Chapter Four, Part III
Harry Meets Java
Despite a later-morning drizzle, I am out on the back deck with Java and a cup of same. We’re playing fetch, but with Java it’s never that simple. He fancies himself a wide receiver, and is ruthlessly devoted to the offsides rule, refusing to leave my side until the “ball” (a bone-shaped pillow) has departed the quarterback’s hand. This leaves me with two options: lift a lame popup, giving him a chance to run beneath it; or give him the classic pump-fake, wait till he runs ten feet and looks back, then left a pass further downfield. The latter is much more satisfying, much more You, too, can be Peyton Manning.
Sadly, he only buys this trick a handful of times. Then he stays there on his haunches, giving me a look that says, Come on! I’m a poodle, remember? I’m not that dumb. So now I’m standing, hoping to add some leverage to my popups, while my coffee sits on a statue of Artemis, going cold. From this new vantage, I can see the distinct track that Java has burned into my lawn. Perhaps I spend too much time at this.
I reach way back for a good, high throw, but I louse up the release, sending the bone pillow too far. I fear that Java will end up in the brambles, but instead he veers right and bullets the passionflower archway, barking like crazy. I can swear I hear another dog barking back – and I’m close. Harry Baritone steps up the trail, Java leaping at him with joyous abandon. Once they clear the archway, Harry grabs him around the chest, leaving his head and front legs squirting out the other side of Harry’s looped arms.
“I remember this one,” he says. “Loves to wrassle.” He lets Java go and thumps him on the back. “Macho poodle.” Java’s all worked up now, panting in a half-growl, but Harry grabs his collar and smooths his mop-top. “There now, Mister LeBark. Settle down. Mom and Harry need to talk.”
I’m suddenly self-conscious, hoping my lounging clothes don’t look as grubby as they feel. “Wow, Harry. So weird, seeing you out of context. Um… want some coffee?”
“Yeah. That would be great.”
“Have a seat. I mean, an edge of the deck. Dangle your feet.”
I cheat my grubbiness by trading my sweatshirt for a clean windbreaker. I return to find Harry and Java playing tug-of-war with the bone pillow.
“This dog is tenacious.”
“Yep. And if you like your coffee warm, you’ll just have to give up.”
Harry looses his grip. Java takes his pillow to the lawn for a light-but-thorough chewing.
“I hope I’m not being invasive,” says Harry. “But I had an hour’s break – and I remembered your house from that tow I gave you last spring.”
“No, not at all. I was just easing into my morning lollygag.”
“I hate to butt in on people. But I thought I owed you an explanation.”
My own response surprises me: “Why?”
“Well, because it was nice, what you were trying to do for me. And I’m assuming it turned out a little differently than you expected.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But here’s why. And you’re a singer, so I think you’ll understand this. If you take ‘Boots’ literally, it looked like Sheila was rubbing it in my face – especially the way she was putting the goods on display with that getup. But what you don’t know is this: the first time I ever saw Sheila – in a Mexican restaurant in Tacoma – she was singing ‘Boots.’ And she sang it every single time we went out for karaoke.”
“I know.”
“Well, look at it this way. ‘Mack the Knife’ – song about a homicidal thief, right? But how much you wanna bet that some couple, somewhere, thinks of it as ‘their song’?”
“So Sheila’s message wasn’t ‘Fuck you…’”
“It was ‘Fuck me.’ Less crudely, it was ‘I miss you and I’m lonely.’”
I’m feeling overexposed and awkward, so I get up and practice some evasive pacing. Harry’s not letting me; he stands to join me, forcing me to stop.
“Look. I’ve already told you too much. But what you did last night… it was the nicest damn thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful. In fact, this morning, when Sheila started spinning all this shit about us getting back together, it was you who gave me the power to say no.”
I turn, and he’s smiling. With his blue service shirt, he looks like one of those over-happy plumbers in a commercial for drain opener.
“Go Harry!” I say quietly.
He kisses me on the cheek; the whiskers tickle.
“I gotta go.”
Harry bounds off the deck and through the archway, shouting over his shoulder.
“See you tonight!”
Java runs after, barking. I pick up Harry’s coffee, barely touched, and give it a slow sip.
Next: Heading for Rainier
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
Harry Meets Java
Despite a later-morning drizzle, I am out on the back deck with Java and a cup of same. We’re playing fetch, but with Java it’s never that simple. He fancies himself a wide receiver, and is ruthlessly devoted to the offsides rule, refusing to leave my side until the “ball” (a bone-shaped pillow) has departed the quarterback’s hand. This leaves me with two options: lift a lame popup, giving him a chance to run beneath it; or give him the classic pump-fake, wait till he runs ten feet and looks back, then left a pass further downfield. The latter is much more satisfying, much more You, too, can be Peyton Manning.
Sadly, he only buys this trick a handful of times. Then he stays there on his haunches, giving me a look that says, Come on! I’m a poodle, remember? I’m not that dumb. So now I’m standing, hoping to add some leverage to my popups, while my coffee sits on a statue of Artemis, going cold. From this new vantage, I can see the distinct track that Java has burned into my lawn. Perhaps I spend too much time at this.
I reach way back for a good, high throw, but I louse up the release, sending the bone pillow too far. I fear that Java will end up in the brambles, but instead he veers right and bullets the passionflower archway, barking like crazy. I can swear I hear another dog barking back – and I’m close. Harry Baritone steps up the trail, Java leaping at him with joyous abandon. Once they clear the archway, Harry grabs him around the chest, leaving his head and front legs squirting out the other side of Harry’s looped arms.
“I remember this one,” he says. “Loves to wrassle.” He lets Java go and thumps him on the back. “Macho poodle.” Java’s all worked up now, panting in a half-growl, but Harry grabs his collar and smooths his mop-top. “There now, Mister LeBark. Settle down. Mom and Harry need to talk.”
I’m suddenly self-conscious, hoping my lounging clothes don’t look as grubby as they feel. “Wow, Harry. So weird, seeing you out of context. Um… want some coffee?”
“Yeah. That would be great.”
“Have a seat. I mean, an edge of the deck. Dangle your feet.”
I cheat my grubbiness by trading my sweatshirt for a clean windbreaker. I return to find Harry and Java playing tug-of-war with the bone pillow.
“This dog is tenacious.”
“Yep. And if you like your coffee warm, you’ll just have to give up.”
Harry looses his grip. Java takes his pillow to the lawn for a light-but-thorough chewing.
“I hope I’m not being invasive,” says Harry. “But I had an hour’s break – and I remembered your house from that tow I gave you last spring.”
“No, not at all. I was just easing into my morning lollygag.”
“I hate to butt in on people. But I thought I owed you an explanation.”
My own response surprises me: “Why?”
“Well, because it was nice, what you were trying to do for me. And I’m assuming it turned out a little differently than you expected.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But here’s why. And you’re a singer, so I think you’ll understand this. If you take ‘Boots’ literally, it looked like Sheila was rubbing it in my face – especially the way she was putting the goods on display with that getup. But what you don’t know is this: the first time I ever saw Sheila – in a Mexican restaurant in Tacoma – she was singing ‘Boots.’ And she sang it every single time we went out for karaoke.”
“I know.”
“Well, look at it this way. ‘Mack the Knife’ – song about a homicidal thief, right? But how much you wanna bet that some couple, somewhere, thinks of it as ‘their song’?”
“So Sheila’s message wasn’t ‘Fuck you…’”
“It was ‘Fuck me.’ Less crudely, it was ‘I miss you and I’m lonely.’”
I’m feeling overexposed and awkward, so I get up and practice some evasive pacing. Harry’s not letting me; he stands to join me, forcing me to stop.
“Look. I’ve already told you too much. But what you did last night… it was the nicest damn thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful. In fact, this morning, when Sheila started spinning all this shit about us getting back together, it was you who gave me the power to say no.”
I turn, and he’s smiling. With his blue service shirt, he looks like one of those over-happy plumbers in a commercial for drain opener.
“Go Harry!” I say quietly.
He kisses me on the cheek; the whiskers tickle.
“I gotta go.”
Harry bounds off the deck and through the archway, shouting over his shoulder.
“See you tonight!”
Java runs after, barking. I pick up Harry’s coffee, barely touched, and give it a slow sip.
Next: Heading for Rainier
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
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