Speak

OCTOBER-1

OCTOBER

October 2nd

Nothing to see here.

October 3rd

Nothing to see here. Except spilled coffee. Sorry Trish.

October 5th

Oops. Missed a day.

Note to self: Fill out tomorrow's journal entry before going to bed.

Also: Call Trish and make an appointment.

October 6th

Look. You had to know this was going to happen when you assigned this to me. There's nothing to write about. Nothing ever happens to me. Not Ever. I sit in a tiny office with a plant that's always on the brink of death and I write obituaries for a living. I don't have a love life (not that you aren't trying). I go to work. I go to Don's, or I come home and read sad poetry until bedtime. Sometimes I eat dinner with my parents while my father lectures me on all the ways I've screwed up my life. It's not exactly fodder for life-changing events. I wish something would happen to me—almost anything really.

Note to self: Text Trish back. Tell her you have to have your appendix out. Or your tonsils. It doesn't matter as long as it translates to not meeting the guy she's pretending she didn't invite to dinner the same night she invited you.

October 8th

I was in a waiting-induced coma at Dairy Queen when I saw the pavement-colored lump emerge from the bushes. A rat. The city should do something about that.

I dismissed it.

The lump slinked across the parking lot toward a dumpster, its long coat rippled, brushing the ground.

Wait. Rats come with long hair?

The creature emitted an un-rat-like sound, warning a sparrow who'd landed near some scattered trash at the base of the dumpster.

Rats don't sound like that. And they don't have long coats. What the hell is it?

I had a sudden need to get a closer look at the small, not-rat creature. Ignoring the surprised honk of the driver behind me, I pulled my car out of line and into a nearby parking space.

As I got out and approached, he raised his head. Bright, black eyes glinted at me through a curtain of gray mats, ears flashing forward and back. Somewhere under all that filthy hair was a dog. Hope, suspicion, and hunger passed across its face like a slide show.

It froze and stared at me, ready to flee, but not willing to retreat.

I knew the feeling. That’s how I live my life.

We observed one another while everything—engines idling, cooling fans shutting on and off, the voice of the girl taking orders, and the stares of the drivers—became a faint backdrop.

It's not supposed to be this way, he seemed to say.

No. No, it's not.

I knelt on one knee, afraid to speak for fear of spooking him.

We stared at one another and for an instant I could see myself through his eyes—a short, dark-haired woman in jeans and a t-shirt who probably looked like a pale twelve-year-old boy who didn't get outside enough. And I understood why he wasn't anxious to make my acquaintance. If anyone could look complicated, it would be me.

I didn't know what I was doing. Or why I knelt there on the concrete among the wrappers. But I couldn’t walk away without feeling like a crummy human being.

I remembered my grandmother, Oma Ghertz, and her ancient Schnauzer, Nicholas. I was five when they moved in with us and I loved the idea of having a dog.

During his first twenty-four hours, he bit two maids and the maintenance man who carried Oma's belongings into her room. He wrapped up the day in style by biting my father. I haven't a clue what Dad did wrong, but he was probably yelling while he did it. My nanny ordered me to keep my distance from the dog. I was heartbroken.

Then one rainy afternoon Oma taught me a trick she withheld from everyone else. She sent my nanny off on an errand. Then she explained the rules.

"Nicholas speaks two languages," she said with her thick German accent. "German and food." She sat me on the floor with a fist-full of treats and instructed me to wait for his approach. Within minutes, he ate treats from my small fingers and made me laugh with the tickle of his pink tongue. I played with Nicholas every day after that, and I learned German from my grandmother so I could speak to him. It's one of the few childhood memories I like to replay. So perhaps Oma and Nicholas had something to do with why I was kneeling on the cold, rough pavement of a fast food parking lot tonight practicing a half-forgotten language.

I spoke aloud to the small dog who seemed to be waiting for me to make up my mind. "Bist du hungrig?" Are you hungry?

The ears rose and fell.

"So, I take it you don't have a German grandmother?" The chill of the pavement seeped through the fabric of my jeans. But I was afraid to move.

He sniffed the ground, found an interesting spot and licked at it, his eyes never leaving my face.

"How about I shut up and go get you some real food?"

He gazed at me. This dog was no good at answering questions. I didn't blame him. I don't talk to strangers unless someone pays me to.

I hurried across the parking lot, trying to ignore the stares of curious onlookers. Inside, I bought two burgers and two fries.

I returned to find him scuttling across the backside of the parking lot, wrapper still between his teeth. "Hey! Wait!" I yelled, realizing my mistake the moment the words left my mouth.

He sped up and disappeared into the bushes.

I stood there stupidly with my bag. What did I expect? A cozy little picnic for two sitting in the trash, sharing bites with the sparrows?

Upset and embarrassed, I got back in my car, hoping no one from the drive-thru line noticed. But of course, they did. I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the parking lot with my bag of rapidly cooling fast food.

I pulled out the French fries, shoving two into my mouth at a time.

My cell rang. Friedrich Ghertz. My father.

Well. s**t.

I put him on speaker phone, so I could continue eating my pain uninterrupted. I am fairly sure the guys who invented fast food had fathers who drove them to frying potatoes and stuffing them in their mouths.

His voice filled my small car. "Where are you?"

"On my way home from work."

"Such as it is." Reminding me for the thousandth time I wasn’t living up to my potential.

We Ghertz don’t aspire to be newspaper reporters. Nor do we live in our parents' basement because the only work we can get in our field pays the equivalent of minimum wage and consists of writing obits and editing other people's work. Ghertz's don’t work at minimum wage jobs—they run corporations. They don’t edit other people's work—they yell at them for making mistakes and then leave them to figure out how to fix them.

It would be wrong to ask my mother if she ever cheated on my father and if I'm the result. But I'm sure he's wondered the same thing.

"What do you want, Dad?" Two more French fries in my mouth. Chewing. Two more in my hand, poised to fill the emptiness.

"Your mother wants me to remind you of the dinner party we're having to celebrate your brother's promotion."

The one you gave him, I didn’t say, because my smart-ass comments are always funnier in my head. "Noted."

"Also, your rent is due in a week."

"Mother wanted you to remind me my rent is due?"

"No. I'm reminding you."

"Thank you." I'm never late. He knows that.

My father doesn’t need my money. What he needs is to remind me I am inadequate, and I owe him something. My scrivener’s job and paying him rent gives him this opportunity.

"And the muffler on your car needs work. The neighbors are complaining about the noise."

It isn't that loud. And chances are, the neighbors aren't the ones who are complaining. He is. "I will as soon as I can."

He snorted. "You mean as soon as you can afford it. Which will be never at the rate you're going…"

I let him run through all the reasons why I'm a failure. These conversations follow a predictable pattern and arguing with him only prolongs it. He'll run on for a while, I'll pretend I'm listening, he'll get it out of his system, and hang up. Then I'll sit alone and ponder the tragic comedy of life choices that led me to stuffing my face with lukewarm fries in a fast food parking lot.

Is there comfort in predictability, even when the familiar outcome is horrible? Must remember to ask Trish.

The bushes twitched and the shadows rippled. I stopped in mid-chew.

The rat-dog emerged and circled the dumpster, pausing from time to time to stare at the top. One of the lids stood open and his nose told him there was more food to be had if he was strong enough and fast enough.

The matted little canine backed up several feet, stilled for a long second, then seemed to gather himself. His toenails scrabbled across on the pavement as he rocketed forward. Pushing off, he flew through the air. I held my breath as his front feet caught the lip of the dumpster, his back legs scrambling for purchase. But it wasn't quite enough to launch him over the edge.

He tumbled to the ground, landing with a solid thump.

"Too high," I said without thinking.

My father paused in the middle of his lecture and barked—"What?"

"Nothing."

He continued. Something, something..."You should have finished college with a degree in business. Instead, you majored in a degree that is equal to underwater basket weaving… " Something, something…

The tiny dog backed up further this time, running harder, and jumping higher. This time he cleared the ledge, landing firmly on the top. He stood for a moment, glanced toward the store and the waiting customers, then scurried over to the opening.

It's now or never.

Dad's voice rose, getting louder. Something, something-"When do you plan to grow up? When are you going to realize—"

"Hey, Dad, I gotta go." I hung up before I even realized what I'd done.

Holy s**t. I hung up on my father.

Does that count as a breakthrough?

The dog peered inside the dumpster as I eased the car door open, stepping into the summer air full of the smells of cooking food, exhaust, and hot asphalt. As I walked, I unwrapped the burger and tore off a large bite. I stood on my toes to see over the edge of the dumpster and held out the chunk of meat and bread.

He whipped around and froze, staring at me. His eyes traveled to the food in my hand, and his nose twitched.

I set the food on the lid, pushed it toward him, and took two steps back. He wasted no time in pouncing on it and wolfing it down. I planted another piece in the same place, not bothering to step back this time. He gulped it without chewing. The next he snatched from my fingers. While he continued taking food from my hands, I argued with myself.

Inner adult: You should leave the rest right here. You should put it down for the little guy and just let him eat his dinner in peace. That's what a grown-up Ghertz would do.

Inner child: A grown-up Ghertz wouldn't have gotten out of the damned car.

Inner adult: You always were a little smart ass…

While the debate raged, I stroked him with one hand while feeding him with the other. I really shouldn't be doing this.

But my heart and arms were in league. One bite of hamburger later, I was holding him. A few more and I was carrying him across the parking lot.

Then he was in my car, sitting in my lap. As we looked at one another, two things registered. He smelled awful, like a leather shoe worn by a never-bathed foot. And he was all bones, claws, and fur. He hadn't had a real meal in a long time.

The dog lay against me, his heart drumming a one-two beat, the warmth of his shivering body pressed against me, his head under my chin. In that moment, we synchronized. Our hearts, our breathing, our thoughts. We were each other's resting place.

"You'll never be alone again." I don't know if I was talking to him or me or if it mattered.