Dog Days

by Emery C. Walters

  Biting my lip—ow—I asked him, “Are there some County services or um, that I could…”

  “New here, huh? Damn son, why do you all come here when you ain’t got no jobs? Shit for brains.” Then the guy scratched his head and took pity on me. “Look. Get out of this park and find a different one. All the local drunks come here. There’s a free dinner every night at the church over in Hellokitty,” (that’s what it sounded like, honest!) but it’s a holiday and there ain’t no other services open till Monday. How old are you anyhow?”

  Oh crap. All I needed was—well—I needed everything. Cops though? I said, “Thanks,” and walked away like I had a clue what I was doing. At least there was a possibility of me eating dinner tonight, and I knew one place to not be. Besides, this place had bad vibes. So there.

  My brave see-how-great-life-is mood lasted all of about a block. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, blah, blah, blah, and I saw Mr. That’s Mine digging through the trash just ahead of the Parks & Rec guy, who spat when he saw him. I turned around and walked the other way, out of the sunshine and under the trees. No sense going where I’d been; they say you can’t go back again, and boy was that true in my case, which made my mood sink into the ground and bottom out in a cesspool of pain.

  Sorry, Mrs. White, I can’t find any sunshine to glow in, I can’t seem to find a good luck penny, and mostly I can’t make the most of what I have because I have absolutely nothing. Well, like they say, the clothes I stand up in, and frankly, they were still soaking wet.

  They’ll dry out as you walk; shut up, Mrs. White.

  The sun will come out tomorrow; it came up today, big effing deal.

  Cheer up, things could be worse; oh shit, another good reason to stay glum.

  Into every life a little rain must fall; kill me now, okay?

  I missed my dry clothes, my change of clothes, my backpack. I missed my iPod and my music and my wallet. I missed my—father. Unless he’s a donkey’s ass like my stepfather, then, fuck him.

  My stomach hurt. It wanted breakfast. I had to sit down on a tree stump for a minute and close my eyes and let all the pain flood over me like it had been begging to do. Happy crappy phrases jump aside, the door is open and Hell is coming to visit. And fear, oh hello fear, haven’t seen you for a while, like a couple of hours maybe. And loss? Yeah, that was the third horse of the apoc, apox, um, whatever. Loss. Loss was just blackness…and emptiness. I sat there until the blackness lifted, but it left its shadow, and its shadow was named despair.

  Oh listen to yourself, you should write poetry. I wiped my eyes on my arm and decided I’d keep walking, if only to put distance between myself and that guy and whoever took my stuff and beat me up. It wasn’t just that one guy, I knew that, but I didn’t know who the others had been, which left me feeling paranoid. (I sort of remembered half a dozen guys, but it was so dark, and I could barely catch my breath let alone see who was doing what.) At least, I thought, trying to find some string that led to positivity again, feelings of paranoia weren’t black and empty. They were full of—potential. Bad potential, but still…

  I’d come to another beach. This one seemed deserted, and likely to stay that way. This one was just sand, dunes, rocks, and downed trees, no picnic area, no ‘facilities’, not even a paved parking lot. Still, as I walked along, torn by the beauty of the water and sun on one side and the dismal and wind-wrenched trees on the other, I heard voices and barking. I didn’t really want to run into hordes of people, screaming kids, whatever. I looked like what I was—a homeless bum. I probably smelled like one too by now, or would as the sun rose higher.

  Something was wrong. I stopped still, listening, looking, feeling. Couldn’t begin to place it…not a threat to me…no crazy bum stalking toward me, no stepfather laughing at me, no—wait. The people’s voices—those were kids and they weren’t talking any more, they were crying out. I couldn’t make out the words but the fear was blatant. I jogged forward until I could see around the trees that came down almost to the water’s edge, and there, beyond that, there was a dirt parking lot up a short hill from the beach. There were three cars in it and two old men sitting on a rock, one with fishing gear, the other with a six pack of beer. On the beach were three children and four dogs. The dogs, which all looked like pit bull or pit mixes to me, were dancing around the children, darting in at them. The boy was turning and trying to keep the two girls, who were both somewhat smaller than him, behind him, but with four dogs there wasn’t much he could do to protect them.

  I glanced up at the two men; they seemed unconcerned. I glanced around for the dog’s owner—there was another man up the beach, but he was fishing and not paying any attention either. I thought with acid that it was probably him. And then one of the girls let out a scream that made everyone look. I was the closest to them, and I ran. Running through sand is a bitch, but I made it, hyperventilating and with yells coming out of my mouth, but the dog was still after her. She was crying hysterically and so was the other girl. The boy was reaching for the dog when a second one darted in towards his ankles. He kicked out at it.

  All this was happening at once, though as they say, time seemed to slow down. The sun was warm and golden, the sands were sparkling, the water was a dozen shades of blue. I reached the three kids, grabbed the littlest girl, and almost hurled her over my head into a tree, gripping her by one ankle as she grabbed onto a large branch and pulled herself up. Her tears fell unnoticed on my upturned face.

  The other girl screamed. I screamed too as I felt teeth clench my calf and try to pull a bite out of me, but I had her and lifted her as high as I could. I felt blood run down my calf and just saw a third dog—or maybe one of the first two—come in at me, lunging, jumping. I tried to knock it in the face with my elbow, but he got his teeth in my forearm and shook himself, trying to tear me to shreds. It felt like a crocodile had me. I waited for the death roll, but the boy kicked the dog, and I was able to pick the boy up and lift him into the tree—thank God for the tree—and then I fell.

  The growls and screams covered the waves. I heard men shouting and myself crying out. Then I heard shots. Two of the dogs blew over or apart; I didn’t want to see, but I did. One of the other two dogs was still stalking me, looking like he was getting ready to launch himself at my face. The other started to run toward the man who was no longer fishing, but aiming carefully. Then it turned and ran in a wide circle back past me, cowering now, toward a white pick-up truck up in the little parking area.

  I was able to sit up just enough to see the rest of what happened. It was like in a dream, though; I wasn’t really there, it just seemed like a movie or something. The tree above me showering leaves as the kids moved, holding on to each other and the branches. The man up the beach taking very careful aim at the dog, which was very close now to leaping at me, his teeth bared. A truck up the beach starting up and roaring off, the fourth dog aboard, and the man with the beer driving away in a cloud of red dust, rocks and sand, leaving his beer behind. The other man hauling out a cell phone and striding toward me.

  A final shot. The dog flying, already dead, inches in front of me, actually bumping into my body with his own, limp. My head hitting the ground as I fainted. Nothing more, thank God.

  Then here and there a few voices, sounds floating around like imaginary balloons. “Hold on, kids, I’ll get you down.” “They’re sending an ambulance.” “Dat fucker, I told him before, keep your goddamn dogs leashed, him no listen, fucking bastard.” “Lucky for dem kids dat boy here, but poor fucker, him.” “Dem keiki, dey okay?” “Should have shot his tires, dat fucker, next time.” Sounds of a siren, growing closer and fading away, both at the same time. Darkness, now with silence.

  I don’t remember anything else till I surfaced again in a hallway, lying on a bed, people bustling around, sidling past me. Must have been a full moon kind of day. I heard voices but not always the words. I did make out sentences like “Who is with him? Where’s his parents? How the hell do you expect me to
treat him without parental permission?” “What kind of insurance does he have?” “Christ in a bucket, none?” and “How old is this kid anyhow?” They didn’t make a lot of sense, but then, neither did the pain or the crying I’d hear from time to time, not knowing when it was me and when it was not. I felt like I’d been eaten by a bear and shat out over a cliff, and then had boulders fall on me. After a while I peed myself which made me cry. “Is he eighteen yet?” Voices arguing. It was then that I learned my stepfather had lied about that, too. He was still responsible for me. Except, of course, he wasn’t technically my parent, or was he? Plus the little things about his not being there and nobody knowing who I was and all that crap.

  My head spun, and I went back into the pain. Not that I cared, but it was a long time before I realized the full implications of my stepfather’s lies. If I’d been able to think it through, I’d have chosen to not tell them my age or my stepfather’s name and address, anyhow. I was young enough to still think in terms of preferring to die rather than see him again. My mother had never done anything but what he told her to do. In later years I realized she did have some mental problems that had never been addressed. It still didn’t warm my heart to her, though.

  They had to take care of me anyhow, or at least, save my life and then worry about the rest later. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, but found it out later. Luckily—ha—I’d lost a lot of blood and a couple of bites had been so deep they had to worry about (lawsuits if I died) infection or later surgeries. They couldn’t claim to be a private hospital and have me taken to the county one because they were the only one. Period. Besides, I was messing up their floor with all the blood and stuff, and I was, after all, a hero. I found out later that the parents of one of the girls had brought her in later for a bad scrape from slipping while in the tree, so there was confirmation about what a great guy I was. Woo hoo.

  At some point things got quiet and almost peaceful. Even the pain was just—pain. Physical. Bearable. Doable. I thought. For about a minute. Then I breathed. Boy, was I wrong. Back to the bottom of the cliff with the boulders falling on me. Time passed, I guess, for the next thing I knew I was in a room, and it was quiet again, other than the usual hospital noises that I remembered from an appendectomy when I was a kid. Everything still hurt, both cumulatively (bear, cliff, boulders, and throw in a steamroller or a large truck) and individually (I could count the exact number of places). However, I did not give a flying flan. There was something taped to my forearm, and even that hurt. I had a blood pressure cuff on my arm and a thing like a clothespin on my finger. I thought all this was hilariously funny, including the fact that I felt bare-ass naked, though I could feel a gown tied around my neck.

  I was lying on my side. There was—something—unpleasant going on behind me. I didn’t want to think about it. Did I get bit on the ass? Ha-ha! That would be funny! I giggled, then snorted. I tried to say, “Don’t let—something—jump up and bite you in the ass,” but it didn’t come out right. Someone behind me said, “I think the technical term is ‘loopy’.” Someone else laughed. I laughed some more. Gone again.

  Back again. Lying on my back now. Nothing on me, no gown, no sheet, nothing. Bandages here and there and that thing in my arm. I was crying, sobbing like my heart was breaking. Loopy, I thought. I hiccupped, and was gone again.

  Oh God, now what! I was still on my back. The room was dark, quiet, except for someone grabbing my dick and sticking something into it! What the hell? Ooh, nice soft, but rubbery hands. And I peed. Catheter? How had I ever even heard that term? Had I seen it on TV or something? I willed myself not to think about the nice, warm, slippery—rubber-gloved hand. I giggled and mumbled something; I have no idea what. Someone sighed and muttered something I couldn’t quite make out. I had a feeling it was just as well, because when the thing was withdrawn, the voice said distinctly, “You wish, jail bait.” Then it laughed and it dawned on me—pleasantly, in fact, that it was a man’s voice, and then he slapped me crisply on the hip and made kissy noises. It was the best thing that had happened to me all day.

  Saturday Morning

  Someone set a tray of food down beside me. It smelled like coffee and spices and semi-cooked egg. I tried to roll over away from it, got my foot tangled in the sheet, and threw up.

  Someone came in and cleaned me up and changed my sheets. They tucked the bottom in so tightly that where it pressed on my legs it hurt like a bitch. I was pissed off and kicked out trying to relieve the pain, but the sheet attacked me, pulled off my body, left me hanging in the breeze and then tied itself vengefully around my ankle. A man’s voice, familiar, said slowly, “Niiice,” then he grabbed my dick again and I said, “Niiice,” and peed. He said softly, “See you tonight, soldier,” and slapped me on the ass. I smiled; then I realized he’d left me still completely uncovered. Asshole, I thought.

  I surfaced next to find two people who looked like midget Filipinos telling me something that sounded like ‘Youwoknow!’ Wok? Walk? Whack? They grabbed my arms and lurched me vertical. I passed out.

  I surfaced again. Was I in the movie ‘Groundhog Day’? What the—here they were again. ‘Youwoknow!” and this time I had a second to grab a deep breath before they—and I have no idea how these two tiny people did this—got me sitting up and then onto my feet. I screamed. “Good job you, boy!” one of them said patronizingly as they put me back to bed none too gently, arranging the covers exactly as they had found them, that is, wadded up around my ankles.

  Someone brought in a tray of lunch or something. I began to pray for it to go away. It smelled like spicy, rotten seaweed and may have been, or it could have been some splendid local or Filipino dish, maybe dead, maybe not—same thing. At least this time I didn’t throw up.

  Still awake—nurses, pulse, blood pressure, temperature, etc., etc. The covers put up over me tight like a shroud. As soon as they left I started kicking, gently at first, and then I began to get angry. I kicked so hard my foot hit the end of the bed and I felt stitches pop in my calf. “Fuck!” burst out of my mouth, like the vomit I’d spewed earlier. “Son of a douche-bagging, muffler-topping, blood-sucking, snot-nosed—piggy—with—stinky—crabs!” I ended up crying.

  Someone guffawed, trying to stifle it. I glared. I tried to sit up. I was up long enough to see there was a man standing there staring at me, grinning. My face must have gone through a complete set of expressions as the man smiled, tried to hide that, and then came toward me, laying a notebook and bag down on my empty bedside table. He approached gently, almost gingerly, and said, “If you promise not to kill me, I’ll fix this for you.” He rang the buzzer and called for a nurse to come fix my stitches. He continued talking calmly—I have no idea what he was saying, though I think now it was the story of the Little Red Hen, as he unwound the fucking terrorist of a sheet from my legs and threw it on the floor. “Fuck you,” he told it as he kicked it, smiling at me as he did, his blue eyes as sparkling as the sun on the sea. Everything but my dick calmed down completely. My dick had apparently missed the memo.

  And of course he noticed. And winked at me. He said quietly, “‘Snot nosed piggy’?” shaking his head and smiling as if it was the cutest thing he’d ever heard. I hated his guts. Then the nurse came in, a haughty looking local with what I took to be a fucking-haole-hating smirk on her face but was really just her mouth full of sticky rice she’d been eating for lunch. She muttered something that sounded like “Whatsamottayou?” and proceeded to arrange my leg and a tray full of medical crap.

  She pulled my gown back down over my—ah—happy place—well, you know. Then the man did something for which I was eternally grateful. He turned, picked up the bag, opened it, and handed me a cup and a small bag. “It’s Diet Coke, I thought you might be ready for something nice by now. There’s French fries too.”

  “Go ahead,” added the nurse, “Just take it slow. I don’t wanna clean you up again, yeah?”

  These two were so nice to me. They got me sitting up, raised the head
of the bed, fluffed the pillows, etc. Then the nurse started in with her repairs and the guy started in with some questions. Stuffing my face—slowly—with salty, greasy fries and taking sips of ice cold soda softened my senses and made me gullible and easy. I loved everybody and everybody loved me. Except…

  “My name is Lefty Kanaka. I’m a reporter for Maui News. What’s yours, and who and where are your parents?”

  Four delicious bites and three tingly, wonderful sips in…and I froze. I made myself swallow, but all the joy had gone out of me. Suddenly the stitches hurt. All the other bites hurt. My head ached. I had a feeling of terror like a boulder really was falling on me, only it had to do with dogs and barking, and screams, and me breathing too hard and running, and I couldn’t answer the man if my life depended on it. Colors flew by me, red blood, blue water, bluer sky, tan faces, and huge brown scared eyes. The black of the tree against stark white clouds. The brindle and browns of the dogs. I couldn’t tell him my name; I couldn’t remember what it was.

  His face coming closer to me. His hands on my arms, stroking. His words, “You’re having a flashback. You’ll be all right. You’re right here in the hospital. You’re okay. There are no dogs here.”

  I found my voice. I was confused as hell. “It’s not the dogs, I mean, yes it is, but it’s me. I’m—my name is—Aiden, and…Aiden. I—they don’t want me, none of my—parents want—me.” Then I was able to look at him, seeing where I was, that I wasn’t alone or in a dark pit. Of course there weren’t any dogs. He was looking at me with so much sympathy in his eyes that I wanted to tell him everything that had ever happened to me in my life, but for some reason I couldn’t do it. Not one word further escaped my mouth. He sat back and handed me the Coke again, which I took, and sipped.