The Dominant Hand

by Charles Martin

  The old man glanced back at the ladder leading down from the attic. Metal tags clinked below along with soft whines, warbles and howls. The old man put caps on the telescope, picked up the clipboard and scribbled notes. He struggled across the planks to the ladder to find his two dogs circling the ladder like sharks. One was a thick-shouldered white dog that looked a little like a pit bull at times, but also looked a little like a wrinkly hound dog when he laid on his back to let the old man scratch his belly. The other was a scrawny brown dog that looked more like a coyote than anything else. They whined, stood on their hind legs and sat their front paws on the ladder until one knocked the other off.

  “Time already, huh?” the old man asked with a grin. “Hold on.”

  The old man wore a watch, but he only consulted it to make notes on his clipboard. Time had meant very little to him since he retired, except when it related to his daughter. The dogs knew this, so they took on the responsibility of alerting the old man when they felt it was getting close to their daily trip in the truck. It was the highlight of the day, so they would not let the old man miss it.

  The man walked back to the chair to retrieve a pen, glanced out the attic window and noticed a white van pull up to the back door of the commune. The man dropped the clipboard, took the caps off the telescope and sat back down. The white dog whined and then howled.

  “Hold on!” the old man called, then pressed his eye against the telescope.

  Two young men hopped out of the van and a young woman emerged from the commune. She had stringy, unwashed brown hair and wore baggy clothing. He would have mistaken her for a male drifter had he not seen her before. It had been awhile and the old man had given her up for dead.

  The woman hugged one of the men tightly and then opened the van doors with her right hand. The men motioned to her other arm. The woman smiled and lifted up the shirt sleeve. There was a bandage wrapped over her forearm. She peeled it back and showed that her hand was missing.

  “Ha! There’s another one!” the old man exclaimed, while slapping his knee. He scribbled on the clipboard and then stood up. He walked to the rickety ladder and carefully climbed down. The ladder bowed as if it were about to snap, but it managed to hold the old man’s weight. The old man dropped the clipboard down to the carpet below.

  The dogs danced around each other and then ran to the front door. They returned quickly and circled the ladder again.

  “Back now,” the man said softly. “Ya’ll gonna make me fall.”

  The man timidly lowered his foot to the ground, then the other, and finally let go of the ladder.

  The brown dog ran toward the front door, then turned around and looked at the man. The white dog laid down in the hall with his tail banging against the wall.

  “What time is it?” the old man asked, then pulled up his sleeve to look at his watch. “Oh damn, ya’ll right, we gotta go!”

  The old man went to see his daughter every day at 3:30 p.m., save Saturday and Sunday. She worked at night, and she had trouble getting motivated, so he took that responsibility upon himself.

  He also had trouble getting motivated, so the dogs took that responsibility upon themselves. Every day at 2:30 p.m., they’d get jittery and start yelping until the old man realized it was time to leave. In reward, he’d have his daughter cook some extra bacon for them.

  The old man picked up his clipboard and walked to his bedroom. He slid his feet into leather-soled slippers and grabbed his cane.

  “Let’s go,” the man called. The large white dog met him at the front door, stood up on his hind legs and scrapped at the door. He glanced back at the man, now at eye level, and gave a long-tongued and wrinkled smile.

  The man pushed him back and opened the door. The dogs raced around him and ran out to the driveway. They chased each other around the white Chevy pickup until the man lowered the gate on the truck so they could jump in.

  “Come on, now,” the old man called, as he opened the driver’s side door. The white dog jumped down from the bed and then climbed into the truck cab. The brown dog stayed in place and glared in through the back window at the white dog sitting in the passenger seat.

  The man struggled into the driver’s side. The white dog gave him one lick on his ear and then looked ahead. The old man liked how attentive the white dog was while in the truck. He didn’t grin, didn’t pant, but focused ahead with studious attention as if he were ensuring the old man didn’t take a wrong turn. The old man only drove to the store, his daughter’s house and the burger joint, so the white dog knew the way just as well as anyone.

  The old man pulled out of the driveway and straightened out. The white dog’s ears perked and he growled. The old man saw that the skinny woman with a hand missing was walking along the side of the road with a tan-skinned young man with bleached-blond hair and an angular face that made him look a bit like a girl. The old man rolled down his window and looked out suspiciously. The commune people never came over to his side of the Dogbowl.

  “Can I help ya’ll?” the man grumbled.

  “Nah,” the woman smiled and shook her head.

  “What happened to yer hand?”

  The woman pulled up the shirt sleeve. The white dog pushed toward the old man’s open window to look out, but the man pushed him back.

  “You mean this?” the woman asked, rubbing her stub. “Nothing much.”

  “What’s your name?” the old man asked.

  “Misty, sir,” the woman answered, then putting her arm around the young man. “This is The Coward.”

  “Coward?” the old man asked. “You let them call you that?”

  The young man kept his eyes on the ground and nodded. His arms were folded tightly across his chest and he stood with his weight on one foot. He was probably gay—most kids that good looking were in the old man’s estimation.

  “Huh,” the old man grunted. “What are you doing over there? Shouldn’t you be in your church or whatever?”

  “Just going for a walk, sir,” the woman said. There was a sparkle in her eye, an arch in her eyebrow and a curl in her smile that the old man didn’t trust.

  “All right, just stay clear of my house,” the old man said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man began to roll up the window, but he stopped and poked his head back out.

  “You need a ride to the hospital or something?”

  “No, sir, I’ll be fine.”

  The old man grunted and rolled up the window. The white dog watched the two from the back window while the brown dog barked from the bed of the truck. The old man stopped at the intersection and scribbled on a clipboard he kept in the truck.

  chapter iii

  The Dogbowl enjoyed a hefty trade deficit within the city. Much more was purchased inside of the Dogbowl than was sold to the Dogbowl. If the Internal Revenue Service were ever so inclined, it could uncover a vast, untaxed underground system of monetary exchanges for goods as divergent as at a Wal-Mart Supercenter. The money that came into the Dogbowl rarely left the Dogbowl.

  Thieves and prostitutes were all homegrown. Stolen goods might have been taken from outside the Dogbowl, but the thieves themselves were all local. Very often, they stole those goods from other thieves, so it was not uncommon to see three different people wearing the same piece of jewelry in the same week, and yet, it rarely caused a commotion. The few organizations that did sell into the Dogbowl were delivering either food, narcotics or God.

  Two fresh-faced college kids in cheap suits riding mountain bikes ventured into the Dogbowl one particular day. The older residents of the Dogbowl sighed and muttered about the “goddamn Mormons,” and then closed their doors and their blinds. The children who’d just filed off the school bus watched the men bunny hop over curbs and fire hydrants, wanting to talk to them, but being quickly ushered home by their parents or older siblings.

  The two men pulled up to the tattoo parlor and exchanged whispers. They dismounted and took off their helmets. The owner, a short, swart
hy man with jet-black hair met them at the door.

  “Don’t bother, guys,” the owner grunted. “We work for a living here. Go sell God somewhere else.”

  The two men glanced at each other, smiled and held out a book. The owner closed the door in their faces. The two tattoo artists that were bent over sketching paper chuckled and went back to their work.

  The Mormons took to their bikes and stopped at the Songbird’s house. One of the Mormons used the steps leading to her house as an opportunity to show his ability to hop his bike up on one wheel and climb one step at a time.

  They removed their helmets again, knocked, but no one answered. Through a window, they saw the shadow of someone behind the blinds.

  They sat down a book on the doorstep, turned and walked their bikes across the street. The Mormons thought everyone was ignoring them, but they didn’t realize that the entire neighborhood was now intently watching. The residents of the Dogbowl despised the commune, but they loved it when there were free sandwiches, when the cops were investigating a missing person case and also when the religious or the political were going door to door.

  The tattoo shop owner walked outside and watched, as did the mechanics down the street. The tattoo shop owner exchanged nods with the man who was sleeping with his girlfriend. They both smiled, and the mechanic then realized the shop owner knew. Neither particularly cared.

  They watched the Mormons open the door of the commune and make their way in. Misty met them, hiding her stub under her oversized dress shirt tied at the bottom to expose her flat belly. She led them to a table and once they took their seats, she bent over the table far enough to completely uncover what little cleavage she had. The Mormons did a poor job not looking.

  It was a process the residents of the Dogbowl knew well. There were plenty of girls in the commune—they would soften the reserve and then the Leader would descend. No one would know what would happen next. Maybe the visitors would be thrown out, maybe there would be yelling, punching, or maybe the two men would be led upstairs and leave the Church of Latter-day Saints behind forever. Then, the two bikes would be up for grabs.

  Misty smiled, cocked her head, bit her finger and then sat down next to one of the Mormons. The young kid smirked, smiled and flirted. Misty’s feet were brushing theirs under the table. The gray-haired leader, also known as Brian the Lion, emerged from the stairwell. His hands were clasped behind his back and he held a fly swatter in his armpit.

  The two Mormons stood up quickly when they saw him, perhaps thinking they’d been caught playing footsy with his daughter. Brian the Lion walked to them quietly and began talking. Vader, the kilted bodyguard, descended while slipping on a Megadeath T-shirt. He stopped at the base of the stairs and watched from a distance with arms folded, ready to pounce.

  The mechanics began discussing and taking dares on whether someone was man enough to go into the deli. They all laughed and upped the ante, but none of them went. Though they wouldn’t admit it, the commune scared them like an old, abandoned house scares children.

  After the first fifteen minutes, the residents lost interest. If there were to be screaming, yelling and fighting, it would have already happened. The two Mormons had been ensnared. It gave many residents a sense of pride that their Dogbowl was impenetrable by outside religions. If they wanted church, they’d go outside the Dogbowl for it.

  The mechanics went back to their hot rods, the tattoo shop owner went back inside. The apartment residents retreated back to their televisions. The children began gathering around the corner of the deli, waiting for the Mormons to disappear upstairs. A child crossed the street and sat down on the curb. He pulled two action figures from his pocket and pretended to play while he watched.

  Brian put his hand on one of the Mormons’ shoulder. The man was crying, but with a smile on his face. Misty was hugging the other Mormon from behind. They talked softly, and then Brian led the Mormons upstairs. The residents knew they wouldn’t see the Mormons for several days. They would still wear the cheap suits, but they would no longer be cocky and proud. They would be like domesticated pets. The commune called them “dustmites.”

  The child casually stood, put the action figures back in his pocket and then walked to the bikes. He kept an eye on Brian the Lion, and once he disappeared up the stairwell the child sprinted to the bikes. All the other children converged, and in a matter of minutes, what little trace that the Mormons had wandered into the Dogbowl was gone.

  chapter iv

  A golden glow cast across the Dogbowl as the sun took its bow. Across the city, thousands of workers were swimming up the interstates on their way home, but the Dogbowl worked nights. Many of the locals slumped off to their jobs at restaurants, loading docks, convenience stores and strip clubs. The kids were left behind with tired and frustrated grandparents or older and restless siblings.

  There were some who worked the day shift, and they were returning to apartment complex stairwells or to the abandoned grocery store. They’d done their time on the street corners near I-35 with cardboard signs. Some claimed to be veterans, but were not; some asked for work—but did not really want work. They all had their approaches, some smiled, some wilted as if on death’s door. Some limped on crutches they found in Dumpsters. Once the evening rush was over, they migrated back to the Dogbowl, and as they reached 23rd and Cannery Row, they crossed the street to avoid the tattoo shop.

  They could never prove it, but they believed the tattoo shop owner, Zane laid on the roof and shot at them with an air rifle. Zane, pronounced with a soft “a” like “Zane the Man,” detested drifters and the unemployed as much as he loathed unions. If they crossed the street, they would be left alone, but if they got too close to his store, they’d feel the bite of the pellet and run home with a welt. Some would come back in the middle of the night to exact retribution, but they would leave with another welt.

  There were rumors that a disgruntled faux Vietnam vet had stormed into the shop and called Zane a “sandnigger,” only to be pulled into the back room never to be heard from again. Few believed it really happened, but of all the things Zane was called, no one ever uttered “sandnigger,” “Osama” or even “camel jockey” to his face.

  They had nothing to fear that evening—Zane was occupied in the back of the store. The two artists on duty glanced at each other with grins while their humming needles stabbed ink into the young, tanned skin of giggling college girls. One girl got a butterfly on her lower back, the other a rose on her ankle. Both girls blushed when the thumping and moans coming from the back room grew louder and unmistakable.

  The older artist had a shaved head that was misshapen and unusually large. His skull looked like a flesh-colored bicycle helmet with tiny gray hairs poking through. He’d worked with Zane for six years, before tattooing was legal. They once worked at a strip club together, Helmet-head as a DJ and Zane as a bartender. They’d pooled their money and started a piercing shop that did more business as a back room tattoo parlor. Zane was highly adept at recognizing talent, but he couldn’t actually tattoo. He’d opened other tattoo shops that also did well, but once tattooing was legalized and subject to zoning laws, Zane knew that his other shops would be forced to close or stop tattooing. He sold all but one and used his last tattoo shop as the headquarters for his burgeoning rental properties enterprise.

  A “No Political Tattoos!” sign hung on the wall. Helmet-head was a strident Republican, which led to many arguments with customers, which Helmet-head thought was funny.

  Zane was only sporadically a devout Muslim, and was typically apolitical unless it came to his shop or unions. He tried to convince all his artists to invest their money and buy health insurance. They rarely did. Helmet-head enjoyed watching the owner handle rebellious artists. The young, cocky ones acted a lot like strippers, and the owner treated them accordingly.

  Zane said he wanted to start a family when he was thirty, and had two more years of freedom. For the time being, he only dated Caucasian girls who loved t
he novelty of a Palestinian. It didn’t matter that Zane was more American than Palestinian, that he didn’t particularly care about the success of a two-state solution, nor could he get worked up about the inequities of anything happening in his grandparents’ homeland. His skin was a different color than the white girls’ he dated, and that was enough for them. Those kind of girls were easy to dispose of, and that was enough for Zane.

  Helmet-head felt bad for the girl in the back room, though. He kind of liked the spunky, raven-haired girl and knew that she was unaware that she was receiving Zane’s good-bye lay, as if she were boarding a plane leaving Hawaii. It was a tradition with Zane—one last run before he’d let her know that her services were no longer required. It was convenient that she cheated on Zane, but the break was inevitable, even if she hadn’t.

  Zane did kind of like her, too, and at times, he wished he’d never started sleeping with her. Emotions just further complicated his life.

  One of the college girls laughed when the young artist mumbled something to her. His body was wrapped with a gothic, Catholic-themed full body tattoo. He raced his florescent Toyota on the weekends, and he’d playfully suggested the butterfly college girl go into the back room with him next. She laughed and he was mildly annoyed that she didn’t at least consider it.