2

 

       DOUG

 

    He follows me like a dog.  There's something about him that reminds me of a dog my dad bought me one time.  Little dog.  Skinny, with one red ear and no hair on his butt in the summertime.  Like a goddamned monkey.  It'd rub up and down on the pen until the hair was gone and then worry it all summer long.  Vet said it was just something like dandruff, that some dogs just got it when it was summer, something to do with cut grass and being allergic.  Something about the look in the eye of that dog, jouncing its rear up against the fence, his head cocked over his shoulder, something like pain and pleasure and jesusgodcantyoudosomething is what I see in him.

    He walks half a step behind me, his sneakers slapping down like swim fins.  On the linoleum, he sounds like three or four of him.  Kid's gonna be big, no doubt about that.  Be bigger than his daddy          already got his feet.  Thirteen years I got on him and he's half a head taller'n me.          

    Here we go.  Hey, Eric, what do you say we get Clare a can of these.  I toss him a can of oysters.

    He makes a face, then grins and throws the can back.  Yeah, right.

    You know how he's always talking about oysters and how you used to be able to get good ones.  Don't you want to hear that one again?  How him and          ah

    Scooey.

    Yeah, him and Scooey used to go to Baltimore just to pick up oysters and go to that place where the beer was a dime for a quart.  Bet that was good, huh?

    He laughs like a little kid, not caring who sees him hold his side, not caring that the laugh should match the joke.  He has no sense of proportion.  He laughs too much at little jokes.  Sometimes I wonder if maybe there isn't something at him inside, telling him joke upon joke, wearing him down until he can't tell when to laugh and when the time is for a little smile.  He's like his mother in that way; you never know when she's gonna laugh at something.  But you get the feeling that she knows when and she knows why.  That's what makes her so spooky to me; she knows that there's something there that I don't see.  I think maybe she  screwed up his knowing when to laugh and how hard.  It's something you might not notice if you didn't know to look for it.

    I slap him on the back as if that'll help get it out, the laugh and the need to.  He coughs and grins at me.  Get a hold of yourself, I kid him.  People are watching.  They'll call up the po-lice and they'll come with a net to check you for          dadada    controlled substances.  Either he doesn't know what I'm talking about or the notion is too much for him.  He starts up again; his face is red and splotched.  I didn't think it was that funny.  I'll get the charcoal.  When you're up to it, you can catch up.

    I leave him in canned goods and go around the corner into frozen foods.  The goose bumps stand out all over me;  I can feel the muscles in my back cringe together and tighten.  Why do they always keep supermarkets so cold?  I don't see how the people who work here stand it.

    The charcoal is at the end of the aisle.  Better get the bigger bag; he never could start a fire right; thinks you need a pile of charcoal two feet high and a half a gallon of fluid.  He didn't mention fluid.  Well, it's his five dollars.  I take a can.

    Eric is at the magazines when I get to the check out.  He drops whatever he's been looking at and comes over to the cash register.  I try not to smile, What ya looking at?

    His face is still red but a different red.  Ah, nothing.

    Uh huh.

    What?

    What?  What?  I didn't say anything.  I just agreed with you.  He's deeper into this already than he wants to be; his face gets redder.

    I lay the charcoal and the fluid on the conveyor belt and take the five out, uncrumpling it.  The girl at the register is nothing to write home about but the one behind her, looking over her shoulder, I know.  She was in school with me.  The name tag on the little orange jacket says Cathy.  Stambaugh or Stroemann or something like that, I don't remember.  The other girl explains something.  Charcoal is taxable; you can't eat it.  Okay, you hit this, this, and this and check the tax.  Hit tax and the number; like this.  The other girl peels off the tongue of paper and turns to the next customer.  Cathy Stambaugh or Stroemann starts to put the stuff in a bag.  She looks better than she did in school; her eyes are still blue, but her hair is lighter, less red; her face has cleared up.  She smiles at me, but it's the IGA-smile-like-this-to-the-customer smile and not an oh, I remember you--trigonometry class, junior year--how are you smile.  Pity, I say.

    What?  Her head comes up, smiling, ready to help out in my grocery needs.

    I was just thinking what a pity to be trapped in here on such a nice day.  How do you guys stand it this cold in here?

    Oh, you get used to it.  The company would be pleased; she is very pleasant.

    I guess that's why they give you the jackets.

    Smocks.

    Yeah, smocks.  I pick up the bag and start toward the door.  Eric is right behind me.  Have a nice day, I hear behind us.  I nod.  Eric is snickering before the automatic doors close behind us.

    What are you simpering about?

    Nothing.

    Yeah, that's what happens when you read them magazines; you start to laugh at nothing and get hair on the palms of your hands.  I've seen it happen.

    What magazines?

    What magazines?  I mimic.

    We didn't need lighter stuff.  We have some.

    Then why'd you let me buy it?  You were there; why didn't you say something when I put it up there?

    He shrugs.

    Well, it never hurts to be safe.  Never know what your dad has and what he doesn't.  Never hurt.  Wouldn't want to have to run down here again.

    Uh huh.  He grins.  He's thinking about that Cathy girl; I can see he thinks it's funny that I'd talk to a girl, any girl.

    Seems funny.  A girl, out of school for eight of nine years, just now starting work in a grocery store.  Can't pay much.  Seems like people aren't real unless you see them every day.  I can't imagine her being anywhere but here or doing anything but sitting next to the window in trigonometry.  For eight years she's been gone from the face of the earth, frozen somewhere off in space.  I wonder what she's been doing all these years that she'd just now be clerking in the IGA.  You don't go to college for that.  No matter what it was when she gave it, that smile seems sad to me now.  Doomed, hopeless, and sad.

    The engine turns over, and I give it the gas.  Eric leans back, trying to look like what he thinks you should look like for riding the streets in a hot car, arm out the window, thumb hooked inside, head cocked over his left shoulder.  It is a careful pose, calculated to be nonchalant but hopelessly stiff and self-conscious.  I don't give a damn, his body says, while looking to see if anybody has noticed.  I want to tell him how damn silly he looks.

    Susie coming?

    Uh huh.  They'll be here, maybe even before we're done eating.  He smiles; it's an old joke.  There are many variations, but it is an old joke.

    Heard much from them lately?

    Same as always.  She writes whenever she wants something.  Who knows what she's coming for; there must be something.  Heaven knows she wouldn't

    I don't listen to the rest.  His voice turns sour and old like the bad smell of milk.  It's his mother talking, and I don't bother to listen.  I want to tell him how he sounds, shake him and say, Listen to yourself, but I don't.  Maybe that's what reminds me most of that dog; I couldn't do anything for it either.