Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665)

by Fancher, Hampton

  There’s four thousand ways to classify it. My specialty was histograms.

  Zack was out of his depth, but not completely.

  Overlapping or cumulative?

  You mean consecutive or disjointed.

  Tell me, I’m here to learn.

  Okay then! The quantifying of comparabilities to the disparities of the temporarily contiguous is what that is.

  That sounds like a contradiction with real opportunities.

  Reed was excited to hear it, to be talking to someone who understood, a professional man. And intrigued by Reed’s train of thought, even though he couldn’t quite catch it, Zackary was glad to have somebody to talk to in the Snake Pit.

  Borrego and the boys weren’t glad at all, didn’t like their little egghead getting all chummy with Mr. Good Listener from somewhere else. Borrego hung his head, and Peewee made vomiting sounds.

  Either Reed didn’t notice or didn’t care; he kept talking.

  One interval split into two that looks like a union equivalence may or may not have a fracture value, because if one is nullified, the other is transferred. You understand?

  Sounds like marriage, Zackary said.

  The stranger was not only smart, he was funny. Encouraged, Reed went on.

  You see, the transfer function is going to be identical to the second one no matter what the first one is.

  What’s the second one?

  The assumption that they’re going to be the same.

  But they aren’t?

  Nope, Euclidean-based distances can’t be reduced by volume unless you do it by midpoint intervals. Which leads to what?

  Give me a hint.

  One varies, the other is constant, but if they’re doing it together, they’re neither.

  What’s that called?

  Diffusion puzzle. I wrote the manual on it. You come over, I’ll give you one.

  Reed put out his hand and they shook on it, exchanged names. The El Dorado trailer park is where he lived, number four. Reed wrote it down on a napkin, then squinted around to see who was looking. They were all looking. The barman cleared his throat. Borrego moaned. Zackary smiled at him. Borrego turned away. Ratbreath yelled:

  Get out of here, Reed!

  Number four, Reed whispered, there’s a lemon tree next to the door. I’ll give you a manual, make you a martini!

  The way he skimmed across the floor and out the door reminded Zackary of Groucho Marx.

  The only sound left was the swamp cooler. Zackary would have liked another beer, but the Snake Pit felt concluded. And there was gin in the car. He laid a five dollar bill on the bar and left.

  One place to eat. The China Diner. There was nothing Chinese on the menu. The Chinese had left town. The new owner and his wife hadn’t come up with a name yet. That’s what the waitress told him. And she didn’t think they ever would.

  The memory of her gave him a pang. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was innocent and fun, she was pretty. Probably still pretty and has three kids by now. Zackary tried, but couldn’t remember her name. The air was clear still, but a little darker; the sun had gone down. Those clouds over the mountains had thickened, were coming closer.

  The war in Vietnam had gotten a foothold, young men in small towns had signed up and gone. The only thing young in the place was the waitress. A broad innocent smile, peachy lips, and beautiful teeth. She was an orchid in a vacant lot. A couple of elders at the counter, but the booths were empty. Zackary took one in the back. Had the waitress to himself. She watched him study the menu. The wrinkled linen suit, his aquamarine eyes, he even had a book. She was dazzled and didn’t try to hide it. Did he want the special? Chicken cacciatore. He wanted breakfast. It was almost closing time. Could she make it happen?

  When she brought him scrambled eggs and toast he was reading. She cocked her head to peek at the title. He held the book up so she could see it. The cover was a photo of a naked foot propped on a steamer trunk in front of a window overlooking the sea. She pronounced the title in a whisper: Death in Venice. He gave her an encouraging nod and she asked him if he believed in reincarnation.

  He didn’t believe in much of anything, he said, except that life always seemed to be changing addresses. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but loved how he said it. So did he. Life is like a curve, he told her, and what is it that curves don’t have? She didn’t know. Points, he said. Her smile widened. He could see her molars.

  The conjectures of transcendence, people who believed in voodoo and prayer, holy scriptures, the conjunctions of planets, made him uneasy, but with her it was a charm. The warmth of his attention and the self-mockery of his pronouncements excited her—she was flattered and flushed, and he was excited back at her.

  Before coming in, Zackary had drunk of his flask. His powers had grown large around her. He invited her to sit. She explained that even if it were allowed, she couldn’t; she had a boyfriend and people would talk. Where was this boyfriend? In Vietnam, fighting the war. She called him Arvid Toby. Two first names: Zackary wondered if Arvid Toby knew Royal Gallant.

  She met Arvid Toby in high school, but they didn’t date till just before he left. And what did she think of the war? Not much, because she didn’t know what it was about. Zackary told her that nobody did, that’s why it was a bad idea. She agreed. She didn’t know Zackary was in the movies either. She didn’t know who Thomas Mann was. She didn’t know where Vietnam was. Zackary knew that in a woman who had nothing to hide, the best was hidden.

  He could wait in the parking lot till after the diner closed, and if she decided to and the coast was clear, they could continue to discuss all the wonderful things she didn’t know, out there. She wouldn’t promise she would, but didn’t say she wouldn’t. He would just have to wait and see.

  He sat in the Buick and waited. The last time he had sex in a car it was in a Lincoln Continental. He liked the word classy; never said it, but he thought it and felt that he had it. A kind of dusty élan that made him feel deserving of something better than he usually got. Sometimes he got it. He appealed to Rita. She fucked him one night in the back of that Lincoln Continental. He couldn’t remember whose. She was drunk. He wasn’t; it happened before he got the chance. It still bothered him she may have done it on a bet. He had no good reason to think it, but he did. He heard it somewhere, that she had sex with somebody on a bet, and he was afraid it may have been him. Rita wasn’t too bright, but there was something touching about her. Plus she was Rita fucking Hayworth. Cansino was her real last name, a Chicana from East L.A.

  He only saw her twice. That once in the Lincoln and the next time, which was the last time, in Rome. He had been out with a group of Swedes and wound up at Giorgio de Chirico’s apartment at the bottom of the Spanish Steps. He and the old painter sat on a couch discussing Mussolini, bananas, and trains. The gin flowed, and de Chirico showed Zackary a sketch he had done of an Eskimo holding a rope tied to the neck of a giraffe standing in front of what looked to be the Great Pyramid of Giza. Zackary loved it and hoped the old man might give it to him. But at sunup he left with hugs and handshakes, but without the sketch, and climbed the Spanish Steps to the Hotel Excelsior.

  Instead of the lobby, he went in a side door, through the lounge where jazz was nightly played. It was dark and empty except for two drunks asleep at the bar. It was Rita and her boyfriend, Gary Merrill, a decent guy and not a bad actor. Probably she was in Rome to work, like Zackary was. Gary might have been along for the ride, or the other way around. This was the early sixties, lots of Hollywood people in town for Italian movie work. He felt bad for both of them.

  Now he felt bad for himself. The waitress hadn’t shown up. There was nothing worth listening to on the radio, and the flask was empty. He was about to drive away when a Toyota pickup went by, turned the corner, and parked. It was her. His was the only car i
n the lot; looking this way and that, she hurried right to it. He opened the passenger door and she slid in. She had changed her shoes, put on fresh lipstick, but no time for a shower. She smelled like Clorets and fried chicken.

  He told her how glad he was that she came. Told her how good she looked, but she was so nervous she could hardly look at him. The magnetic reciprocity they’d shared in the diner was gone. He offered her a cigarette. She didn’t smoke. If he hadn’t finished off the flask, he could have given her gin. Clark Gable might work, she would know who that was. A decade earlier he’d been invited to the King’s fiftieth-birthday party. An event worth telling. Zackary slipped the cigarette back in the pack and was about to get started when suddenly she said she should go. But she didn’t move. It was up to him. Gentleman Zack got out of the car, went around to her side, and opened the door. He gave her his hand and she rose.

  They stood full-length against each other, using the car as a backstop, his long strong fingers laced around her narrow waist. He kissed her throat, her face, her hair. She only stopped him a little from doing more, but he did and she let him. He slid down her body to his knees. She clutched his head to her belly. Under her sweater, his face smashed against her flesh made it hard to breathe, but he didn’t care.

  Suddenly she convulsed and made a sound that sounded like he hurt her. He looked up. One of her hands covering her mouth, looking straight ahead, she moaned, Oh, no.

  He should have known. Three from the Snake Pit, Ratbreath, Peewee, and Bonehead, coming across the lot. Arvid Toby’s girl caught in flagrante on the verge of delicto. The least Zackary could expect was a battering and not lose any teeth. Where was Borrego? Probably waiting around the corner with a hammer.

  Stranger inflicts indecencies on resident sweetheart cried out for punishment. He was due for some damnation, but not on his knees. As he rose, one of them made a threat he didn’t quite catch. Zackary thought of a line from a film he no longer remembered the title of. Didn’t yell it, delivered it in a stage whisper:

  Come a little closer, boys, I’ll let you get to know me.

  They’d never heard anything so screwy. The perversity of it crimped their momentum. Peewee yelled:

  He was kissing her down there!

  You stupid bastards, he wasn’t either!

  The snarl of her defiance impressed everyone. Then a burst of insults and warnings were exchanged. Ratbreath had a can of beer he threatened to throw. She gave him the finger. He threw it. She dodged the can and showed them a moment of disdain before walking as fast as she could without actually running back to her Toyota.

  Then it was the rooster show. Bonehead coming closer, almost dancing. Zackary standing his ground, letting them know he would do them some damage before he went down. But just as it was about to happen, coming across the lot, voice like a Klaxon, Borrego was there.

  What are you dickweeds doing?

  Savoring the importance of his own arrival, he waited for a response. They all stepped on one another trying to tell him what just happened. Borrego knew what had happened, he’d been watching, told them get back to the Snake Pit or go home to bed. He would handle things now.

  He was trying to fuck her, Bill!

  Borrego wasn’t going to say it again. Beat the shit out of this guy then run back to the Snake Pit and tell Borrego is what they wanted to do, and now here was Borrego telling them not to. They didn’t know what to do. They evil-eyed Zackary, and one of them grumbled, another one spit, then they obeyed.

  Zackary and Borrego watched the three slink off across the street, then without looking at him, Borrego said:

  Got any complaints about the Firefly?

  Zackary wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

  You mean the motel?

  If you do, I’d be the one to tell.

  Zack stared at him—why would he be the one to tell?

  I own it.

  Borrego was puffed up and sly; was he waiting for a compliment? Zackary decided to be careful.

  I thought fireflies were an eastern insect, didn’t know you had ’em out here.

  Yeah, we got ’em. Firefly ain’t really even a fly. What they are is soft-bodied beetles that light up when they get horny.

  Zackary wasn’t sure if things were getting better or they just got worse. Borrego was looking right at him.

  You probably think I’m coldhearted, right?

  Why would I think that?

  I mean back at the bar. I was watching you. A guy in your position is used to people trying to get something off him. You gotta protect yourself, I understand that.

  He came closer.

  Those boys aren’t old enough to know who you are, or else they’d be running home saying, “Guess who I saw?!” Be asking for your autograph. I’m Bill.

  He clapped his hands a couple times and grinned.

  What do you say we go over and have a drink?

  It wasn’t a good time to say no. Back to the Snake Pit, Borrego telling him the score.

  A man like yourself can’t be expected to know how things work in a place like this. This ain’t Beverly Hills. Gonna hit on somebody else’s girl, you best not be doing it in the parking lot. You’d have done better sneaking it back into the Firefly.

  Zackary followed him into the Snake Pit. Except for Bob and the boys, the place was still empty. Borrego guided Zackary to a table.

  Bob brought over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Borrego poured one for his guest and one for himself.

  Whiskey’s okay?

  Yeah, it’s fine.

  Here’s to little Reed Fingley.

  Clink and down the hatch. Borrego poured again.

  Discouraged, Bonehead, Peewee, and Ratbreath watched from the bar. Zackary gave a glance. They looked away. Borrego snorted.

  They wanted to kick your ass.

  They should join the army.

  You’re right. The little one wants to, wants to go in the Marines. The other one there, he tried, but they’re not gonna take him. And the big one, he’s got something wrong with his feet. But things get bad enough, who knows, they could take him.

  Zackary relaxed a bit, not because of the whiskey—he didn’t like it—but because show-dog dipsos were familiar territory, and Borrego was definitely that.

  You know how long Fingley’s been waiting for somebody who could understand what the hell he’s talking about? You see how glad he was?

  Reed?

  Yep, you made him happy.

  Tell the truth, Bill, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about.

  He thought you were, that’s the important part, right?

  I guess he just needed somebody to talk to.

  Hey, we talk to him. It’s him that’s not supposed to talk.

  What do you mean?

  Not good for him, hasn’t got the wind. You didn’t notice? Fucker can’t breathe.

  Asthma?

  The other one. Can’t be out more than an hour, he’s gotta get back to his trailer, got this apparatus in there. Oxygen.

  Emphysema?

  Borrego gave him a sharp two-fingered salute. Zackary waited for the next thing, but Borrego just stared at him. It was Zackary’s turn.

  What about his dog?

  He’s dead.

  Yeah, that’s what he said.

  Let me tell you something, Mr. Ray; a guy like that, don’t be surprised one night he goes out, sets fire to one of them colleges he got fired from. Settle the score. I wouldn’t be surprised it was him that killed his dog.

  Why would he do that?

  Like I said.

  Dogs get old and die, Bill.

  Right. And sometimes they get ground glass.

  Borrego being funny, and it was. Zackary grinned.

 
Inspired, Borrego leaned closer, nailing him with his hooded brown eyes, started snapping his fingers, jackhammering the floor with his foot, slapping the table with his other hand, setting the beat for what was about to come. It came in a gravelly deep voice—Johnny Cash, but tuneless as an auctioneer and just as fast.

  You come to a place like this you don’t have a clue meet a guy like me you wonder how its gonna be the boys at the bar starting to pout how in the hell is this gonna work out and smarty-pants Fingley you’re so worried about waiting in his trailer for his lungs to give out you hunt with the buzzards and run with the hounds sneaking through the desert like a dickheaded clown then caught in the lot like a dirty little wimp but really what it is is a Photoplay chimp looking for a cantaloupe so don’t tell the tiger she can’t eat the antelope . . .

  Then he was on his feet, fluttering one hand over his head, marching in place, accelerating the words.

  You swam and you sneezed you got down on your knees and what did you think they wouldn’t make a stink. Everybody right everybody wrong that’s the truth in this little song one thing sure and the rest is lies if you don’t smell sweet you won’t get the meat won’t get to eat Arvid Toby’s pretty little sweet I’m slapping my hand stabbing my heal I stiffen I sag I’m giving you chills the Good Book don’t say we once had gills but whatever it is we bark and we squeal and steal the pies unzip your fly with fire in the eye in the back of your car where the movies lie . . .

  Not missing a beat, he sat back down and went on. And on.

  The boys at the bar couldn’t watch. They’d seen it before, but this time the old girl (that’s what they called him behind his back) was outdoing himself, taking it to extremes. Bob, the barman, had disappeared, gone into a back room to get away.

  Whatever it was, it would be talked about—a Snake Pit scandal.

  Zackary tried to stay detached; it wasn’t easy. The rapid pork of Borrego’s self-regard embarrassed him, and a part of him was afraid Borrego knew it, knew what he was really thinking. But also he was captivated and paid better than just courteous attention, especially when the doggerel degenerated into gibberish, into an alien language, and he got the sense Borrego’s performance was an act of defiance aimed at the absence of a larger clarity. But the last line was shouted distinctly in English, right into his ear.