Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (7 page)

Jack rolls up onto his bunk, lies back to reflect. Spring and summer, Rat Hall's climate is favorable to reptiles. Rats from the attic scampering the premises at night—Blacky could get a plump one anytime he wants. And in the winter, the dark beneath the bed is perfect for hibernation. Rat Hall has everything a big snake needs.

In a reverie of connection to the nature of things, Jack recognizes that Blacky is no mere pet, but an actual avatar who deserves a proper name.
Blacky . . . Black magic . . . Merlin . . . King Arthur
 . . . and there it is. He whispers, Arthur! and falls asleep.

Three minutes later, Jack opens his eyes, looks over the edge of the bed and through the doorway. Arthur is gone. He jumps down, steps into the dining room in time to see the snake sliding into the broom closet. No time for deliberation. Jack catches Arthur just before he disappears and pulls him out by the tail.

This time, the snake is in no mood for it, coils so fast Jack hardly has time to jump back before it strikes. Stunned, Jack backs away into the bedroom. Arthur slithers after him. Jack jumps up onto his elevated bed. Arthur is coiled and buzzing on the floor, hammerhead stretched high and cocked. Come on! shouts Jack. It's me, calm down!

But Arthur's head is almost two feet off the floor now, weaving like a thing in heat, the terrible little gun holes of his eyes fastened on Jack crouching on the mattress. There is no way Arthur can get up to him, but Jack, infected with panic, looks around for something to bash him with. He considers the phone. Probably it would break. He would be phoneless again. Then he spots the horn hanging just above him on the wall. A German hunting horn, a legacy from his father. He lifts it off the nail. But this precious coiled horn is not for throwing. Kneeled on his berth, Jack puts it to his lips, aims it down at Arthur, and blows. The blast fills the room.

The serpent, of course, is earless, reads the oscillations with its tongue. Arthur is stunned; the shrill abruption in the air afflicts him, and fearing for his life, he hurries back into the dining room and slips through the barely opened door into the broom closet.

Horn in hand, Jack slides off the bed, peers into the dining room, watchfully crosses it. Slowly he opens the broom closet door. Just a broom and dustpan, a can of paint, and the rat hole Arthur squeezed through to a safer world.

Jack knows the consequence of love is loss. Loss is the figment that stalks the land, the sea, and the night; blood and hope, sex and sky, loss is the big bang itself. Jack returns to his bedroom, climbs up on the bunk, and hangs his horn back on its nail.

O
n our way to the lake I meant to stop at Jack Master's bait shop to obtain some night crawlers when the right rear tire blew out. The spare in the trunk turned out to be flat, which was good with me; I didn't feel like changing a tire. Fishing was gonna have to wait.

It would have been about a five-mile walk either way, but it was too hot for that, so best thing was hang around till a Good Samaritan came along. That was not out of the question in this neck of the woods, and sure enough, in about twenty minutes, here comes Plaz Camel. I hadn't seen him or given him a thought in probably five years, and there he was, showed up exactly when I needed such a person.

What I was doing with a Negro covered in tar didn't seem to concern him. Probably he'd already heard something on that score, so we decided to go to his house because he said the gas station was closed but he had something in the automotive department I might like to have a look at.

I'd never been to Plaz's house before; it was a place like something a little old lady might own, except there was a '54 Chevy pickup parked in the front room. He tried not to show his pride in it, but it was clear that's how come he brought us over. I ask him how he got it inside. Took it apart out front, he said, hauled the chassis in sideways, then put it all back together. Took him three years, just an idea he got so went ahead and did it, he says. You could go in the Guinness Book of World Records, I tell him. He said he didn't like publicity, didn't wanna be famous. I understood that.

There was no room to sit anywhere except in the truck, which was the idea, I guess. Even though Mot's tar was dry, we had to wait for Plaz to bring out a couple towels to protect the seats before he let us get in. I never saw Mot stubborn before, but he wanted behind the wheel, and when I tried to push him over he wouldn't budge, so I let him have it. I sat in the middle, and it was kind of cozy all of us being in the cab together, Mot bobbing his big head, making motor noises, steering like he was going somewhere. I could smell there was gas in the tank and looked to make sure there was no keys in the ignition. Put me in mind of a story Doc used to tell about how it was he got circumcised back when he was twelve.

Usually it was not much more than a creek, but because of some storm the Kanakoli was all swelled up, Doc and his dad having a drive to town alongside it. Sometimes a younger brother was included in the story, so there was three of 'em. To impress his daddy, little Doc tells him how he's such a strong swimmer he could dive in the river and beat 'em to where it was they were going. Doc's dad, who was a tough old bastard, plus also a doctor, stopped the car and told little Doc never to say he could do something unless he meant to do it.

Doc told me he didn't really want to, but there was no choice at that point, so he takes his shirt off and dives in. Split his head open on a submerged log and would have drowned if big Doc hadn't of gone in for the rescue. Little Doc woke up in the hospital, and since his daddy was a doctor and since little Doc was in for one thing, why not do the rest like sometimes they did in those days? Stitched up his head, circumcised him, and took out his appendix. Three birds with one stone, and nothing he could do for quite a while that didn't hurt him, he said.

It could be that's how come Doc became a doctor, never again wanting any doctors to have power over making decisions about what happened to his body again. Every time he told that story he'd get tears in his eyes for being proud about how his daddy saved him. But not about the next part, which I didn't get to tell because right then something went wrong with Mot.

Started with a sneeze—not a little one, it made us jump. Next he's coughing, then he's choking, having what could be called a spasm, black stuff coming out his nose, him gagging and trying to get his breath like he was drowning. When something like this happens, you wanna get out of the way and hope it's gonna stop. But it didn't stop. Plaz yelled, Get him out of the truck! We did, but it wasn't easy. Plaz got clipped in the head by Mot's elbow, nearly knocked him down, and wouldn't touch him after that so it was up to me getting him outside across the yard and into the backseat of the car. All Plaz did was hold the door open. I used one of the towels stuck to Mot's back to wipe away what was coming out of his mouth, then it was step on it Plaz and we took off.

On the ride there I realized if Mot didn't get better it was gonna be partly my fault because of how like a child he was in his dependence on me and how deep my responsibility to his situation went. If he didn't improve, I didn't think I'd be looking forward to any birthday parties because life wouldn't be worth getting any older in. Dark thoughts, but down deep I believed Doc was gonna be able to fix him, because even in his current condition Mot was strong enough and good enough to beat this thing. On the other hand, if I was wrong, this thing might just go ahead and kill him.

Soon's we got into Doc's, I could see Plaz wanted to hang around, see what was gonna happen next, but Doc didn't like too many cooks in the kitchen. Neither did I. Besides, him being a stranger was driving the dogs nuts, so I told him to go home. I'd catch him up on what happened later.

Of course Doc could see he was in trouble, but before he could pinpoint the problem Mot had to be toned down. I held him steady while a shot was prepared. Doc gave it to him in the neck. That pretty much improved his condition, made him almost back to normal, far as I could see. But Doc said Mot was still in trouble, his skin couldn't “breathe.” Problem was, if he peeled off the tar, Mot would be skinned alive and die like a snake.

Doc said the solution to this was what he called the solar petroleum treatment. Sounded fancy, but the principle was simple, about the same as getting an oil stain off the driveway, he said.

In the garage there was a five-gallon can of gas for emergencies, and that's what this was. By way of a ladder we got Mot up on the roof of the house. Closer to the sun, I suppose; didn't ask. Doc was a drunk, but he knew his business. We took off Mot's shoes and poured the gas on him. I used a rag to blindfold him, make sure his eyes were safe, and whatever was in that shot kept him calm as a kitten. Like Doc said, either the gas and the sun was gonna do the trick or he was gonna die. I went down and brought him up a bottle of cola in case he got thirsty, then had a good look around, made sure there was nothing that could cause a fire. After that it was a question of time and pray he had enough sense to stay put and not walk off the edge of the roof.

Doc didn't have any patients, so all we had to do was wait it out, watch TV, drink some beers. He wanted to talk about Mot, couldn't remember how I got him, so I told that story again, left out the money part, but not the part about saving him. Doc thought he bore a resemblance to Cassius Clay. Surprised I didn't think of it myself, because it was true.

Least I didn't have to worry about his safety, because the dogs were out there keeping an eye on things, knew there was something on the roof. If Mot started flexing around, they'd set up a ruckus. Dogs are nature's warning signals.

Doc used to have parakeets too. But they died. Instead of throwing out the cage or giving it to somebody with real birds, he bought two plastic ones. Not that he was sentimental; I think it was that he didn't want the cage to go to waste. The real ones didn't have names, but he called these plastic guys Cocker and Cohen. If you have something not real, he said, names help.

When I was a kid I had a teddy bear with a name. I used to have sex with him. And when I did, afterwards I'd tell him I was sorry. I was nervous somebody might catch on, so I cut a hole in his neck because I'd seen a guy with a tracheotomy, and told Doc and Mom I was practicing to be a doctor and that way they might not jump to conclusions about the hole I made between Roy's legs. Of course when I'd have sex I'd have to pretend Roy was a female instead of a bear. So in that case the name didn't help.

At sundown we went back up on the roof. Mot was on his back just like we left him. First I thought he was dead, but he was just sleeping. Didn't wake up too easy, but seemed glad to see me when he did. The sun and the gas had done the trick. The tar was all flaky and falling off, but some was still stuck on him in certain places. A water hose and a horse brush would do the rest. Because of Auto I had that kind of equipment, then some Ajax if it was needed.

Pleased with how it went, Doc asked if I wanted another beer. Two 'nothers, I say. Mot deserved one too. Then it's a question of how to get back home. Buick and the flat could wait, so I had Doc drive us, but he didn't come in. Me neither; took Mot around back for the cleanup.

Not wanting to call attention, I didn't turn on the floodlight; brushed him down and hosed him off in the dark. Got him close to how he was before the tar. It felt good to accomplish, but didn't make me feel like going in to answer questions about the Buick, so we stayed outside awhile waiting for Sister to go to bed. I sprayed Auto as well; he loves the water. Of course the water made noise, so probably Sister had a look through the window; maybe not, but if she did, she decided not to interfere.

Mot was done in from the hardships of the day, fell asleep next to the pool with Auto watching over him. That's how mules are: Once they show you who's boss, they'll treat you like family. So, figuring everything was too tired to make any trouble, I went upstairs and hit the hay. Tomorrow is another day, as they say.

Next morning I look out the window, see it's a bright gusty day, leaves blowing off the trees, and there's Auto standing by the pool, staring at something moving in the grass. It's a newspaper, wind flipping the pages over, making it look like he's reading the thing. He eats a page before the rest of it blows away. Then Mot comes out of the tobacco shed with a board stuck to his foot. Starts walking around in a circle trying to shake it off, and I go down there to see what's up.

One simple thing like a nail can change everything. Went right into his foot. Think of Jesus. You think he didn't howl, or at least cringe, when he got a nail pounded into his foot? Not Mot. When I pulled it out he didn't even wince. Hardly any blood either. Not to say he wasn't glad to be free of the board, but the thing was, he didn't feel any pain. To make sure of it, I gave him a pretty hard pinch on the arm. I was right. Mot somehow had gone beyond hurt. I bet it happened because of the tar, or the solar petroleum treatment, or the shot Doc gave him. Or all of those things—who knows? But I was starting to see an opportunity here. Not the Wild Man anymore, that didn't work, but this was a condition that had possibilities to it. A man who couldn't be hurt was a whole new story.

I
could see the fans lining up to see it. Ladies and gentlemen, for five bucks you can kick him, hit him, work him over with a switch, jab him, or smack him. People handing up their ten-dollar bills to have a go at him. Scratch him, burn him, baseball players could slug him with bats, football players kick him, tackle him. For twenty bucks, ladies and gentlemen, see wrestlers throw him across the room, attack him with dogs. It could even be a TV show, call it
Give It to Me Now!
Some famous flogger in a turban and loincloth does push-ups, then flexes for the crowd. Let the flogging begin! The flogger's stick hisses through the air and Mot gets the beating of his life, doesn't even blink. Or forget that idea, he could do commercials. Tylenol, for instance. Who knows where this could lead?

Nowhere, of course. I wouldn't do it. A guy who felt no pain could really get hurt. But things cross your mind when you're developing an idea. It was gonna take some thought. Thinking about his side of it too. How's he supposed to learn about life if he can't feel any pain?

I decide to take him inside, make some waffles. Probably he'd never had one before. He deserved something special. I didn't say anything about his new ability, but after looking him over, Sister said she was glad I'd come to my senses and took the tar off him. I didn't tell her how it was done and she didn't ask, but it was true, he looked pretty good. Mot was an impressive specimen, natural-born muscles, scars and tattoos, fat too, but not the Jell-O kind—he was firm as an inner tube. After putting a bandage on his foot we got him into a jumpsuit that Sister got at the surplus store, a blue one, extra-large, but it was still tight on him—reminded me of the kind they wear in jail, no sleeves, which was nice because Mot had muscle-builder arms.

I couldn't find the waffle iron and she didn't help, acted like she didn't care, but I knew once I made some she'd eat 'em. Lot of junk under the sink is where I found it; also came across the bucket and snorkel Mama used to use to improve her looks. Nobody ever talked about it but we all knew it happened. She used to stand on her head in ice water to reduce the bags under her eyes. Something I guess she learned in a magazine at the beauty parlor, but it never worked. Once you got bags under the eyes, unless you do surgery, they don't go away. Upside down in ice water could've been what gave her the heart attack. I didn't bring it up; a subject like that might turn into a fight, so I went ahead and made the waffles. Put pecans in the batter. We had 'em out on the porch.

Sometimes something you think gone wrong turns out to be a good way to go; then just when you're about to get started, it changes again. What started with a nail ended with a bee.

I heard it, then I saw it; it landed on his arm. For being a slow guy, Mot had a fast hand. Swatted the sucker. There it was, dead on the floor. But it got him, could tell by how he looked, the way he rubbed his arm. To make sure of it I gave him another pinch right where he was stung. You could see it hurt him. Mot had his senses back. He was like the rest of us again. Mot was no longer the man who felt no pain.

Sister wanted to know how come I pinched him. Told her it was an old Negro trick to cure insect bites, learned it from Doc when I was a kid. Not true.