by Bruce Wagner
As if on contrary cue, he began his Business rap. Barbet, now un peu drunk, wanted to “deconstruct” the pregnancy through the lens of the Mem commission—repercussions and ramifications, et alia. He wondered aloud, and conscripted Joan to wonder with him: Is it a good thing, or a bad thing? Are you a good witch or a bad. That depends, he said, answering his own query. (Enjoying the Socratic moment.) He asked if she thought the pregnancy was something Freiberg “would leave his wife behind,” using the annoying vernacular of the ’60s. Joan said they were already separated and Barbet said he knew that, the real meaning of his question suddenly becoming obvious: did she think he would “pull an Ellison,” and get hitched. Joan laughed, mildly contemptuous—it was typical of Barbet to presume that was something she might be angling for. She told him her intention was not to make “a public offering,” and that she doubted if Lew was head over heels about any of it. Barbet didn’t have an immediate response, he looked thoughtful and bemused and slightly peeved: it didn’t jibe with his jag. He asked if Freiberg had been “freaked” and Joan said she doubted that but had left pretty quickly after the announcement and didn’t have time to assess. Barbet questioned whether the ensuing silence was Freiberg’s way of sending a message (sure seemed that way), then brought up the “very real possibility” of getting a call from Guerdon—and soon—saying ARK had run aground, now out of the running.
Silent running.
Out of the rutting.
Full fathom five thy career lies…
Joan had thought of that, and confessed she was worried. (She felt a percolation of whorishly melodramatic tears.) She told him those very concerns were the reason she’d so urgently shared “Mama’s delicate condition.”
“You mean, you wouldn’t have anyway?”
“Have what.”
“Told me.”
“Of course I would have. But not so soon.”
“Oh. So now I’m your confidant—with qualifications.”
“Remember: it’s all predetermined.”
They laughed—thank God—and drank some more and loosened up, hashing the whole mess over amid the panicked hilarity and absurd rampant impossibility of it all. He said it probably wasn’t Freiberg’s, it was probably Thom Mayne’s, or Rem’s. Or maybe El Zorro’s!
Now she wanted to go to bed and she’d never seen Barbet more turned on. He put it in her rear end, that’s where she wanted it, but missionary style, she knew the fact of her being pregnant, especially by someone other than him, would be arousing, to both of them, and she also knew in his Socratic depths that Barbet thought her indelicate condition might give them the edge in winning the Mem, he was fucking the gift whore, the unTrojan’d arse, the spirited muse-cunt/Mem-brane, storming the cathedral of meadow that stirred that mournful flatbed trough, spading and turning over bread and loaves and loam of fishes and flesh, freshly planted mons, scrubbing Joan’s rough tendril’d scrubs and all the fine young elderberries, Western burningbushes, sharp-toothed and hairless, salt- and brittlebush, skunkbrush and devil’s club, horned milkwort and poisoned oak, venus maidenhairs and licorice ferns, wormwoods and stinging nettles, purple loosestrife, clustered broomrape, lady’s thumb, black-eyed peas and Susans too, blanket flowers and butter-and-eggs, hooker’s evening primrose and sticky cinquefoils, hairy angelicas, gossipy horehounds, queen’s cup, death camas, and ladies’-tresses, Yes, he would spruce up the yew turns and pimpride her processional pyre if that’s what it took whatever it took he would take—and in their stroboscopic, solemnly strident, madly staccato ceremonies of this Temple of the Golden Pavilion, this Notre-Dame-du-Haut, this black and white Taj Mahal, Our Lady of Flowers and Latter Day Full Service Postmodern Postmortem Architectural Churchscrew, in this muskytear’d keen and keening—their nappy, Napa’d, soon-to-be-famous memorial of skin and stone—they duly performed ecclesia, preeclampsia, invocation and offertory, doxology and indulgence, until reaching the vaunted, founted promontory of grace.
LVIII.
Ray
GHULPA was spotting and the OB-GYN said that because of her age and cervical configuration, she would have to stay in bed for the remainder of her pregnancy.
Since she announced her condition, the Artesian cousins came and went more often then usual (they arrived in shifts), and frankly, it looked to Ray as if they were planning to stay. That was a good thing, because the old man hadn’t got all his strength back, not by a longshot.
A sidebar dustup was the Friar’s post-op peccadilloes. He lashed out at visitors, puked, whimpered, and barked nonstop. He guarded his bowl as if fiendishly possessed; if you didn’t get your hand out of the way quick enough, you were in danger of getting fanged or defingered. Ray tried to keep the Friar on his lap when the cousins were around, but that was useless, and the muzzle made him even crazier. Ghulpa’s family put up with it, surreptitiously kicking him every now and then. It was clear something would have to be done—they could never have a newborn in the same house with that animal. Nip remained pretty much under bathroom arrest. Ray made a bed for him in the tub.
Since the settlement, the cousins treated the old man with great regard. He’d evolved from being, in his mind anyway, a semi-seedy character to a bonafide breadwinner, and while BG never had such fears, it was obvious that her cousins felt because she was unmarried, her legal grounds for sharing the wealth were shakier than the extended family would have wished. Marriage was hinted at almost daily and while Ray wasn’t opposed, he somehow wanted Ghulpa to suggest it. Hell, he’d already drawn up a will leaving the whole kit and caboodle to her; the ACLU fellow did that for free. (Ghulpa probably hadn’t told her cousins, out of sheer mischievousness.) Ray enjoyed the currying and the curry. It’s good to be King. He began to feel like the dying, debonair toymaker—Amitabh Bachchan—from the Lakewood matinee. Ghulpa’s people were apeshit over “Mr B,” who had now added television to his résumé, having recently become the host of a version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire that was a huge hit in Bangalore. The cousins actually called Ray Mr B (for Bapu) in jest, when they weren’t using Raj or “Sri Ray.”
The shuttle service came for the dog 3 times a week and the old man usually went along. He liked getting out of the house, and not having to drive. The apartment was too crowded with women and their smells. (Ghulpa was already talking about a duplex “investment property” in Cerritos. The stairs would be hell on his legs.) He couldn’t even watch his beloved Twilight Zone, because the cousins played Bollywood movies and pop songs at full volume while giggling and shrieking their gossip. Besides, the Friar got spooked; all the commotion wasn’t great on his nerves, which were shot anyway. He’d become nearly impossible to handle. The ladies made no bones about wanting to “disappear” the dog by the railroad tracks; one of them got so angry with Ray that she smart-talked him and he had to let her know who was boss. She backed down pretty good. The women locked themselves in the bedroom, and at least he had some peace and quiet for a few hours. But the poor mutt frightened people and was in constant pain. Even some of the folks at the Center told him Nip was “unmanageable.” Ray didn’t want to be selfish or cruel, but he loved that guy and couldn’t bear to part with him. Big Gulp was shrewd enough to remain silent. It showed her man respect, and he liked that. She had a soft spot for the Friar as well, but knew Ray would never put their child in harm’s way. He found himself starting to think about the place that Cora woman had mentioned, a rest home for broken creatures, out in the verdant boonies.
The staff at rehab told Ray they were pretty sure Nip’s problems were behavioral, because he seemed physically and neurologically on the mend. Again, they brought up a resource of which he might avail himself. Because the “case” had been relatively high-profile—a police shooting, and all—they had taken the liberty to speak with a famous expert, who was very much in demand. They got lucky: Cesar was amenable to a consultation. Ray was touched they’d made the effort. Everyone was hopeful “the Dog Whisperer” could find the time to work with Nip, and maybe even
put him on his TV series.
The old man went slack-jawed: he couldn’t believe it. Ray loved that show, even though he hadn’t seen it in a while—what with the Kaos Kousins and domestic folderol. So that’s the fellow they’d been pushing him to call! This guy Cesar Millan was a real shaman: in 10 minutes he could transform a pet and its owner’s lives. He was some kind of magician who made good dogs from bad, inevitably attributing whatever trouble was going on to the lazy or ill-advised habits of the masters themselves. The biggest problem stemmed from people treating their dogs too much like human beings. He said dogs got confused when that happened. Millan’s mission was to make the owners into pack leaders instead of neurotic, babytalking bleedinghearts. Ray didn’t exactly think of himself in that category but hell, maybe he was (or wasn’t) doing something that perpetuated or even exacerbated the Friar’s current problems. Millan was warm and “calm-assertive,” a no-nonsense Mex who’d been raised on a ranch, with a healthy respect for all species—including his wife. They had a couple of boys and sometimes the whole family was on the show. Each episode began with the Whisperer on a skateboard being “towed” by a dozen Red Zone dogs. Red Zone meant the worst of the worst—rottweilers and scary pit bulls that Millan had completely rehabilitated.
Jesus, with Millan’s intervention, they might even be able to keep Friar Tuck after the baby was born. He’d have to maneuver Big Gulp into watching a few shows; Ray knew she’d become an instant fan. If anyone could help, it was the soft-spoken macho from Distrito Federal. He could “whisper” sweet nothings in the Friar’s ear to his heart’s content.
Hell, he had to have seen far worse.
A few days later, the Dog Whisperer dropped by Mercantile Road without a film crew. Ray made sure the cousins had decamped beforehand. Cesar—he insisted on being called by his 1st name—was a gentle spirit but not anyone to be trifled with. He was polite and direct and looked into Ray’s eyes, unblinking.
The old man told him Nip/Tuck had always been good, but since the shooting he’d “gone paranoid.” (Cesar, who had a sense of humor, preferred “Nip,” possibly having been influenced by the folks at the Center.) Ray was upfront about his pregnant roommate—Ghulpa poked her head in to bobble a mute hello; she was a little starstruck, having watched some of the National Geographics—discreetly adding that the doctors had ordered her confined to bed. If they taped a show, she preferred not to be on camera. Cesar said he didn’t want to put the cart before the horse—or the dog, in this case—but if he did decide to film, that wouldn’t be a problem.
He spent an hour at the house, half talking to Ray, the other working with Nip. Cesar let himself be sniffed, and deliberately never looked Nip in the eye. He said that because of the trauma—to both dog and owner—“the Rausches” were probably letting the animal get away with bad behaviors. That was understandable, he said, but not helpful to Nip’s recovery. Ray and his “roommate” needed to use dog psychology, not human psychology. Cesar said it was his feeling, from everything he’d been told, that Ray was the “pack leader”—before the shooting. Since Nip had returned from the hospital, their roles had reversed, and the dog was now dominant.
“America does not have a pack animal mentality,” he said. “That’s why dogs are so neurotic. 3rd World countries don’t have that problem—neuroses. The neurotic dog and neurotic owner. In America, it’s all about ‘doing it yourself.’ I am trying to change that. That’s why I came here, to the States. I thank America every day for teaching me about women. Respecting women. Here, you have laws against hitting women, spanking children—not so in 3rd World countries. In America, when there is a divorce, the woman gets 50/50! In 3rd World countries, men can move on, and the woman gets nothing. In my social class, it was all mind-body, no ‘Good morning, darling.’ ‘Good morning, darling’ was practiced by the upper classes, and even then it wasn’t authentic. My grandfather always taught me to go to the authentic—that’s why I went through a period where I was antisocial. An outsider. I came here 14 years ago but 1st had to learn English: then how to relate to Caucasians, Blacks, Koreans. Everyone needs to be taught differently. Dogs would follow Castro, not Gandhi. Gandhi had stooped shoulders; he was fighting with submission. Castro was fighting with domination. My wife and I are ‘co-packleaders.’ I had to learn to give her what she wanted. In 3rd World countries, the women are depressed. They work like mules. Work and exercise is not what they need 1st; they need affection, appreciation. That is what America taught me. With dogs, it’s a different way. They need discipline, exercise—then, affection.”
They took out the bowl and put food in it. Nip bared his teeth and tried to attack. Ray flinched, but guessed the Dog Whisperer could handle himself. Cesar grabbed Nip by the neck, firmly, and made short, hissing sounds until Nip lay down. When he tried to eat, he stood between Nip and his vittles, blocking and frustrating the dog’s efforts. Cesar said this was a way to establish dominance. Ray couldn’t believe it, but after a minute Nip rolled on his back. He hadn’t done that since before the shooting. Cesar said he was now in a calm-submissive state, and it would be good to reward him. He encouraged Ray to stroke his belly. A dog, he said, should never be rewarded or even spoken to when he wasn’t in a state of calm-submission. Dogs do not listen, learn, or respond when they’re in the dominant mode.
They talked about Nip’s exercise regimen and the Dog Whisperer stressed its importance. Discipline, exercise, and affection were the holy trinity. “In America,” he said, “we treat dogs like people. That helps us, it doesn’t help them. We need to see Nip as an animal 1st. Species: dog. 2nd, we need to see him as a breed: terrier mix.” (Ray had taken to calling the Friar “a terrier on 2 wheels.”) “3rd: we see personality. Then, but only then, can we see ‘Nip/Tuck.’ That way, we work toward a calm-submissive, happy dog.”
He showed Ray how to use sounds and harmless “bites” with his hand to get Nip’s attention, and deter him from disobedience—clucks, shushes, and other nonverbal exhortations. They took him for a jaunt. Because of the Friar’s acting out, Ray hadn’t walked him in a few weeks; it was just too difficult. Cesar said he understood that Ghulpa (Ray finally told him her name) couldn’t take the dog out in her present state, and Ray might not have the energy—he knew he’d recently recovered from a heart attack—but stressed how important exercise was to Nip’s recovery, particularly a 45 minute walk. The Center staffers were already incorporating that into his regimen and Cesar thought it might be a good idea to let him stay at the facility a few weeks until Ray was strong enough to take the walks himself. It was important for the old man’s recovery as well.
When they got back to the apartment, Cesar smiled broadly.
“So: would you and ‘Mr Nip’ like to be on the show?”
“Why, sure!” said Ray, beaming. “But you’ll have to ask him. He has a mind of his own!”
Cesar squatted and rubbed the dog’s chin.
“Would you like to be a TV star?”
The Friar seemed not unhappy with the proposition.
“I guess that’s a yes,” said Cesar, and with flawless timing, Nip licked his hand. “This guy’s gonna be a star!”
The men laughed.
“You’ve seen Dog Whisperer?”
“Yes, I have. Religiously.”
“There’s a woman whose dog has been sick—a King Charles. He’s skittish, fearful. This usually has more to do with the human than the animal. She’s a very nice lady. Her grandchildren go to school with Will Smith’s kids. Do you know Will Smith? I work with his dogs.”
“Not so much. But I saw you on Oprah.”
“Wonderful person, Oprah,” he said, with that unbeatable smile. “A pack leader with humans, but not so much with dogs! I thought it might be good to work with Nip a little, and work with the King Charles—then bring them both together. I don’t know how long this dog is to live. But it’s very important to make him comfortable and wag his tail in the time he has left. And to make his owner happy too! This is a gift
. We are trying some new things on the show. I think you’ve met this woman before,” he said. “The woman with the ‘little King.’ Her name is Cora. The dog is Pahrump.”
At 1st Ray couldn’t place them, but then he remembered.
“Oh yes!”
“She said she met you in the waiting room of the hospital where they did Nip’s surgery.”
“Yes! Nice, nice lady. He’s at the Center now, isn’t he? I’m afraid my Friar wasn’t so welcoming. Kinda went after him.”
“That’s one of the reasons we want to get the 2 of them together,” said Cesar. “Wouldn’t it be nice for them to be friends, without the fears?”
LIX.
Chester
HE was in panic seizure.
Something happened to Maurie while he was on the massage table.
911 had been called.
Maurie had been taken away—while Chester and Laxmi were having their Sacred Stone massage and Desert Volcanic Fango Body Mask/Sage Body Polish.
Horror when they 1st found out.
Or, as news anchors liked to say: Hawhr.