Going Places Page 3

  Felix was next on my route, and he was an easy handoff. He scrambled on three legs faster than most dogs with four. After that, about a block away and across the street was Jennifer’s house. Jennifer, the white poodle, was a male dog with an inexplicable name. I took the key from its hiding place and went inside. Sometimes Jennifer was in his dog run, but he could always hear the key turning, and he’d dash through the doggie door, blazing with excitement. He’d walk right up to the hook in the kitchen where his leash hung and wait for me to clip him in. Poor Jennifer. Sometimes I’d call him Jim just to boost his ego a bit.

  The first block was usually pretty slow since all three of The Boys stopped every few feet to mark their territory. After that they normally settled down and were ready to actually walk. Only rarely did I have to use one of the plastic baggies I kept in my back pocket.

  >>>

  I’d been walking for about thirty minutes when a new red SUV drove up, slowing as it passed. Alana was in the passenger seat, and she rolled down the window and waved.

  “Hi, Hudson!”

  Bryce Something, behind the wheel, waved even though he probably didn’t know who I was.

  They turned right on the next street. I knew the area well enough to be aware of a path that connected the two parallel streets. If I cut through it, I could come out the other end just after they drove by. I figured Bryce Something was driving Alana home. Why did I care to see what street she lived on? Just curious, I suppose.

  But my timing was off so I came out ahead of them. I was also unaware, until it was too late, that someone’s sprinkler runoff had turned the path into a mess of mud, devastating mostly to Jennifer’s snow-white paws.

  “Hi, again!” Alana yelled out the window. “The dogs are so cute.”

  They pulled into a driveway about two houses past the shortcut while I fumbled and yanked The Boys back down the same muddy path. To any outside observer, I must have looked like either a stalker or a complete fool. At least Jennifer was enjoying himself. He foraged through the forbidden mud, sniffing the strange substance and ended up with a chocolate brown muzzle to match his feet.

  Time was running out to get the dogs back before their owners got home. I jogged along the sidewalk, and The Boys were happy to oblige. Even Felix had no trouble keeping up. After a few minutes the red SUV drove back (without Alana), and Bryce Something waved at me again.

  I looked around for something to clean the mud from Jennifer’s paws and snout. I tried rubbing his feet on the grass but that only added a green tinge to his fur. I used the plastic bags, but they were worthless. Finally, I took off my t-shirt and wiped away whatever mud I could.

  Back at Jennifer’s house I was retrieving the key from the hiding place when the door swung open. Missy, Jennifer’s thirteen-year-old owner, looked out in horror at my shirtless self and her muddy, ruined precious pet.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Um . . . we had a little accident. Sorry, I tried to clean him up.”

  Jennifer, panting from exertion and excitement, disappeared inside the house.

  “My mom’s going to be mad,” Missy’s deadpan voice was chilling. “Jennifer just got groomed last week.”

  “I’ll pay for a grooming,” I offered. Jennifer was a great dog, and I would hate to lose their business.

  “Do you have any idea how much that costs? More than you make in a week.”

  To stand there in front of this annoying young girl and have my nose rubbed into the reality of my livelihood was almost more than I could bear.

  “Him.”

  “What?”

  “You said her, and I’m just saying Jennifer’s a him.”

  “Whatever.”

  She closed the door and left me standing on her doorstep alone with Buster and Felix. After a few minutes, when nobody came out, I figured I may as well leave. Missy’s mom would either fire me, or she wouldn’t. My spirits sagged. My brief experience with entrepreneurship was on shaky ground since Jennifer represented thirty-three percent of my dog-walking business. Not to mention the word-of-mouth referrals that probably wouldn’t be forthcoming. Fortunately, Felix’s owner just laughed at the mud, and I managed to get Buster cleaned up in my bathroom before pushing him through the loose board in the fence.

  Always play hard to get . . .

  . . . when you don’t stand a chance with a girl. You still won’t get the girl, but at least you won’t look desperate. Anyway, that was my philosophy, and I was sticking to it. Alana who? I had a lot of practice playing hard-to-get with girls who weren’t interested in me.

  The second day of school I arrived before anyone else, including the teacher. Turns out the yoga mat placement assignments were permanent. When Alana and Penelope settled on either side of me, they giggled and I wondered whether two days of giggling at the sight of me was enough to solidify it as a daily ritual. To Alana, I was polite, formal, slightly reserved. To Penelope I was attentive, interested, chatty. Although Alana was the acknowledged advanced yoga student, it was to Penelope I turned for questions and encouragement. I’m sure Alana wasn’t aware of any of these subtleties.

  Penelope was easy enough to be around. I didn’t have to strain my brain for witticisms or deep thoughts. Conversation with her was usually one-sided and followed a fairly predictable pattern.

  “Oh my God that was the [insert one: ‘cutest,’ ‘most embarrassing,’ ‘most messed up’] thing ever. Ha ha ha [infuse with soulless monotone]. Literally. You know what I mean? Ha ha ha. Like. Totally. I mean. Can you believe it? [shake head with disbelief] Ha ha ha.”

  And so on. I admit I was still attracted to her despite the mind-numbing conversation. Who was I to be picky? And she smelled as good as Alana.

  After class, it was enough for me to walk with Gus Ligety, and I didn’t try to catch up with Alana. When Gus spotted her ahead of us, I warned him off by letting him know she had a boyfriend. Of course, Gus knew who Bryce was. He filled in the last name for me as well as the talk around campus. Bryce was back-up quarterback for the football team the past year and was all but promised the same position for his senior year. Then the coach replaced him with a promising and talented sophomore, bumping Bryce down to third string. Bryce picked up his pride and quit the team which had everyone buzzing. Who would walk away from the varsity football team? Especially during their senior year.

  So maybe that was the rebellious side of Bryce which appealed to Alana. And maybe being rejected in that way allowed Bryce to see beyond Alana’s neck tattoo and her messy hair, barriers I initially hoped would make her attractive only to a guy like me.

  I couldn’t stand wondering anymore . . .

  . . . so I decided to round up The Boys and go for a walk as soon as I got home from school. Was there going to be a note on Jennifer’s front door saying I was fired? If there was, should I bill for the last two walks, or just let it go? By the time we got to his house, I’d already resigned myself to losing Jennifer’s business. Felix and Buster panted and strained at their leashes for the friend they could practically smell, he was so close.

  There was the note on the door. No surprise. But when I got close enough to read it, the surprise was mine.

  Hudson, Missy is home sick from school today. Please ring bell for Jennifer. Carol

  Ding dong. Missy opened the door halfway through the dong part. There was Jennifer, his pink collar sparkling with rhinestones. His pink tongue lolling with wild anticipation of fun times ahead. Paws and muzzle . . . white as rice. Missy passed me the leash through the door.

  “I shampooed him before my mom got home yesterday,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I was truly touched. This girl who seemed to have only hostility for me on the few occasions we met—why would she do such a thing for me?

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “Who’s going to walk Jennifer if Mom fires you?”

&nb
sp; I decided not to inform her of the abundance of dog-walkers in our city. Or bother with the fact that either she or her mother were perfectly free to walk him themselves.

  “And her name is Jennifer which is why I call her a her,” Missy continued. Maybe that’s why she saved my job. So she could enlighten me on that point. “After Jennifer Aniston.”

  I wasn’t going to touch that one, but before I could think of an appropriate response, Missy let me off the hook.

  “I’m supposed to keep the door locked while I’m home alone,” she said while closing it firmly on my face. Once again, I was staring at the peephole with my mouth open mid-speech, but this time I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next.

  Since it was still early, we walked all the way to Alana’s house, this time keeping to the sidewalks and avoiding the dirt path. No chance of running into Alana at that hour. I honestly don’t think I determined the route of our walk. I think the dogs pulled me along to the spot, two houses down from the location of Jennifer’s rapture. The place where Jennifer was finally allowed to become just one of The Boys. Just Jim with muddy paws and nothing else to prove.

  Another week went by . . .

  . . . before I heard from Mrs. Dickinson again.

  “Hudson?” I immediately recognized her voice, tinkling like a wind chime in the breeze.

  Again? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

  “Mrs. Dickinson, you’re calling on my home phone.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, it’s just that I was wondering why you didn’t call my cellphone from your cellphone.”

  “The phone you gave me doesn’t work.”

  “Is it charged?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose not. I’m not even sure where the darn charger thing is.” I could hear the frustration building, so I moved on.

  “What can I help you with, Mrs. Dickinson?”

  “I need your services for something that qualifies as almost an emergency.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Lady’s gotten out, and I’ve been calling her, but she’s still not back, and it’s been over an hour.”

  Lady was the business I was angling for, so this was perfect timing. After paying Mom the agreed upon rent, there wasn’t a whole lot of spending money left over.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Oh, and Hudson, don’t let me forget to give you that phone number. It was in my purse the whole time, wouldn’t you know. It’s always the last place you think to look.”

  >>>

  I ran into Lady on the way to Mrs. Dickinson’s. She was squatting on a neighbor’s yard, a few doors away from her home. When I arrived at Mrs. Dickinson’s house with Lady cradled in my arms, I was the conquering hero, rewarded like a child with cookies and lemonade.

  “Mrs. Dickinson,” I said, wiping away some Oreo crumbs with my napkin, “I was thinking maybe Lady needs to get out a little.”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t be safe. She could get hit by a car,” a puff of lavender scent drifted across the table.

  “You know I have a dog-walking service.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that,” she said as her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I’ve been thinking Lady would get along really well with the other dogs, and she might enjoy being out in the fresh air. It’d be good exercise.”

  “I keep her very healthy. She’s not an ounce overweight.” The pride in her voice probably extended to her own slim figure, because Lady was definitely on the chunky side.

  “No, she’s not overweight, I didn’t mean that. Her coat is really shiny, and she looks healthy.”

  Mrs. Dickinson smiled.

  “But she could be around other dogs and socialize a bit. And maybe she wouldn’t be tempted to run away next time if she got a good workout every day.”

  “The other dogs. How could I be sure they wouldn’t give her fleas or fight with her?”

  “They’re all great dogs, very friendly. And none of them have fleas or anything like that. I’d never put Lady in a situation where she could be attacked or come home with fleas.”

  Mrs. Dickinson looked skeptical. She put down the delicate china cup from which she’d been sipping her tea. “Truthfully, I do feel a little guilty leaving her home alone so much when I’m off enjoying myself at the Senior Center,” she said. “Maybe we could do a trial period and see how she does.”

  I came home with a new dog client and the phone number for a possible new client for my other business. I decided I needed names for both businesses that could summarize in a few words what I was never able to do with sentences and paragraphs.

  “Canine Cardio” came quickly, but that was the easy one.

  “Senior Services.” (Too vague, and what if a non-senior wanted to sign up? Doubtful.)

  “First Call.” (I didn’t actually want to be the first call for anything, so scratch that.)

  “Hudson’s Helping Hand.” (A little cheesy but possible . . . kind of vague.)

  “Rent-A-Grandson.” (Nah, grandsons were expected to do all kinds of crappy chores.)

  “Distress Dial!” It wasn’t perfect, but it did summarize my service succinctly and alliteratively which was always a plus. “Distress” seemed like a good word, just below the level of an emergency.

  Distress Dial and Canine Cardio. Just naming them felt like a big step forward.

  >>>

  His name and his phone number. That’s the only information I had on Mr. Pirkle. Mrs. Dickinson did say he didn’t live in our neighborhood, which was something to consider because I didn’t have a car on the weekdays until Mom got home from work. But I reasoned that chances were he wouldn’t call if he paid attention to the benefits of my service. I’d have to make everything clear so I didn’t wind up with another Mrs. Dickinson. And if there ever was a sub-emergency before Mom got home . . . well, I’d have to come up with cab fare out of pocket. I still wasn’t sure what to do if someone called between seven and nine in the morning when I was in school. But that seemed unlikely, and besides, Mom was at home until eight, so she could cover for at least one hour. No reason to mention that to her though, since it was probably never going to happen. If worse came to worst, I’d take a cut, and once I turned eighteen, I could legally sign myself out of class.

  I dialed Mr. Pirkle’s number and waited . . . four, five, six rings . . . I was just about to hang up when he answered.

  “Yes?”

  It’s a positive word, for the most part, but it is still a little distracting when it’s the first thing you hear on the other end of a phone call. “Yes” to me, means: why are you bothering me?

  “Oh, hello, sir. This is Hudson Wheeler of Distress Dial. I received your number from Mrs. Dickinson who mentioned you might be interested in our service.” I lowered the timbre of my voice and threw in the plural possessive, hoping it made my business sound more legitimate.

  Silence. Then his much deeper voice, which actually sounded pretty youthful.

  “Oh, yes. Now I remember. Distress Dial.”

  “Yes, sir.” Some adults get embarrassed when I call them sir or ma’am which is what my parents taught me to say. Not Mr. Pirkle.

  “When can you be here?”

  Be there? Already?

  “Do you . . . need me for something right now?”

  “Don’t we have to formalize the arrangement? Sign a contract? I’d like to get started right away.”

  Relief and apprehension. Relief. At least he didn’t have a problem I had to take care of, and I didn’t have to sell him on the business. Apprehension. Contract? Would he be disappointed when he saw that I was just a kid. And why the big hurry?

  “Would it be okay sometime after five thirty?”

  I’d have the car then and could swing by the store on the way to pick up a prepai
d cellphone for him.

  “Make it six. I eat dinner at five thirty.”

  “If you had to describe them in one word . . .”

  I hate it when people say that. As if it were possible to describe a human being in one word. But if you were forced to—say somebody challenged you—the word would be “imposing.” Mr. Pirkle was imposing in every way. Why did this man want my service? I’d be more likely to call him in case of an emergency.

  For one thing, there seemed to be about a foot height differential between us, although it was probably less than that. He had a full head of hair with alternating waves of silver and white. His eyebrows and moustache looked interchangeable, like you could just rotate them around on his face and not notice the difference. His eyes alternated between blue and gray as rapidly as a spinning pinwheel. Even his nose was imposing, jutting down from between his eyebrows, pointing towards his mouth as if to say, “be quiet and listen to what comes out of here.”

  He had that straight-spine bearing I recognized from my dad. The posture of a military man, I was willing to bet on that. I did some quick calculations in my mind and figured him for either a Vietnam vet in his late sixties, a Korean War vet in his late seventies, or a World War II vet in his late eighties. I knew my war history, thanks to Dad. I just didn’t know how to guess the age of anyone over fifty.

  My question soon had an answer.

  “I’m ninety years old, Hudson, and I could use a little peace of mind. Heard you were a good man and always around to help out a guy in a tight spot.”

  He shook my hand vigorously, nearly crushing my bones. I was completely intimidated, but I rallied quickly, explaining the function of the cell phone, the lifeline that connected him to me. He didn’t have any problem grasping my explanation, and he plugged the phone into the wall to begin charging.

  It was hard for me to summon the seriousness I felt was required in his presence, but I did my best, reminding myself it was him who needed me. He was formal but polite and insisted on cutting a check for my first month’s pay even though I always billed for the month prior.