by Garth Stein
Denny often allowed me to walk home from the park without my leash, and that night I strayed too far from him. I was watching the flakes fall and gather in a thin layer on the sidewalk and on the street, ahead on Tenth Avenue, which was devoid of both cars and people.
“Yo, Zo!” he called. He whistled for me, his sharp whistle.
I looked up. He was on the other side of Aloha. He must have crossed without my noticing.
“Come here, boy!”
He slapped his thigh and, feeling detached from him, feeling somehow like there was a world between us, not merely a two-lane road, I bounded toward him into the street.
He suddenly cried out, “No! Wait!”
The tires did not scream, as tires do. The ground was covered with a thin layer of snow. The tires hushed. They shushed. And then the car hit me.
So stupid, I thought. I am so stupid. I am the stupidest dog on the planet, and I have the audacity to dream of becoming a man? I am stupid.
“Settle down, boy.”
His hands were on me. Warm.
“I didn’t see—”
“I know.”
“He shot out—”
“I totally understand. I saw the whole thing.”
Denny lifted me. Denny held me.
“What can I do?”
“I’m several blocks from home. He’s too heavy to carry. Will you drive me?”
“Sure, but—”
“You tried to stop. The street is snowy.”
“I’ve never hit a dog before.”
“You just clipped him.”
“I’m totally freaking—”
“He’s more scared than he is anything else.”
“I’ve never hit—”
“What just happened isn’t important,” Denny said. “Let’s think about what’s going to happen next. Get in your car.”
“Yeah,” the boy said. He was just a boy. A teenager. “Where I should go?”
“Everything’s fine,” Denny said, sliding into the backseat with me on his lap. “Take a deep breath and let’s drive.”
47
Ayrton Senna did not have to die.
This came to me in a flash as I lay, whimpering in pain, in the backseat of Denny’s car on the way to the animal hospital that night. It came to me: on the Grand Prix circuit in the town of Imola. In the Tamburello corner. Senna did not have to die. He could have walked away.
Saturday, the day before the race, Senna’s friend and protégé Rubens Barrichello was seriously injured in an accident. Another driver, Roland Ratzenberger, was killed during a practice session. Senna was very upset about the safety conditions of the track. He spent Sunday, race morning, assembling the other drivers to form a new driver’s safety group; Senna was elected the head of the group.
People say that he was so ambivalent about that race, the San Marino Grand Prix, that he thought seriously of retiring as a driver on Sunday morning. He almost quit. He almost walked away.
But he did not walk away. He raced, that fateful first day of May in 1994. And when his car failed to turn in at the fabled Tamburello corner, a corner known for its excessive danger and speed, his car left the track at nearly one hundred ninety miles per hour and struck a concrete barrier; he was killed instantly by a piece of suspension that penetrated his helmet.
Or he died in the helicopter on the way to the hospital.
Or he died on the track, after they had pulled him out of the wreckage.
Enigmatic is Ayrton Senna, in death as well as in life.
To this day, there is still great controversy over his death. On-board camera footage mysteriously disappeared. Accounts of his death differed. The politics of the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile came into play. It is true that, in Italy, if a driver dies while on the track, the death is investigated immediately and the race is stopped. It is true that, if a race were to be stopped in such a way, millions of dollars would be lost by the FIA, its sponsors, the track, television revenue, and so forth. Commerce would be affected. Whereas if that same driver were to die in a helicopter, for instance, en route to the hospital, the race could continue.
It is also true that the first man to reach Senna after that moment, Sidney Watkins, said: “We lifted him from the cockpit and laid him on the ground. As we did, he sighed and, although I am totally agnostic, I felt his soul departed at that moment.”
What is the real truth regarding the death of Ayrton Senna, who was only thirty-four years old?
I know the truth, and I will tell you now:
He was admired, loved, cheered, honored, respected. In life as well as in death. A great man, he is. A great man, he was. A great man, he will be.
He died that day because his body had served its purpose. His soul had done what it came to do, learned what it came to learn, and then was free to leave. And I knew, as Denny sped me toward the doctor who would fix me, that if I had already accomplished what I set out to accomplish here on earth, if I had already learned what I was meant to learn, I would have left the curb one second later than I had, and I would have been killed instantly by that car.
But I was not killed. Because I was not finished. I still had work to do.
48
Separate entrances for cats and dogs. That’s what I remember most. And still another entrance for infectious animals, which did not discriminate by genus. Apparently, dogs and cats are equal when they are infectious.
I remember the doctor painfully manipulating my hips. Then he gave me a shot and I was very much asleep.
When I awoke, I was still groggy, but no longer in pain. I heard snippets of conversation. Terms like “dysplasia,” and “chronic arthritis,” and “nondisplaced fracture of the pelvic bone.” Others like “replacement surgery,” and “salvage operation,” “knitting,” and “pain threshold,” “calcification,” and “fusing.” And my favorite, “old.”
Denny carried me to the lobby and laid me down on the brown carpeting, which was somehow comforting in the dim room. The assistant spoke to him and said more things that were confusing to me due to my drugged state. “X-ray.” “Sedative.” “Examination and diagnosis.” “Cortisone injection.” “Pain medications.” “Nighttime emergency fee.” And, of course, “Eight hundred twelve dollars.”
Denny handed the assistant a credit card. He kneeled down and stroked my head.
“You’ll be all right, Zo,” he said. “You cracked your pelvis, but it will heal. You’ll just take it easy for a while, and then you’ll be good as new.”
“Mr. Swift?”
Denny stood and returned to the counter.
“Your card has been declined.”
Denny stiffened.
“That’s not possible.”
“Do you have another card?”
“Here.”
They both watched the blue machine that took the cards, and a few moments later, the assistant shook his head.
“You’ve exceeded your limit.”
Denny frowned and took out another card.
“Here’s my ATM card. It will work.”
They waited again. Same result.
“That’s not right,” Denny said. I could hear his breath quicken, his heart beat faster. “I just deposited my paycheck. Maybe it hasn’t cleared yet.”
The doctor appeared from the back.
“A problem?” he asked.
“Look, I have three hundred dollars from when I deposited my check, I took some of it out in cash. Here.”
Denny fanned bills in front of the doctor.
“They must be holding the rest of the check or something, waiting for it to clear,” Denny said, his voice sounding panicky. “I know I have money in that account. Or I can transfer some into it tomorrow morning from my savings.”
“Relax, Denny,” the doctor said. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
He said to the assistant, “Write Mr. Swift a receipt for the three hundred, and leave a note for Susan to run the card in the morning for the
balance.”
The assistant reached out and took Denny’s cash. Denny watched closely as the young man wrote up the receipt.
“Could I keep twenty of it?” Denny asked hesitantly. I could see his lip quivering. He was exhausted and shaken and embarrassed. “I need to put some gas in my car.”
The assistant looked to the doctor, who lowered his eyes and nodded silently and turned away, calling good night over his shoulder. The assistant handed Denny a twenty-dollar bill and a receipt, and Denny carried me to the car.
When we got home and Denny placed me on my bed, he sat in the dark room, lit only by the streetlamps outside, and he held his head in his hands for a long time.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t keep going.”
I looked up, and he was talking to me. He was looking at me.
“They won,” he said. “You see?”
How could I respond? What could I say?
“I can’t even afford to take care of you,” he said to me. “I can’t even afford gas for my car. I’ve got nothing left, Enzo. There’s nothing left.”
Oh, how I wished I could speak. How I wished for thumbs. I could have grabbed his shirt collar. I could have pulled him close to me, so close he could feel my breath on his skin, and I could have said to him, “This is just a crisis. A flash! A single match struck against the implacable darkness of time! You are the one who taught me to never give up. You taught me that new possibilities emerge for those who are prepared, for those who are ready. You have to believe!”
But I couldn’t say that. I could only look at him.
“I tried,” he said.
He said that because he couldn’t hear me. Because he had not heard a word I’d just said. Because I am a dog.
“You are my witness,” he said. “I tried.”
If I could have stood on my hind legs. If I could have raised my hands and held him. If I could have spoken to him.
“I have not witnessed,” I would have said. “I am witnessing!”
And he would have understood what I meant. And he would have realized.
But he could not hear me. Because I am what I am.
And so he returned his head to his hands and he sat.
I provided nothing.
He was alone.
49
Days later. A week. Two. I don’t know. After Denny’s deflation, time meant little to me; he looked sickly, he had no energy, no life force, and so neither did I. At a point when my hips still bothered me—not so long as to have healed, not so soon that the pain was acute—we went to visit Mike and Tony.
They didn’t live far from us. Their house was small but reflected a different level of income; Tony had stood in the right place at the right time, Denny once told me, and would never have to worry about money again. Such is life. Such is manifesting. Your car goes where your eyes go.
We sat in their kitchen, Denny with a cup of tea and a manila folder before him. Tony wasn’t present. Mike paced nervously.
“It’s the right decision, Den,” Mike said. “I totally support you.”
Denny didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared dully at the folder.
“This is your youth,” Mike said. “This is your time. Principle is important, but so is your life. So is your reputation.”
Denny nodded.
“Lawrence got what you wanted him to get, right?”
Denny nodded.
“Same visitation schedule but with two weeks in the summer and one week over Christmas break, and the February school break?” Mike asked.
Denny nodded.
“And you don’t have to pay support anymore. They’ll put her in a private school on Mercer Island. And they’ll pay for her college education.”
Denny nodded.
“And they’ll settle for misdemeanor harassment and probation; no sex offense on your record.”
Denny nodded.
“Denny,” Mike said seriously, “you’re a smart guy. One of the smartest guys I’ve ever met. Let me tell you, this is a smart decision. You know that, right?”
Denny looked confused for a moment, scanned the tabletop, checked his own hands.
“I need a pen,” he said.
Mike reached behind him to the telephone table and picked up a pen. He handed it to Denny.
Denny hesitated, his hand poised over the documents in the folder. He looked up at Mike.
“I feel like they’ve sliced open my guts, Mike. Like they’ve sliced me open and cut out my intestines and I’ll have to carry around a plastic shit-bag for the rest of my life. For the rest of my life, I’ll have this plastic bag of shit tied to my waist and a hose, and whenever I empty my shit-bag into the toilet, I’ll have to think about how they cut me open and gutted me and I just lay there with a dead smile on my face and said, ‘Well, at least I’m not broke.’”
Mike seemed at a loss. “It’s rough,” he said.
“Yeah,” Denny agreed. “It’s rough. Nice pen.”
Denny held up the pen. It was one of those souvenir pens with the sliding thing in the plastic top with the liquid.
“Woodland Park Zoo,” Mike said.
I looked closer. The top of the pen. A little plastic savannah. The sliding thing? A zebra. When Denny tipped the pen, the zebra slid across the plastic savannah. The zebra is everywhere.
I suddenly realized. The zebra. It is not something outside of us. The zebra is something inside of us. Our fears. Our own self-destructive nature. The zebra is the worst part of us when we are face-to-face with our worst times. The demon is us!
Denny brought the tip of the pen to the paper and I could see the zebra sliding forward, inching toward the signature line, and I knew it wasn’t Denny who was signing. It was the zebra! Denny would never give up his daughter for a few weeks of summer vacation and an exemption from child support payments!
I was an old dog. Recently hit by a car. And yet I mustered what I could, and the pain medication Denny had given me earlier helped with the rest. I pushed up onto his lap with my paws. I reached out with my teeth. And the next thing I knew, I was standing at the kitchen door with the papers in my mouth and both Mike and Denny staring at me, completely stunned.
“Enzo!” Denny commanded. “Drop it!”
I refused.
“Enzo! Drop!” he yelled.
I shook my head.
“Come here, boy!” Mike said.
I looked over at him; he was holding a banana. Playing good cop to Denny’s bad cop. Which was totally unfair. He knew how much I loved bananas. But still, I refused.
“Enzo, get the hell over here!” Denny shouted, and he lunged at me.
I slipped away.
It was a low-speed chase, to be sure, my mobility being restricted as it was. But it was a chase nonetheless. One in which I feinted and dodged and slid and evaded the hands that grasped for my collar. I held them off.
I still had the papers, even when they cornered me in the living room. Even when they were about to catch me and wrest the papers from my jaws, I had a chance. I was trapped, I know. But Denny taught me that the race isn’t over until the checker flies. I looked around and noticed that one of the windows was open. It wasn’t open much, and there was a screen on it, but it was open, and that was enough.
Despite all of my pain, I lunged. With all of my might, I dove. I cleared the opening; I crashed into that screen and through it. And suddenly I was on the porch. I scurried into the backyard.
Mike and Denny flew out the back door, panting, and yet not pursuing. Instead, they seemed somewhat impressed by my feat.
“He dove,” Mike said, breathless.
“Out the window,” Denny finished for him.
Yes, I did. I dove.
“If we had a videotape of that, we could win ten thousand dollars on America’s Funniest Home Videos,” Mike said.
“Give me the papers, Enzo,” Denny said.
I shook them vigorously in my mouth. Mike laughed at my refusal.
“It’s not f
unny,” Denny admonished.
“It’s kind of funny,” Mike replied in his defense.
“Give me the papers,” Denny repeated.
I dropped the papers before me and pawed at them. I dug at them. I tried to bury them.
Again, Mike laughed.
Denny, however, was very angry; he glared at me.
“Enzo,” he said. “I’m warning you.”
What could I do? Had I not made myself clear? Had I not communicated my message? What else was there for me to do?
One thing only. I lifted my hind leg and I urinated on the papers.
Gestures are all that I have.
When they saw what I had done, they couldn’t help themselves; they laughed. Denny and Mike. They laughed so hard. Denny laughed harder than I’d seen him laugh in years. Their faces turned red. They could barely breathe. They fell to their knees and laughed until they could laugh no more.
“Okay, Enzo,” Denny said. “It’s okay.”
I went to him then, leaving the urine-soaked papers on the grass.
“Call Lawrence,” Mike said to Denny. “He’ll print them again and you can sign them.”
Denny stood.
“No,” he said, “I’m with Enzo. I piss on their settlement, too. I don’t care how smart it is for me to sign it. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not giving up. I’m never giving up.”
“They’re going to be mad,” Mike said with a sigh.
“Screw them,” Denny said. “I’m going to win this thing or I’m going to run out of fuel on the last lap. But I’m not going to quit. I promised Zoë. I’m not going to quit.”
When we got home, Denny gave me a bath and toweled me off. Afterward, he turned on the TV in the living room.
“What’s your favorite?” he asked, looking at the shelf of videotapes he kept, all the races we loved to watch together. “Ah, here’s one you like.”