“Betsy’s working late, some big corporate buy-out thing with a deadline.”
“She’s working past midnight? Are you sure she isn’t, like, cheating on you?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s been two years and she hasn’t lost her pregnancy weight. I don’t want to sleep with her so I figure no one else does either,” Bill says, matter-of-factly.
“Ah.”
“And her personality doesn’t much lend itself to attraction, either.”
“Right. Okay,” I reply, wondering whether I should be more concerned about Bill’s negative opinion of his wife or the apathy with which he communicates it. But it’s late, so I worry only about steering our conversation to some kind of point. “So, my happily married brother, is there a reason you and your daughter are at my door this late in the evening?”
“Yeah,” he blanches, pulls a small tape recorder from his pocket – the type doctors and lawyers used to keep verbal notes in the eighties – and hits record. “I have a favor to ask,” he says clearly.
“I’m not taking Bitsy for the night.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“So, ask what you were going to ask and let me get back to bed,” I yawn.
“Is there any way that you could walk the dogs tomorrow?” Bill asks hesitantly.
In addition to managing my building in exchange for free rent, Bill runs a side business walking dogs for my tenants. Ten dollars per dog per walk. Since Sluggo and I are the only people in the building without dogs, this adds up to fifty dollars a day for Bill, cash. And Bill’s ball-buster wife, Betsy, knows nothing about this side business or the cash it throws off. Bill uses the dog walking money to buy pot. Betsy doesn’t know that Bill smokes pot, either. So, she obviously doesn’t know that Bill is stoned for at least five or six hours of his stay-at-home-dad workday. Whatever. I don’t have a problem with Bill’s lifestyle. Being stoned doesn’t interfere with whatever minor fixes Bill needs to take care of around the building and we call contractors for all the major stuff, anyway. And if he’s going to be pushing Bitsy around the park in a stroller anyhow, he might as well drag along some dogs and make a few bucks.
When I’d first figured out Bill’s routine vis-à-vis the dog-walking and pot buying, I was a little worried about him being stoned all day with Bitsy. But Bill’s proven to be a fairly reliable stoner and, if anything, it probably makes him a better day-to-day caregiver for Bitsy, who is not the easiest child in the world.
In fact, the only thing about Bill’s whole situation that I do have a problem with is the fact that he is standing in front of me right now, thinking he can ask me to sub in and walk the dogs for him tomorrow.
“Nope,” I say.
“Listen, Dan. Believe me. I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t, like, an emergency situation.” He seems genuinely rattled. Nonetheless, I maintain my position.
“Remember when I agreed to let you have the basement apartment in exchange for managing this building, how we discussed the potential awkwardness of me technically being your boss? How we talked about establishing boundaries and engaging in a professional relationship? And now you’re knocking on my door at midnight, asking me to walk your dogs tomorrow. Does that sound like something a building manager – one who isn’t my brother, I mean – would be comfortable asking his boss?”
“No, it doesn’t. And seriously, if there was anyone else I could ask, I would.”
“What about Sluggo?”
“You think I’d ever ask Sluggo to take responsibility for someone’s pets?”
“Fair point,” I say, nodding. “No.”
“No, I shouldn’t ask Sluggo…” Bill says hopefully.
“No, I will not walk your dogs. This is a slippery slope, Bill. I understand that you consider me idle rich, but I earned that privilege on my own. You, on the other hand, are not rich. You walk dogs for pot money and subsidize your rent by working as my building manager. If I were to say yes and do your…” air quote, “work,” end air quote, “it would open a can of worms that would, I’m afraid, eventually destroy our professional relationship.”
“What are you talking about, Dan? I’m a great building manager. When have you ever had any complaints?”
“Bill, your main job requirement is to be physically present in a building where all the tenants, besides Sluggo, me and yourself, work at least ten-to-twelve-hour days. It’s a job where I honestly believe that being stoned represents a substantial performance advantage. Sure, you’re a good building manager, but is that really the yardstick you want to measure yourself by?”
“That’s beside the point,” Bill argues limply. “My dog walking side gig has nothing to do with my job as the building manager. So, I’m not asking you as an employee, I’m asking you as a brother,” he says, glancing down at the mini tape recorder in his hand and pressing the stop button. “I’ve got to take Bitsy to the doctor for her two-year-old checkup.”
“Can’t you reschedule? Or walk the dogs afterwards?”
“This is a reschedule. Betsy made the original appointment two weeks ago. I got stoned and forgot to take her. So, naturally, I lied and told Betsy that I took her to the appointment, no problem, but that the doctor’s office told us they were dealing with a huge backlog and Bitsy’s blood work might be delayed.”
“A clever ruse.”
“Thank you. The doctor’s office called me earlier today, and a last-minute appointment just opened up. For tomorrow morning. And I’ve been freaking out that Betsy will eventually get tired of waiting, call the doctor and find out we never showed up for the original appointment.”
“I see your dilemma,” I say, noticing Bill re-press the record button on the little tape machine. Apparently, he did not want to record anything about missing his daughter’s two-year-old check-up.