The Dog Says How
Authors: Kevin Kling
the dog says how
Borealis Books is an imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press.
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© 2007 by Kevin Kling. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.
Photograph on page 181 by Mary Ludington.
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
International Standard Book Numbers
ISBN 13: 978-0-87351-599-3 (cloth)
ISBN 10: 0-87351-599-4 (cloth)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kling, Kevin
The dog says how / Kevin Kling.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-87351-599-3 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-87351-599-4 (alk. paper)
E-book ISBN: 978-0-87351-669-3
1. Kling, Kevin, 1957– 2. Dramatists, American—21st century—Biography.
3. Essays. I. Title.
PS3561.L497Z46 2007
812'.54—dc22
[B]
2007023557
for Mary
the dog says how
the dog says how
on a motorbike
It all started because I wanted to fly.
I remember watching the barn swallows on my grandparents’ farm
fork-tailed acrobats of the sky
darting in and out of rafters
following roads only they could see
living life just ahead of their bodies.
God I wanted to feel that,
a foot in two worlds.
So I got a motorcycle.
I love riding in the early morning before the earth stirs to life.
“I’m going to the store to get ice.”
“Take the car,”
she would’ve said had I woke her up
and I’m off riding in the cool morning
catching insects like a swallow,
each gear takes me further from myself
beyond obligations and administrations,
linoleum, clocks, and committees
so alive
and then I see the car in the intersection.
I hit the brakes
and from my body I flew.
accident
When we were kids,
my brother and I had a three-and-a-half-horse Briggs and Stratton engine. That engine went into everything: the minibike, then into the go-cart, then to a boat, to the go-cart, back to the minibike again. We’d bolt the engine to a frame and if there was time, we’d hook up the brakes. We lived by the theory, “Why stop if you can’t get going in the first place?” This tactic usually ended up with one of us in the emergency room, where we were on a first-name basis with most of the staff.
Now, if my brother were getting stitched up I would sit in the back waiting room and read
Highlights
magazine. In it there were cartoons like the Timbertoes and the Bear Family—a family of bears so perfect they made the Family Circus look dysfunctional. There was a page where one could search for the hidden objects, such as an anvil, a top hat, and a hatchet, all in a field of dancing unicorns. But best of all there was
Goofus and Gallant,
stories based on the lives of two boys, Goofus and Gallant. Gallant exemplified good behavior, Goofus bad. Bad behavior and good; Goofus and Gallant. The stories were written in the present tense; for example, Gallant cleans his room. Goofus sees if oily rags will burn in a window well. Gallant eats his vegetables. Goofus wonders what’s inside a squirrel. What I liked was there was no recourse to either behavior. They were simply different approaches to life—and I was naturally drawn to Goofus. But I realized even then we are all made up of a little Goofus and a little Gallant.
On August 11, 2001, my Goofus got on his motorcycle and my Gallant put on his helmet. When I came to the intersection of Lyndale Avenue and Lake Street in south Minneapolis a car pulled in front of me and before I or Goofus or Gallant could touch the fully functional brakes, I crashed.
Over the next several hours I was in sections of the newspaper I’d never known and headed for one section I very much wanted to avoid. As I lay unconscious I had that end-of-life experience so often talked about. I never saw “the light,” but as doctors were working to save my life, I was heading for this amazing sense of peace. At some point I was given the choice to continue on or return to this plane of existence where it was made clear there
would
be consequences. I decided to come back. At first it bothered me that I had returned. Why didn’t I follow that peace?
Then I remembered Australia. In 1987 I was visiting Australia. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. I wanted to stay there the rest of my life. The problem was my visa was only good for three months. As the clock was winding down this woman named Rea said she would marry me so I could stay and aquire citizenship. I had just met her that day and she said, “Yeah, I don’t care. I’ll marry you.” We were all set to go when at the last minute I said, “No. I can’t go through with this. I have to get home. I need to be back where I can do something about this world we live in.” I
need
tension. I mean, I’m the kind of guy who wears socks with sandals just because I know it ticks people off.
AT THIS POINT,
there were people praying for me and sending well wishes. It’s hard to deny the power of prayer when you’re on the receiving end of it. I know it helped me heal. At times it was like waterskiing behind a powerboat. All I had to do was hang on.
I was also on morphine. Oh Morphine, you wonderful evil. Morphine is great because there is no pain. From running marathons, I know that when someone says you’re looking good—you’re probably not. But when I was on morphine people would say to me, “You’re looking good,” and I was thinking, “I already know it. And if I could get up or open my eyes, I’d bust a move right here.” But oh, the price you pay. When morphine takes over, it takes over everything. It falsely takes charge, like Alexander Haig when Ronald Reagan was shot. It says, “I’M in charge now.”
And then all reality is Morphine Reality. I had no idea what was real. You cannot convince me that half of my stay in the hospital was not on top of an Italian mountaintop or that there weren’t two guys in the room spying on me dressed up like televisions.
At this time I was told my face would need considerable reconstructive surgery. In confidence a male nurse told me he thought I sustained minor brain trauma because my “head used my face as an airbag.” My girlfriend, Mary, brought in photographs so the plastic surgeons could put my face back the way it was. There was some concern from my buddies, though, because in one picture I was holding the dog.
Friends started showing up. They brought books on tape to help me through. I found Harry Potter got me to sleep at night, and when I couldn’t go to the bathroom, Tom Brokaw’s greatest generation got the nation moving again.
Through all this time, my family was at the front: my mom, my sister Laura, and my brother Steve, who got me off a liquid diet by saying, “Wouldn’t a cocktail weenie taste good right now? You know, in that red sauce?” At the time, my mouth was wired shut. I could tell by the slight smirk on his face that he was saying it to rile me but he was right. I
had
to have a cocktail weenie. I was out of those wires in a week; the doctors couldn’t believe it. But when you have to have a cocktail weenie, you get one. Whoever said “me against my brother, my brother and me against the world,” got it right.
After the accident, most of my life revolved around rehab and Velcro. There was extensive nerve damage done to my right arm, so I didn’t have feeling or motor skills. And I have a congenital birth defect with my left arm; it’s about three-quarters the size of my right arm, has no thumb or wrist, and is fitted with a plastic brace for protection. So up until now it’s never done much work. I’ve taken to calling my left arm Scarlett, as in Scarlett O’Hara. Because before the accident, it was like, “Bring me a Coke with some chipped ice.” But now it’s got to do everything, poor Scarlett.
When I get depressed, I just take a look at our two wiener dogs. You’ll never see more of a can-do attitude—in a more can’t-do body—than a wiener dog. I know it doesn’t matter whether you’re Goofus or Gallant, you never know when something will happen. It’s been said that God loved stories so much he created people so there would be an endless supply. I’m thankful I’ve been given the chance to rework my ending.
md carnival
When I was a kid,
I played baseball in the summers. I batted first in the lineup . . . standing at the plate, teeth gritting, bubble gum in my cheek, and evil in my eye. Mr. Haynes, our coach, is yelling, “Good eye, Kev, good eye.” Now, “Good eye, Kev,” was actually code for “DON’T swing the bat, Kev.” I was tiny—not little—tiny, and no pitcher could throw me a strike. I had no strike zone. I mean, the number on my shirt was tucked into my pants, so if I stood my ground, I walked to first every time.
“Good eye, Kev, good eye.”
I wanted to hit that ball because in the stands was my friend Cheryl.
Cheryl was my best friend. She was teased a lot for running like a girl—that way of running like Marilyn Monroe: arms out to the side, hips swaying, knees together, feet shooting out in all directions. Cheryl’s body was changing. So people, mostly young boys, focused on that and missed out on how cool and funny she was.
“Good eye, Kev. Attaboy, Kev,” yells Mr. Haynes.
Cheryl knew what I knew. Because of my left arm people made immediate assumptions about me. They called my arm withered or crippled, or asked, “What happened?” or said, “You poor thing.” By the words they chose, I could tell whether they blamed God, my parents, the world, or themselves for my condition. And then with that information, I could get what I needed from them. It wasn’t purposeful. It wasn’t even conscious. It’s just the way a kid works.
The pitcher tried to get one over. “Good eye Kev, attaboy.”
I want to swing that bat. I decide the next pitch I am going to swing, no matter what. Even if I miss, it’s only one strike.
One time Cheryl and I had a carnival for muscular dystrophy. We sent away for the packet that told us how to have a backyard carnival for your neighborhood to raise money for this worthy cause. I couldn’t wait for the packet to tell us how to turn my ordinary backyard into the Greatest Show on Earth. I would be Jimmy Stewart, the jocular clown, and Cheryl, the beautiful rope-spinning butterfly. But when the packet came, the games didn’t seem fun at all—some lame ring-toss game, a totally unfunny clown kit. I mean, it was disappointing . . . like getting sea monkeys all over again.
Cheryl said, “This won’t make a dime.”
I asked what we should do. She said, “Give them what they want.”
So, we made up our own MD carnival. We hung up blankets in the yard to create the big top and borrowed the mimeograph machine at school to make announcements of the upcoming spectacle. God, those announcements smelled good. On show day, I put on swim fins and a snorkel, stripped to the waist, took off my arm brace, laid on a table, and became . . . “Dolphin Boy.” I had to be constantly sponged with a saline solution to keep my skin moist, like it was in my natural habitat—the ocean. To the wonder of the crowd, I performed math problems by means of honking a toy horn. I also pretended to have trouble breathing to add pathos to the situation and to show I’d rather be swimming free with my own kind. I was a
hit.
Then Cheryl did an exotic dance she called “The Dance of the Seven Veils,” revealing “mysteries” of the Orient and bringing . . . “culture” to the unwashed masses. Oh man, it brought the house down. Word got out. Full houses every show. We could have run forever. We raked in the money for muscular dystrophy and had enough left over to pay the performers.
“Good eye, Kev.”
Now the pitcher winds up and throws an obvious ball four. But this time I swing. I swing with all my might and the ball rolls harmlessly toward the shortstop. I run toward first base. The shortstop picks up the ball and heaves it to first. The ball takes a short hop off the first baseman’s leg and into the outfield. I scamper to second and I don’t even look. I am going to third; this may never happen again. Our whole team yells, “No!” I know Mr. Haynes is livid. The ball flies past me while I’m not even halfway to third, but it sails way over the third baseman’s head. I round third for home. I hit home plate and who is running toward me? Not Mr. Haynes. (Oh no, we’ll have a talk later.) No, it’s my best friend Cheryl, running like a girl.
