rarely came around, but he left the door open anyway so air could get in, evaporate the fumes.

When he heard the whispering behind him he held his breath, too proud to turn. Besides his missing eye, now a claw was gone, and he didn't feel like swiveling. Either it was hooligans or fans, he couldn't tell.

Present yourselves, intruders!

Olympia, Abe, and the Kid came around to the front of the pen to face the Crab Man. Skeptical of straw encrusted with who-knew-what, Abe backed up a step. This was the Kid's call.

The Crab Man didn't care for tall people, especially women. But Abe was short and that was good. The Kid even shorter, a good size for the Crab, and since the cell was elevated a couple feet off the floor, it was almost an eye-to-eye proposition.

What are you looking at?

The Kid couldn't say, but he didn't look away.

State your business!

The Kid had questions, but being face-to-face with the actual Crab Man took his breath away. It was up to Abe.

The Kid wants to talk to you, Crab Man. Plus the door was open.

So is the Strait of Hormuz, but that doesn't mean you gotta go sailing through it.

That was a laugh line, but nobody laughed. The Crab was dealing with duds. Suddenly, the Kid sat down on the floor. A good move. It made the Crab Man feel taller and relaxed the vibe a little. But Olympia wasn't comfortable. There was a sting of chlorine in the air and it burned her nose. She spotted a model airplane on the floor by the door and knew there was no way the Crab could ever fly it, not even if he had his other claw.

What happened to your claw?

An impertinent question, which he ignored—didn't even look at her—from somebody he didn't like in the first place.

Water was dripping somewhere. The Crab Man made a scratching sound. He was smaller than the Kid had imagined and not so rambunctious as he was on TV, plus his shell looked bleached. The Crab no longer owned the purpose and push of his younger days. He was getting on. His voice was tinny and thin, but still severe:

You guys got any money?

The trio looked blank. For sure the Kid didn't. Abe had five bucks, but he wasn't about to give it to the Crab Man. Olympia had more than Abe, but she was being ignored.

Pikers and deadbeats! How am I supposed to support myself? You may as well eat me!

Another laugh line, but still no laughs. Abe didn't know what else to say, so he said it again:

The Kid wants to interview you.

I don't do interviews.

Suddenly the Kid spoke up, loud too.

You do too, I saw you!

Saw me where?

Last night on
Buster Pleasely
.

That was a rerun, stupid.

That stunned everybody, even the Crab—he didn't mean to be so mean. Too late. For sure it was a bad moment for the Kid. And to make it worse, Olympia came to his rescue.

The Kid pays close attention to you, you and your career. He's your biggest fan, and he was hoping for you to cooperate on this.

No, I wasn't!

Olympia didn't pay any attention. The Crab pissed her off:

What difference does it make if it was a rerun? He still saw it, and it made him curious.

No, it didn't!

He wants to know about you.

No, I don't!

Yes, he does. You see what you've done?

Like an arrow, she said it right in the Crab's face:

He stuck his neck out coming here!

The Crab Man didn't have a neck, but he got the idea. Now that he had a closer look at her, he understood how they got his address. He was impressed by uniforms, insignias, and the like, especially postal outfits.

I'll tell him anything he wants to know. What do you wanna know, Kid?

This was the way the Kid dreamed it, but not with Abe and Olympia there. They were all waiting to hear what he was about to say, and he was about to, but Olympia butted in again:

He wants to know who . . . or what your father was.

Postal uniform or not, the Crab wasn't going to let her get personal:

You got all the answers, doll, you tell me.

She didn't back up an inch:

Your father was a tiler.

The Kid thought he knew everything about the Crab Man, but he didn't know that. Abe too, he'd never heard such a thing, and asked:

What do you mean, a tiler?

Without taking her eyes off the Crab, Olympia told Abe the answer.

As in tiles. A roof tiler. That's how come he had a fear of heights. He took a fall and never recovered. Isn't that right?

The Crab Man blows a bubble: