I found a few old gems the other day. One being this picture of my time as a ghost. Those were strange times, friendo. I was so misunderstood. I just felt so...invisible. (RIM SHOT CYMBAL CRASH)
Actually, this is from spring 2001. I spent 94 days living in Venice Beach, California. I have at least eight stories to tell from my time out there. Give or take. It was a "travel quarter." I didn't have a job like my roommates did. I spent three months riding my bike around LA taking photos, reading novels and writing every day. This happened as a result of a literature class I took the previous quarter that honestly changed everything. Reading books, talking about them, writing our own quick stories was a whole new world (cue Aladdin music). I felt like an Amish kid who tripped over a Gameboy, Pop Rocks and a Def Leopard CD. I kind of had a melt down. I was a year from graduating with a degree in graphic design and then found out about this literature thing. I was like an engaged lover who met someone else. So I left for California in hot pursuit. (I'm sure I'll share more on this topic down the road)
But I also found a short story that came from that time period. I've made changes to it over the years. I think it still holds up. It's long for a weblog post (classic disclaimer) but if you have time to burn you may enjoy this short, non-autobiographical story.
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I walk across campus with the burrito hot in my hands and see Small Dog waiting for me at the end of the courtyard. He’s at full attention with his sturdy little legs, Marine buzz cut, and light brown ears saluting any onlookers. If he stood taller than 10 inches he might be an intimidating soldier. Small Dog has pride though and the courtyard is his at 11pm. Thankfully, my trespasses are welcomed because I bring him foil-wrapped treats. Maybe it’s ignorance or just hungry impatience, but every time I put the burrito at Small Dog’s tiny feet he refuses to remove the foil before consumption.
I don’t have cable or very interesting friends, so watching a terrier eat foil-encased burritos has kept me quite entertained for the past two weeks. Tonight, however, I realized I wasn’t waiting with bated breath for my walk home. I’ve grown bored with my foil game. The virgin rush of watching Small Dog survive metal poisoning has worn off. So before leaving the Barnyard I wrapped Small Dog’s burrito with two sheets of foil instead of the usual one. I figure even a junkyard goat couldn’t handle two oversized sheets of aluminum.
I put the double-wrapped treat on the ground kind of assuming Small Dog would just stare at it unable to smell the beans and cheese. Hastily, he inhales it all. The extra layer of foil didn’t slow him down at all. In fact, I think the tiny Marine appreciated the challenge. I lovingly slap him on his buzzed rump just before he double-times it toward a phantom intruder. I wait for a minute, half expecting to hear a tiny thud in the bushes, hearing nothing I head home for a nighttime beverage and eventual sleep.
Before bed I email my professors letting them know that I’ll be absent tomorrow due to a sinus infection. Searching for a dog I fed large amounts of foil to might be an unexcused absence. I’m past my limit with those. And if my professors knew I was skipping class to prove that dogs shouldn’t eat aluminum they might do worse than just flunk me. For reasons even I don’t understand I had to witness the results of my gamble with Small Dog’s digestive tenacity.
I wake up easily and shuffle to the kitchen to make coffee. Glancing at the calendar I notice that today is Laundry Day. Dilemma. I’m faced with a decision. I need underwear. If I don’t do it now I won’t do it later. So despite my anxiety to begin my pursuit of Small Dog I honor my commitment to laundry day.
I dig around my desk to find my old glasses. Laundry day is impossible if I were to wear my new ones. I put on my red Levi’s, purple button-up and half leather half nylon L.L. Bean book bag. On the way out I avoid the mirror knowing how ridiculous I look.
I walk outside to Brady Bunch sunshine and cross the street to Campus Clothing. Inside the overly expensive “department” store I grab an impossibly bad, green pleather belt from the sales rack. I shuffle up to the cashier. Her name is Brooke. I fumble with my thick glasses, bite the skin of my thumb, and smile bashfully. That’s the key. I make Brooke think I’m a choirboy visiting from Dorkville and the instant she sees my broken smile, it’s over. “This thing is a steal. Is it honestly only $1.99?” I happily ask.
“Yeah. People have been buying those all day.” Brooke is a terrible liar.
“Well I’m glad I came in today. Big date tonight and me without a belt. Ha ha ha.” I shuffle my feet, and continue to laugh. I can see Brooke is melting with sympathy. By her observation there is no way that I, king of Dorkville, could land a date with a girl. I’m skinny, badly dressed and worst of all excited about a belt that should have been burnt instead of bought.
“I’m sure your date will love the belt,” Brooke awkwardly assures me. Brooke is uncomfortable that she can’t tell if I’m lying or trying to hit on her. The date comment caught her off guard. That hurricane of uneasiness is my favorite part of Laundry Day. I am a virus of awkwardness momentarily consuming Brooke’s sunshine day.
Blind with pity, Brooke fails to notice the stolen merchandise I’ve tucked into my bag. Even when the alarm goes off telling Brooke that I’m robbing her she’ll expose her dimples, assume she forgot to scan the belt and wave me through.
I’m not a crook. Seriously. I just feel that if all it takes is crooked glasses to get two weeks of fresh Jockey shorts for free, you’re a sucker if don’t steal them. The extra bonus is how good I make the Brookes of this campus feel about themselves. I am the new age Robin Hood, keeping what I steal but giving back equal amounts of self-confidence to those who secretly need it.
I drop my fourteen pairs of new boxer briefs at home. Laundry day is over and “Operation Find Small Dog” is officially underway. Unfortunately I have no idea where he hangs out during the day. Perhaps at Jiffy Lube where he eats old tires and spark plugs. Perhaps at the courtyard still. That’s where I’ll start.
College Green is full of people today. A little sunshine and the hermits abandon their burrows for plastic Frisbees and hacky sacks. I love days that are hot enough for girls to shed their sweaters for tank tops and sports bras. The magic of exposed midriffs can turn freemen into slaves.
Across the street a group of girls wearing bikini tops and cut-off sweatpants run around playing football. The star of the group likes to jump up and down while calling for the ball. She’s tall and intimately knows the depth of Victoria’s secret. She is bouncing, performing for every male on College Green and receives a standing ovation with each stare. She is the girl men search the Internet for but her conscious performance forces my attention to her fat friend. She also is wearing a bikini top and she also is bouncing. But the fat friend’s bounce isn’t sexy. The stares she receives are like giant hooks trying to pull her off stage. I’m giving her a standing ovation (for her unashamed contrast to her skinny friend) by staring at her enormous belly hanging over her shorts.
I finish applauding and saunter towards the courtyard. Small Dog is nowhere to be found. Maybe he actually died. That would be strange wouldn’t it? “Dog Killer” is not a label I would proudly wear. Nobody likes a guy that kills dogs. For the first time I feel guilt. Guilt breeds the need for a nap, so I head home.
Naps are one of God’s greatest creations. Just thinking about them makes my brain settles downward pushing my eyelids with it. Naps make me feel sneaky. Today, I feel like a lazy spy going into hiding when I slip under my sheets. The afternoon light barely makes it past the dusty blinds as I fold the pillow around my head. Suddenly, the ringing telephone forces me to reluctantly abandon my foxhole.
I answer the phone and hear, “This is Officer Danford. I’m looking for Jack Letner.” The officer’s foghorn bellow nearly knocks me out of bed. “Mr. Letner needs to come down to the campus police station for a few questions.”
“I’ll let him know Chief.” I hang up the phone proud of my faceless display of toughness. The station is located across the street in a former Dunkin Donuts. Ironic I know, and truthfully I don’t know if it’s actually true, but I do my part to continue the campus legend. Dizzy with confusion I grab a Coke from the fridge and make for the station.
I’m not just whining when I say I think The Man is out to get me. Not for anything serious like selling crack to hookers. But minor infractions and parking tickets seem to plague my life. So, I walk to the station and into the marble floored lobby puzzled but not surprised. The library probably turned me in for delinquent late fees.
The receptionist stops chewing her pen as I approach and say, “Yeah hi, my name’s Jack Letner. I just got a call from Officer Danford saying I had to come down here.” She smiles and calls Danford.
“Officer Danford will be down in a couple of minutes. You can sit in the reception area and wait for him.” Her warm, grandmotherly voice and smile fills the lobby like an old jazz record. And even though I realize she is only moderately involved with this police station and probably has grandchildren that adore her for instantly obvious reasons, I still hate her.
Sitting across the echoing marble room is an elderly woman in a pink sundress that looks like she’s playing dress-up. She’s fairly attractive for woman in her seventies though. Her gray and black hair is held back by a scrunchie. She has long painted fingers that she uses to constantly check for hairs that have sprung free from her ponytail. Between her legs is a green duffle bag catching her small stream of tears.
Watching the Sundress Lady reminds me of my mom crying when my uncle got into a car accident. I was eight and the only one home with my mom when the phone rang. My mom cried for two hours with no one around to say anything consoling or intelligent. I was useless.
The Sundress Lady won’t stop crying and again I feel the regret of my uselessness. I feel like an uninvited guest at a funeral in charge of consoling the grieving family. Do I tell her everything will be fine and offer condolence? Is it rude or nosy to ask if she’s ok? Is Officer Danford honestly that fat?
“Jack Letner? I’m Officer Danford. You mind talking with me for a few?” His belly gives his shirt buttons a workout. He has a brown moustache that would’ve made Doc Holiday jealous, and if I were his five-year old nephew, I’d reach up and tug on it. His bass drum stomach, push broom mustache and husky voice make me want to flee the scene. Timidly, I follow the big grizzly to his office.
“Mr. Letner, were you in class this morning around 11am?” Danford takes a drink from a stained coffee mug and wipes his moustache dry as he waits for my response.
“Um, not this morning sir.” Why does a cop care if I was in class? Is there a new tag-team approach to absence-control by the university and police?
“Well Mr. Letner, I’m not going to dance around here. I received a call from Campus Clothing in regards to a shoplifting. They have the theft caught on tape. And they traced your credit card. You do the math. Luckily for you they don’t want to press charges. They just want…” Danford checks his report and looks back at me, “their underwear back.”
Typically I would fabricate an Oscar winning excuse, but I was scared Danford would eat me, so I just mutter, “Yes sir.”
“Campus Clothing is requiring you to donate some of your time in retribution for their leniency. You two can figure that out. I won’t have to be involved unless you decide not to comply. So be smart, comply, and we won’t have any problems.”
I can now barely hear Danford over the wailing cries from outside his office. Through the blinds I can see it’s the Sundress Lady. She’s pointing to her green duffle bag placed on another officer’s desk and bawling. Her hair is no longer in a ponytail and she keeps pleading to a younger desk officer that looks more scared than concerned. Danford keeps talking.
“They’re expecting you within the hour so have a good day Mr. Letner.” He points to the door and I leave feeling fairly lucky considering I got caught shoplifting. Perhaps my bad luck with The Man is turning around.
Sundress Lady on the other hand continues making it obvious that her luck is not. I start walking to the reception area worried that she’ll become violent and I’ll get my caught in the middle a pink and gray tornado. The desk officer stands and puts his hands on Sundress Lady’s shoulders. I am close enough to hear him begging her to calm down. She keeps twisting away and finally screams, “Yes I have proof!” She rips the bag off the desk throwing her other shaking hand in the air and screams, “Quit telling me I don’t have proof!”
She flips over the green duffle bag and with a thump Small Dog tumbles onto the desk. The whole room freezes like they just saw a dead dog fall out of a duffle bag. I keep walking. If circumstances were different I would grab Sundress Lady’s painted fingers, and tell her she had a great dog. “He made life worth living,” I would exaggerate. Instead, I hold back my need to puke and shuffle out the front door. Small Dog was a tough little soldier, just not two sheets of foil tough.
I go home to pick-up the stolen underwear and prepare for the humiliation of seeing Brooke-the-cashier’s vengeful dimples. I am a sad excuse for a criminal. The reality that I’m also the kind of person who gambled (and lost) with an old lady’s best friend is horribly overwhelming. I’m not sure if I’m more shocked that Small Dog had an owner or that I didn’t even consider that a possibility. I take off my shoes and walk towards my bed, bankrupt and beaten by guilt. Brooke will have to wait until tomorrow. I unplug my phone and sneak underneath my cold sheets for a nap I don’t deserve.
