I notice one apartment on the list that is not in my building, maybe a block or two away. On top of the list of apartments and names is printed, all caps, “AS DISCUSSED ON TAPE, PLEASE DO NOT ENGAGE AT DOG PARK.”
That will be easy, as I have no plans to visit the dog park today. And, having not yet listened to Bill’s tape, I have no idea why my brother would have slid his dog walking equipment beneath my door in the first place. And, really, I don’t want to know. So, I pick up the cardboard, the colored ring of keys, the color-coded list and the tiny cassette and I toss them all into the trash can outside of the tent I’ve set up over my open-floor-plan sink, shower and toilet. Hangovers make me dreadful nasty.
After a shower, though feeling only marginally better, I have a bout of conscience and dig the cassette, keys and the list from my trash can. I pop the cassette into my answering machine and hit play. After listening to the prior evening’s conversation with Bill, I pop the cassette out of my answering machine and throw it in the garbage can, along with the keys and list. I make myself a cup of coffee and I drink it. Stupid Bill.
I walk to my Ozark Trail Twelve Person Three Room L-Shape Instant Cabin Tent in the northwest corner of my apartment, put on jeans and a t-shirt. Stupid Bill. I pull on a pair of socks. My brother’s wonky life is not my problem. I tie my Nike cross trainers. Helping Bill out would only open a can of worms when it comes to our relationship. I actually heard myself tell Bill that on the recording. I grab a Patagonia hoodie from a semi-rigid canvass shelf bin. Even though I clearly agreed to help Bill last night, I think not helping him might actually do Bill a favor in terms of maintaining our relationship boundaries. I walk to the garbage can, retrieve the list and keys. If the bastard had anything at all to offer, I’d be thinking he owes me one. I move towards my front door. Anyway, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. And it’s a nice day. A walk might not be so bad.
I let myself in to each of the five apartments in my building and collect leashes, dogs and handfuls of little plastic bags. I take the little plastic bags even though there is no way I’m cleaning up after any of these dogs. I negotiate the five dogs through sidewalk traffic. The leashes aren’t color coded, so I’ve already forgotten which name goes with which dog. I realize this might represent a problem when the time comes to return the dogs to their respective apartments, but I let that slide for now.
Reaching the final address on my list, I tie the dogs to a street sign outside of a slummy-looking three-story brownstone. This neighborhood is in transition, not all the buildings updated like mine.
Up the stairs to apartment two-eleven and I’m sticking a key into the lock when I hear a woman’s voice, one side of a phone dialogue. I’m not totally sure that the voice is coming from apartment two-eleven, but I knock so as not to intrude. Knock, knock, knock.
“Hang on a second,” the voice says, not to me. “Is that you, Dan?”
“Uh… yeah,” I say, surprised that she’d know my name.
“Six months ago, you said that raising these funds wouldn’t be a problem,” says the woman to the phone as she opens the door, leash in hand. “Hold on,” she says to the phone. “Who are you?” she asks my face.
Didn’t this woman, not three seconds ago, address me by my first name?
“I’m filling in for my brother, uh, Bill,” I say to her.
“Well, that’s not my problem. Hold on a second,” the woman says to the phone. “Sorry. Nice to meet you, Bill. Thanks,” she says to my face and hands me a fistful of little plastic bags and a leash attached to some kind of miniature poodle mix.
“Look, we’re talking about children, here…” she says to the phone, flashing me a sweet apologetic smile as she shuts the door. Something about her smile makes me feel like I know her, which is weird because I don’t know her. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before. But I have this strange, urgent feeling, like I want to see her again. I shake it off and walk her dog down the stairs.
The six dogs have hit a purposeful stride by the time I reach the waterfront, clearing the sidewalk of non-dog walkers to our left and right, like we’re parting the Red Sea. When we reach the waterfront railing, as if they’re on the same fecal cycle, they all hunch up and proceed to do their business.
No matter how many little plastic bags I’m carrying, I am not about to start picking up dog poop on this walk. When the last of my charges has given that little shudder-shake to indicate completion, I take a quick glance around and pull the troop to my right, leaving a well-fertilized sidewalk in our wake.
“Uh, you missed a spot,” says a voice behind me. Damn it. I just can’t cut a break today.
I turn around to see a very tall, very thin, very scraggly man in a very shabby ten-gallon Stetson hat and an equally shabby neon-lime spandex bodysuit, which, judging by the fit of the crotch, is several sizes too small for his frame. If this spandex cowboy is going to call me out for not cleaning up after my dogs, I figure I can call him out for indecent exposure. He’s toting leashes attached to what must be at least ten dogs of various shape and size.
Or I could try another angle.
“Thank god,” I say, exhaling. “I was hoping someone would show up.”
“Your prayers have been answered,” the spandex cowboy says.
“Look, I hate to ask this of a brother dog-walker, but I’m in kind of a jam.”
“Do tell,” the spandex cowboy says kindly, his accent not quite Jersey.
“It’s my back. Slipped disc, just went out a few minutes ago. Uh, I’m fine when I’m standing upright, but if I try to bend over and touch the sidewalk, I’m worried I won’t be able to straighten up at all,” I say, grimacing.
“Not a problem,” the spandex cowboy says with a smile, walking behind me. “I can crack your back.”
“No, hey. That’s not necessary, man.” I rotate to remain facing him, my eyes on his bulging neon-lime spandex crotch, which I don’t want pressed against my body. “I was just wondering if you could do me a solid and pick up this dog poop.”
“Oh, okay,” the spandex cowboy says, and with remarkable efficiency gathers all six piles of poop into a single plastic bag. By the time he’s finished, the plastic bag is full enough to smear his hand, which, although it doesn’t seem to bother him in the least, causes me to dry heave. Twice.