“Ow, dude. You’re in some pain, huh? You sure you don’t want me to crack your back?” the spandex cowboy asks, trying to circle behind me again, still holding the plastic bag that is oozing fresh dog poop.
“Really, it’s okay,” I say, pivoting to stay in front of him and simultaneously tangling myself up in the six dog leashes I’m holding. “It comes and goes. Feels fine now. As long as I don’t bend over too far, I mean.”
“Cool,” the spandex cowboy says and stops circling me. Then he looks at the bag and I’m thinking he will finally wipe the smear of poop off his hand. But instead, he just looks at it. Like, studying it. “Looks like Hillary’s feeding Ginger that rice meal again.”
“You know these dogs?” I ask, amazed at his scatological abilities. I’m pretty sure Ginger is one of the names on my list. “I’m kind of subbing this route today.”
“Sure, I know the dogs. And I know the regular walker, Dan.”
Now how the hell would he know my name?
“But who are you?” the spandex cowboy asks, extending his poop-smeared hand. I ignore his hand. This is the second time today that someone has addressed me by name and then asked who I am. Surreal. Maybe I’m still asleep and dreaming this whole thing?
“I’m Dan. My brother is the regular dog walker.”
“And your name is Dan? Just like Dan?”
“Yeah, just like, uh, Dan. Short for Daniel.”
“No, no,” the spandex cowboy laughs. “I mean, your parents named you both Dan? That’s classic, man. I love it. It’s like George Foreman.”
“Like George Foreman,” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know, the heavyweight champ. The George Foreman Grill guy?”
“I know who George Foreman is.”
“Like, how he named all his kids George.” I knew that too. What I don’t understand is how it has anything to do with me. “Ha! Anyway, is Dan sick or something?” the spandex cowboy asks, suddenly concerned.
And then it clicks. The spandex cowboy thinks my brother’s name is Dan. Now why would he think that? And the chick on the phone, my last dog pickup, it has to be the same with her, too.
Please don’t engage with the dog park people, Bill had pleaded.
“How well do you know my brother?” I ask the spandex cowboy.
“As well as anyone knows him around here, I guess. I mean, he’s friendly with the dog park gang. Not what you’d expect for a rich tech hermit. Then again, I guess you wouldn’t expect a rich tech hermit to totally give up technology, would you? I mean, even I’ve got a cell phone.” The spandex cowboy has somehow produced a small, black Motorola flip phone, circa nineteen-ninety, which he is holding in his poop-smeared hand as if to prove his point. I look at his way-too-tight spandex bodysuit and honestly wonder where he could have been hiding the phone.
Oh… also. It’s more than a little strange to find out that my brother has been telling people at the dog park that he’s me.
Chapter Nine
“Okay, that’s fine. But you come down tomorrow and tell these kids they’re starting school without the clothes, backpacks, and supplies that you promised. I want to see you say that to their faces…”
Through the door of apartment two-eleven, I hear the phone-voice of the woman who owns the miniature poodle mix. The one that called me Bill and gave me a sweet apologetic smile because she was on the phone when I picked up her dog. I wonder why I’m feeling kind of nervous right now. I don’t even know this woman.
“… well, you’re the one that made the commitment, so you can be the one to tell the kids.” I wonder if she’s been talking into the phone since I left her. “They’re not my kids either, but they’re still kids and they were counting on you.”
I’m standing in the hallway like an eavesdropper, hesitant to interrupt, when the dog scratches her door. I hear her footsteps approach so I go ahead and knock.
“Okay, then make the calls and get back to me. Bye.” She hangs up the phone and opens the door, wide. “Bastards,” she says, not to the phone or to me. “Hi,” she says to me. “Bill, right?”
“Bill,” I confirm. “Hi.”
I’ve decided that the easiest thing for me to do right now is to pretend I’m Bill so as not to upset my brother’s weird applecart. This decision had come to me in a flash, while the spandex cowboy was being fascinated by how both myself and my brother were named Dan, just like the George Foreman family. To realign the spandex cowboy’s perception, I simply said, “No, you’ve misunderstood. My name is Bill and I’m Dan’s brother.”
To which, the spandex cowboy responded, “Oh, okay. Groovy.” And the spandex cowboy did not speak of it again.
“I’m Sarah. Sorry about before,” says the woman in the door of apartment two-eleven, looking at the phone in her hand and then at me. I think she has a pretty face, but it’s hard to tell behind thick-framed hipster eyeglasses. I’ve never understood why women wear those. She’s not nearly as hot as Clancy is, but there’s definitely something pretty about her.
This girl Sarah, she’s dressed like, what I’d call homeless chic. Loose cotton layers draped over tight cotton layers, all of the sweatpants and sweatshirt variety. Other than her height, which is maybe a shade under five-foot-four, there is no way to get any kind of read on Sarah’s body, aside from the fact that she’s got a gimp leg. This I know because she’s wearing a giant plastic boot, the sport-medicine type, which would have maybe been a plaster cast twenty years ago.
“Oh, yeah,” Sarah says, noticing me noticing the boot. “It comes off on Monday, thank God. Then I can go back to walking Cujo myself.”
“Cujo,” I say with a smirk, though not unkindly.
“I know, I know. I thought it would be funny – ironic, because of how small he is. But now it just seems kind of stupid and obvious.”