“Thank you. And when it comes to walking the dogs after we get back, you have no idea how long these doctor appointments might take. The last thing I need is for my dogs doing their business in the tenants’ apartments, in case I get held up. That’s not fair to the dogs or the tenants.”
“True. From a humanitarian perspective, I guess.”
“So, I’m asking you as a brother, will you please help me?” Bill looks at me with eyes like a puppy about to be euthanized. You never really stop being a big brother, I guess.
“Bill,” I sigh, “I will walk those dogs for you tomorrow.”
“You are a saint.”
“And you can keep the fifty dollars.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just keep being my little brother,” I say magnanimously.
“Since I feel like there’s so much brotherly love in the room right now, I hope you don’t mind if I ask… will you take Bitsy tonight and let me get an hour or two of sleep?”
“No,” I say.
Bill turns off the mini tape recorder. I hand over his now-sleeping daughter and escort him out of my apartment.
“Well, thank you, Dan,” Bill says, giving me an anxious look.
“What’s wrong with you? I said I’d walk the dogs.”
“Well, it’s just… I spend a lot of time at the dog park, you know?”
“I don’t know, but okay.”
“And, well, you wouldn’t think it, but the dog park is kind of its own social microcosm. And believe it or not, you’ve got all kinds of weird political relationships and layers of ‘these people don’t like those people’ slants. And, well, spending a lot of time there like I do, I’ve kind of found a niche where I fit in, see?”
“Ah. You don’t want me to screw it up.”
“No offence, man. But you’re this rich tech hermit and if people find out I’m your brother, then it might upset the balance.”
“Bill, nobody at that dog park has any idea who I am.”
“You’d be surprised. Anyway, if you could do me a huge favor, please. Just don’t engage with them, okay?”
“I don’t engage with anyone, anywhere. Why would you think I’d engage with the citizens of your dog park?”
“I know, I know. It’s just, you know, my life…” Bill says. I sigh and nod, sympathetic. “For some reason, this whole dog park community is important to me. I mean, I don’t have much else,” he says silently. I glance at two-year-old Bitsy nestled against his chest and think Bill might want to get some perspective.
“You have nothing to worry about. Hell, I don’t even have to go to the dog park. I’ll take the dogs for a walk along the waterfront instead.”
“Hey, great. Thanks, man. I owe you. Just make sure you bring a lot of bags.”
“What’s that, now?” I ask.
Bill stops, adjusts Bitsy to a single arm, reaches into his pocket, pulls out the mini tape player and hits the record button.
“You need to take along plenty of little plastic bags when you walk the dogs. You can get them from the owner’s apartments, plus I’ll drop some off in the morning with the rest of the stuff.”
“Why would I need to bring plenty of little plastic bags when I walk the dogs?” Not being a dog owner, the reason doesn’t even occur to me.
“To pick up the dog poop,” Bill says, a little exasperated.
“I’m not picking up any dog poop,” I say, flatly. I have no problem admitting to a childish phobia of all things fecal and/or regurgitated. Blood and urine, not so much. But poop and vomit make me gag. We all have our things.
“It’s a New Jersey law that dog walkers, owners and professionals, clean up after their dogs. I’m giving you this information and I will leave you a bunch of little plastic bags tomorrow. If you then decide not to pick up the dog poop on the walk tomorrow, I cannot be held responsible for any consequences that might affect you personally.” Bill nods, clicks stop on the recorder. He then turns to walk down the stairs and I shut the door, softly, so as not to wake Bitsy.
Why my brother Bill tape records our late-night conversation is that I have a history of blacking out past eleven p.m. And it’s not a drinking thing, even though I was still drunk when he woke me. I’ve always been like this. I’m not sure if I’m still asleep or if the part of my brain that tracks memory just doesn’t wake up. But ever since I was a kid, if you wake me up at night, there’s about a fifty percent chance that I’ll dialogue with you like absolutely normal, then go back to sleep and remember none of it.
Bill and I have a history with my disorder, starting one Christmas Eve when I was about twelve, making him about ten. What it was about I’m still not entirely sure, because I don’t remember our actual conversation. What I can piece together from Bill’s furious ten-year-old accusations is that I hadn’t held up my end of some bargain I’d agreed to. So, Bill got in trouble and I, having no recollection of our interaction, ended up being a most unreliable alibi. Since then, especially when a favor is involved, Bill comes prepared. As I have abandoned digital technology, he uses an old-school mini tape player – the kind with a microcassette that I can play on my old-school analog answering machine.
Chapter Eight
I awake the next day with a brutal hangover and absolutely no recollection of a midnight conversation with my brother. As I shuffle towards the Double Layer Waterproof Dome Tunnel Tent I set up to house my bath utilities, I see a microcassette taped to a piece of cardboard that he’d slid under my door. Also taped to the cardboard is a ring of keys, each wearing a little color-coded rubber hoodie. And a list of apartment numbers, each written in a different color Sharpie that matches the color of a key on the ring, each correlated with a name. The names are Oscar and Ginger, Peanut. Tucker, Cooper and Cujo. Only an idiot would be unable to deduce what appears to be expected of me.