Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (17 page)

There was the hardware store, a Mexican market, and the China Diner. None of it looked inviting. The Snake Pit was open. That's where he went.

It was a big hollow place with a concrete floor and stucco walls. Four locals, five including the barman, huddled at one end of the bar. Three of them were young; the fourth was larger, shorter, and older, pushing fifty. He was doing the talking, but stopped when Zackary walked in.

Borrego Bill was big-chested, slit-eyed, and neckless, shoe-polish black hair, pants, boots, and shirt all black, a turquoise ring on his pinky. Zackary had seen the type before; on the sets of Westerns, extras like him were not unusual.

The bar was long, and Zackary took a seat at the lonesome end. And waited. They acted like he wasn't there.

What did he expect, applause? He'd been around, knew the routine; there was rule of rank in a place like this. Borrego had names for his guys that proved it; called the big one Bonehead, the smallest Peewee, and the one in between Ratbreath. After another minute, Borrego told the barman, whose name was Bob, to attend to the customer.

Zackary ordered a draft please. No draft, just bottles. On the wall next to the American Legion plaque was a Schlitz ad. He ordered one. Bob brought it without a glass. It was warm.

It felt like
Bad Day at Black Rock
. Spencer Tracy played a one-armed stranger comes into a two-bit town, and right off he's harassed by louts. Tracy looks way too old to win a fight and won't engage, but neither does he back down. He's insulted, run off the road, threatened, and goaded until he's had enough. Then his tormentors find out what an older man with one arm can do if he studied martial arts in Japan.

Zackary loved that movie. Who didn't? Always he wanted to play a part like that, the one who wins at the end. But they would never let him. Now he couldn't get hired to play one of the bad guys the hero beats up.

Right then a man came into the Snake Pit who never won anything. Reed Fingley was small, twitchy, and needed inclusion. He muttered a salutation not expecting a response and didn't get one, then took a stool close as he could to the others.

Borrego resumed his monologue. Zackary tried to hear what he was saying, but the acoustics were boomy. The bullfrog talked and the tadpoles listened. Zackary sipped his Schlitz. Life was full of traps, self-made and otherwise; he wanted out, but to leave right then would have endorsed their victory. He would finish his beer first. Although he declined to look, Zackary knew Borrego's performance was meant for him.

He brought out his phone book, pretended to search for a number. Already in the G's before he realized Reed Fingley was standing two feet away talking to him. Timid, apologetic, but eager, explaining something about time management. Zackary pocketed his phone book and listened. Reed had been teaching at Yucaipa Community College, until he was forced to retire because of his health. Then he talked about his dog, Royal Gallant. Often racehorses have two names, why not dogs? Zackary agreed, then asked him what breed of dog it was. Reed wasn't sure, but thought he might have had some Lab in him. Did have. Royal Gallant recently died. Reed had just buried him in the front yard of his trailer. No flowers, no stone, just buried, he said. Then changed the subject, went back to time.

There's four thousand ways to classify it. My specialty was histograms.

Zack was out of his depth, but not completely.

Overlapping or cumulative?

You mean consecutive or disjointed.

Tell me, I'm here to learn.

Okay then! The quantifying of comparabilities to the disparities of the temporarily contiguous is what that is.

That sounds like a contradiction with real opportunities.

Reed was excited to hear it, to be talking to someone who understood, a professional man. And intrigued by Reed's train of thought, even though he couldn't quite catch it, Zackary was glad to have somebody to talk to in the Snake Pit.

Borrego and the boys weren't glad at all, didn't like their little egghead getting all chummy with Mr. Good Listener from somewhere else. Borrego hung his head, and Peewee made vomiting sounds.

Either Reed didn't notice or didn't care; he kept talking.

One interval split into two that looks like a union equivalence may or may not have a fracture value, because if one is nullified, the other is transferred. You understand?

Sounds like marriage, Zackary said.

The stranger was not only smart, he was funny. Encouraged, Reed went on.

You see, the transfer function is going to be identical to the second one no matter what the first one is.

What's the second one?

The assumption that they're going to be the same.

But they aren't?

Nope, Euclidean-based distances can't be reduced by volume unless you do it by midpoint intervals. Which leads to what?

Give me a hint.

One varies, the other is constant, but if they're doing it together, they're neither.

What's that called?

Diffusion puzzle. I wrote the manual on it. You come over, I'll give you one.

Reed put out his hand and they shook on it, exchanged names. The El Dorado trailer park is where he lived, number four. Reed wrote it down on a napkin, then squinted around to see who was looking. They were all looking. The barman cleared his throat. Borrego moaned. Zackary smiled at him. Borrego turned away. Ratbreath yelled:

Get out of here, Reed!

Number four, Reed whispered, there's a lemon tree next to the door. I'll give you a manual, make you a martini!

The way he skimmed across the floor and out the door reminded Zackary of Groucho Marx.

The only sound left was the swamp cooler. Zackary would have liked another beer, but the Snake Pit felt concluded. And there was gin in the car. He laid a five dollar bill on the bar and left.

One place to eat. The China Diner. There was nothing Chinese on the menu. The Chinese had left town. The new owner and his wife hadn't come up with a name yet. That's what the waitress told him. And she didn't think they ever would.

The memory of her gave him a pang. She couldn't have been more than twenty. She was innocent and fun, she was pretty. Probably still pretty and has three kids by now. Zackary tried, but couldn't remember her name. The air was clear still, but a little darker; the sun had gone down. Those clouds over the mountains had thickened, were coming closer.

The war in Vietnam had gotten a foothold, young men in small towns had signed up and gone. The only thing young in the place was the waitress. A broad innocent smile, peachy lips, and beautiful teeth. She was an orchid in a vacant lot. A couple of elders at the counter, but the booths were empty. Zackary took one in the back. Had the waitress to himself. She watched him study the menu. The wrinkled linen suit, his aquamarine eyes, he even had a book. She was dazzled and didn't try to hide it. Did he want the special? Chicken cacciatore. He wanted breakfast. It was almost closing time. Could she make it happen?

When she brought him scrambled eggs and toast he was reading. She cocked her head to peek at the title. He held the book up so she could see it. The cover was a photo of a naked foot propped on a steamer trunk in front of a window overlooking the sea. She pronounced the title in a whisper:
Death in Venice
. He gave her an encouraging nod and she asked him if he believed in reincarnation.

He didn't believe in much of anything, he said, except that life always seemed to be changing addresses. She wasn't sure what that meant, but loved how he said it. So did he. Life is like a curve, he told her, and what is it that curves don't have? She didn't know. Points, he said. Her smile widened. He could see her molars.

The conjectures of transcendence, people who believed in voodoo and prayer, holy scriptures, the conjunctions of planets, made him uneasy, but with her it was a charm. The warmth of his attention and the self-mockery of his pronouncements excited her—she was flattered and flushed, and he was excited back at her.

Before coming in, Zackary had drunk of his flask. His powers had grown large around her. He invited her to sit. She explained that even if it were allowed, she couldn't; she had a boyfriend and people would talk. Where was this boyfriend? In Vietnam, fighting the war. She called him Arvid Toby. Two first names: Zackary wondered if Arvid Toby knew Royal Gallant.

She met Arvid Toby in high school, but they didn't date till just before he left. And what did she think of the war? Not much, because she didn't know what it was about. Zackary told her that nobody did, that's why it was a bad idea. She agreed. She didn't know Zackary was in the movies either. She didn't know who Thomas Mann was. She didn't know where Vietnam was. Zackary knew that in a woman who had nothing to hide, the best was hidden.

He could wait in the parking lot till after the diner closed, and if she decided to and the coast was clear, they could continue to discuss all the wonderful things she didn't know, out there. She wouldn't promise she would, but didn't say she wouldn't. He would just have to wait and see.

He sat in the Buick and waited. The last time he had sex in a car it was in a Lincoln Continental. He liked the word
classy
; never said it, but he thought it and felt that he had it. A kind of dusty élan that made him feel deserving of something better than he usually got. Sometimes he got it. He appealed to Rita. She fucked him one night in the back of that Lincoln Continental. He couldn't remember whose. She was drunk. He wasn't; it happened before he got the chance. It still bothered him she may have done it on a bet. He had no good reason to think it, but he did. He heard it somewhere, that she had sex with somebody on a bet, and he was afraid it may have been him. Rita wasn't too bright, but there was something touching about her. Plus she was Rita fucking Hayworth. Cansino was her real last name, a Chicana from East L.A.

He only saw her twice. That once in the Lincoln and the next time, which was the last time, in Rome. He had been out with a group of Swedes and wound up at Giorgio de Chirico's apartment at the bottom of the Spanish Steps. He and the old painter sat on a couch discussing Mussolini, bananas, and trains. The gin flowed, and de Chirico showed Zackary a sketch he had done of an Eskimo holding a rope tied to the neck of a giraffe standing in front of what looked to be the Great Pyramid of Giza. Zackary loved it and hoped the old man might give it to him. But at sunup he left with hugs and handshakes, but without the sketch, and climbed the Spanish Steps to the Hotel Excelsior.

Instead of the lobby, he went in a side door, through the lounge where jazz was nightly played. It was dark and empty except for two drunks asleep at the bar. It was Rita and her boyfriend, Gary Merrill, a decent guy and not a bad actor. Probably she was in Rome to work, like Zackary was. Gary might have been along for the ride, or the other way around. This was the early sixties, lots of Hollywood people in town for Italian movie work. He felt bad for both of them.

Now he felt bad for himself. The waitress hadn't shown up. There was nothing worth listening to on the radio, and the flask was empty. He was about to drive away when a Toyota pickup went by, turned the corner, and parked. It was her. His was the only car in the lot; looking this way and that, she hurried right to it. He opened the passenger door and she slid in. She had changed her shoes, put on fresh lipstick, but no time for a shower. She smelled like Clorets and fried chicken.

He told her how glad he was that she came. Told her how good she looked, but she was so nervous she could hardly look at him. The magnetic reciprocity they'd shared in the diner was gone. He offered her a cigarette. She didn't smoke. If he hadn't finished off the flask, he could have given her gin. Clark Gable might work, she would know who that was. A decade earlier he'd been invited to the King's fiftieth-birthday party. An event worth telling. Zackary slipped the cigarette back in the pack and was about to get started when suddenly she said she should go. But she didn't move. It was up to him. Gentleman Zack got out of the car, went around to her side, and opened the door. He gave her his hand and she rose.

They stood full-length against each other, using the car as a backstop, his long strong fingers laced around her narrow waist. He kissed her throat, her face, her hair. She only stopped him a little from doing more, but he did and she let him. He slid down her body to his knees. She clutched his head to her belly. Under her sweater, his face smashed against her flesh made it hard to breathe, but he didn't care.

Suddenly she convulsed and made a sound that sounded like he hurt her. He looked up. One of her hands covering her mouth, looking straight ahead, she moaned, Oh, no.

He should have known. Three from the Snake Pit, Ratbreath, Peewee, and Bonehead, coming across the lot. Arvid Toby's girl caught in flagrante on the verge of delicto. The least Zackary could expect was a battering and not lose any teeth. Where was Borrego? Probably waiting around the corner with a hammer.

Stranger inflicts indecencies on resident sweetheart
cried out for punishment. He was due for some damnation, but not on his knees. As he rose, one of them made a threat he didn't quite catch. Zackary thought of a line from a film he no longer remembered the title of. Didn't yell it, delivered it in a stage whisper:

Come a little closer, boys, I'll let you get to know me.

They'd never heard anything so screwy. The perversity of it crimped their momentum. Peewee yelled:

He was kissing her down there!

You stupid bastards, he wasn't either!

The snarl of her defiance impressed everyone. Then a burst of insults and warnings were exchanged. Ratbreath had a can of beer he threatened to throw. She gave him the finger. He threw it. She dodged the can and showed them a moment of disdain before walking as fast as she could without actually running back to her Toyota.

Then it was the rooster show. Bonehead coming closer, almost dancing. Zackary standing his ground, letting them know he would do them some damage before he went down. But just as it was about to happen, coming across the lot, voice like a Klaxon, Borrego was there.