Until the Last Dog Dies

by Robert Guffey

  Then I was back home in my bedroom watching the TV. Beams of dust-speckled sunlight poured through the half-closed curtains. It was morning. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanking God I had only been reliving the horror in my sleep. I never wanted to be ten again, not if it meant repeating my elementary school years. I’d rather be an eighty-year-old man hooked up to a colostomy bag and a dialysis machine than have to spend even one more second in that nightmare.

  I glanced at the digital clock beside my bed. It was 9:08, which was quite early for me. On the television I saw a group of stiffs in neckties and white lab coats standing behind a podium while reporters scribbled notes and photographers flashed bulbs in their faces. It looked like a pretty important event. I searched under the covers for the remote so I could turn up the sound, which I must have lowered at some point during the night. I couldn’t find the fucking thing, though, so I said, “Aw, screw it,” and walked the six feet to the TV to do it by hand.

  I lay back down and listened to one of the reporters say, “What can you tell us about the causes of this disease?”

  The various neckties and lab coats looked around at each other, as if all of them were reluctant to respond. At last one of them stepped up to the mike, coughed into his fist, then said, “That’s a very complicated question. In brief, our observations suggest the possibility of a cellular-immune dysfunction that manifests itself in a uniquely selective manner, attacking specific centers of the brain almost as if it were designed for that purpose alone—”

  At that moment a chorus of questions erupted from the reporters, but the first reporter beat them to the punch: “Uh, doctor, are you suggesting that this disease is a chemical/ biological warfare agent? Would you consider Iraq a likely source?”

  The lab coat seemed quite panicked now. He opened his mouth to respond but before he could do so one of his colleagues stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, ladies, please, I urge you not to jump to conclusions. The truth is we don’t really have a clear idea what the origin of the disease is. Any answer to that question would be pure speculation on our part.” He threw the first doctor a hard glance.

  Another reporter chimed in: “Excuse me, when you say ‘specific centers of the brain’ what do you mean exactly?”

  The second doctor said, “I’m glad you asked that question. It’s important to underscore the fact that this is not a fatal disease. After a full year’s worth of study we can firmly state that the virus affects only the humor centers of the brain.”

  “I don’t understand,” the reporter said. “Affects it in what way?”

  “Well, if untreated the disease seems to, uh, wipe it out entirely.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “We don’t know. That’s why we’re studying it.”

  Yet another reporter struggled to be heard: “Has anyone developed a vaccine to fight it?”

  “No, but within a few years perhaps, if the government provides enough funding… .”

  Another reporter: “How long has this virus been around?”

  “We don’t know. We discovered the virus only a year ago, as was already stated. It could’ve been affecting humans for, oh … more than a hundred years.”

  Coco the Clown leaped up from the back row at that exact second and tossed a coconut cream pie right into the doctor’s face. There followed a tense moment of uncomfortable silence, then the reporters turned en masse and helped the security guards beat the clown to death with their fists. Coco screamed, “Get off me, get off me, get off me!” as blood spurted out of his lip. His voice was as high-pitched as a child’s… .

  I vaulted out of bed, my naked body covered in sweat. The sheets were soaked. The sunbeams had shifted since I’d last seen them, covering the bookcase instead of the desk beside it. The clock read 10:22. Some dumb soap opera was on the TV. Though my headache had gone, my mind was very hazy. I couldn’t figure out which parts of my dream, if any, had been real.

  I switched the TV from station to station, searching for the news. All I found were vapid talk shows like Wendy Williams, and a re-run of The King and I. I thought, If ignorance is bliss the people who program these stations must dance the rumba to work every morning while singing Zippity Fucking Doo Dah.

  I threw on some clothes, an old t-shirt and ripped blue jeans, then ran down two flights of stairs to the newspaper machine outside my apartment building. I peered through the glass and scanned the first page of the L.A. Times. Obama urges more “ambitious” action against climate change, three die in shooting spree in Alabama, a second fence goes up outside White House for added security … nothing about a strange new virus. But it wouldn’t make the papers that quick, would it?

  I didn’t bother to go back upstairs. I had to talk to someone more sane than myself. The first person I thought of was Heather. I jogged two blocks to the nearest bus stop and caught a bus just as it was pulling away from the curb. In my haste I dropped one quarter too many into the glass and metal machine near the front of the bus. As usual I sat near the emergency exit, just in case trouble broke out on the bus.

  And I was right to be wary. A block later three big burly Mexican dudes climbed aboard. Two of them were dressed the same. Judging from the metal lunch boxes dangling from their hirsute fingers, and their dull gray jumpsuits that reminded me of the attire preferred by such genteel serial killers as Michael Myers in the Halloween movies, I concluded they were on their way to work at one of the many picturesque refineries in the area given to periodic explosions, conflagrations, and unexpected malfunctions of various kinds. Two of the men deposited their coins, then sat in the back of the bus. The third man lingered in the front, attempting to force a crumpled dollar bill into the metal and glass machine for which no one in the universe had a proper name. The machine seemed reluctant to accept the man’s dollar bill; it kept spitting it back out at him. The man was becoming more and more frustrated. He proceeded to carry on a conversation with the bus driver while also cursing and beating the machine: “God damn. Why won’t this god damn thing go in there? God damn! How do you get to Lankershim from here? You can’t? What’s your problem? Get in there! Wrong bus? Damn it, that last bus driver told me this was the bus. What’s wrong with this machine? I’m gonna have to shoot someone! God damn… .”

  At last he gave up on the dollar bill and lumbered down the aisle, making direct eye contact with each passenger as he said, “Anyone got change for a dollar?” Each time he repeated the phrase it became shorter and shorter: “Got change for a dollar? Change for a dollar? Dollar? Dollar? Dollar?” One by one the passengers shook their heads and looked away without even bothering to check their wallets or purses. L.A. commuters were a uniquely uncaring lot. You could tell the man’s frustration was growing as fast as it had with the machine, perhaps more so. By the time he got to me he didn’t even say anything. He just shoved the dollar in my face and stared. I thought, Ah, here’s my opportunity to be a Good Samaritan for the day! I dug into my pocket to grab some change, then realized that I had left in such a hurry I hadn’t brought any with me.

  I said, “Sorry, man, I don’t have any change. I thought I did, but… .” I spread out my hands.

  He stared me down. “Where you goin’?”

  “Uh … just to a friend’s house. Why?”

  “How you gettin’ home?”

  “On the bus. I don’t think my friend will mind loaning me some money. If she does mind, hopefully she’ll loan it to me anyway.”

  “Well, that’s great,” the man said, nodding. “That’s great that you’ve got a friend to loan you money. You know I’ve got to go to work on the bus every morning, every day, back and forth, back and forth, every day, back and forth? Shit, more than every day, man! You know how much that costs?”

  “To tell you the truth, I was never that good at math. I’d much prefer you ask me a question about English literature. Who wrote Mill on the Floss, for example?”

  “What the—?”

  “No, not What The, though tha
t’s pretty close. The proper answer is George Eliot. Or is it Eliot George? Curious George? No, no, Curious George is a monkey, except on off days when he’s a Beatle, a dead one. Then he’s George Harrison. Or at least he thinks he is. Say, do you ever look at the world and know that it’s turning while your guitar gently weeps?”

  The man stared at me as if I had just erupted out of a volcano, then walked past me. He must’ve gotten the change from someone behind me because he returned to the front and plunked some coins into the machine. Then he walked back down the aisle. I stared out the window, watching Hollywood storefronts whiz past me in a bright, gaudy blur. I expected him to sit in the back with the other two Mexican dudes, but instead he plopped down right next to me even though there were plenty of empty seats all around us. He pointed at my t-shirt and said, “What’s that say?”

  At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I glanced down and realized I’d thrown on my old Alternative Tentacles t-shirt that I’d found in a thrift store up in San Francisco during my dim, dark college days (I left before I got a degree). It had a great illustration on it: a decrepit old man whose ears are stuffed with bottle corks, whose glasses are covered with brick, and whose mouth is fastened shut with a zipper. Stamped on his bald pate are the words “U.S. Government Inspected.” Above the illustration are the words… .

  “No More Censorship Defense Fund,” I said, reading off the shirt.

  “No More Censorship, huh? Yeah, that’s good. That’s real good.” He shoved a big beefy finger in my face. “You know how much I make a week?”

  Not another math question, I thought. “No, how much?”

  “Chickenshit!” The tip of his index finger rammed into my chest. “Why don’t you wear a shirt that says, ‘No Chickenshit,’ huh? Huh?” He waved his hand in the air. “Phh, forget it, man. You go to high school?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m twenty-nine years old. The only reason for me to go to a high school is to cruise for jailbait.”

  “I hear you, man.” At this point he placed his huge hand on my knee. I decided to ignore it. “You like the little girls with the tight asses? I like the tight asses.” He smiled broadly, not looking at me, staring straight ahead.

  “Uh, yeah. Whatever you say.”

  “I’ve got a thirteen inch dick.”

  Silence for a moment. “Really?”

  “The girls are afraid of it. Sure, they’ll make out with me and stuff, but when I whip it out they get scared and run away.”

  “Hell, I can understand that.”

  He began rubbing my knee. “How big is yours? You got a big one?”

  “Not so big. Average, I guess. You know.”

  “About six inches?”

  “Uh, I never really measured it. That sounds about right. So how do you think the Raiders will do this year?” I was a jumble of emotions. I didn’t know what the hell I should do. Cry for help? Leap out the emergency exit? Call him a cad and slap him across the cheek?

  “I’d trade you any day of the week. I’d love to know what it’s like to be inside a woman without making her scream. So don’t you feel bad, my friend. Yours is just the right size. Take it from me.”

  “I’d … really rather not.”

  “It’s funny. Sometimes I find that boys are a lot less afraid of it. Young boys, especially. They like to play with it, like taffy.”

  “Did I mention I wasn’t in high school?”

  His hand began to travel up my leg. “So what’s your name, bro?”

  “You know, for some reason I’m drawing a blank at the moment.” I wondered what his two friends were doing in the back, holding hands and snuggling? I glanced out the window. My stop wasn’t too far away.

  “Maybe you’ve heard of me,” he said. “My name’s Chino.”

  “It suits you. Were you named after the prison?”

  “It’s just a nickname. The real name’s Chewey. I run with the Mexican Mafia. The cops know I killed two people, but they can’t pin nothin’ on me. They’re total fuck-ups.”

  The bus came to a stop. The two guys who I thought were his friends left through the back door opposite my seat, not even glancing in our direction. I suddenly realized that three Mexicans who get on a bus together don’t necessarily know each other. Not only was I getting felt up, but I had to deal with the fact that I was prejudiced too.

  The bus started up again. Chino, or Chewey (whatever), had lapsed into silence. I stared straight ahead, motionless, my arms folded across my chest. I could feel my heart beating against the back of my forearms. I wondered if he would kill me if I just stood up and moved to another seat.

  After a few seconds Chino said, “My dick’s wide as a beer can. You could just barely fit those thin lips of yours around the head.”

  “Driver!” Chino’s hand fell off my leg as I shot to my feet. “You missed my stop!” Everyone on the bus turned around to stare at me, no doubt confused by the extreme panic in my voice. “Pardon me, excuse me, pardon me,” I said, vaulting over Chino’s lap and darting toward the front of the bus.

  “Why the hell didn’t you ring the bell?” the driver said.

  “I was momentarily distracted by the beautiful North Hollywood scenery, sir.”

  The driver pulled up to the curb. “Smart ass,” he said under his breath as I leaped off the stairs and onto the sidewalk. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Chino would burst through the backdoor and pursue me down the street, but thankfully no. He remained on the bus while I continued my rather treacherous journey. Christ, I thought, you can’t go anywhere these days without getting your dick grabbed. As I walked down the street my mood darkened. I began to question my own sexuality. Had I brought this on in some way? Was it my provocative clothes? Oh, I felt so used. I wondered, Is that all I am to the world, just a pretty face and a tight ass?

  Since I had to abandon the bus well before my stop I was forced to walk about six blocks until I reached Cahuenga Blvd., where Heather’s apartment building was located. Normally this would have been a pleasant twenty minute bus ride, but of course there was nothing normal about this day. Heather lived in a three-story building that seemed quite old. Perhaps it was designed to look that way. Because the rent was cheap a lot of old people and college students lived in the building—not to mention one struggling comedian.

  Barring entrance into the building was a large black gate that was locked after ten p.m. This annoyed me to no end. I spent most of my childhood in Torrance, a coastal suburb of Los Angeles where almost every gingerbread home had black iron bars over the doors and windows. The areas with the least amount of crime seemed to have the greatest amount of bars and locks and chains. Some people would probably say, “Oh, well that proves the bars and locks and chains prevent crime, doesn’t it?” Perhaps, but somehow I doubt it. I think the crime rate would be the same either way. The truth is, people who live in the suburbs are just fuckin’ paranoid. Back in high school I remember reading a newspaper article about a fire that had broken out in one of those homes due to faulty wiring in the family’s Christmas tree lights. The fire trapped both the parents and the children in their separate bedrooms. In most other homes they could’ve escaped. Unfortunately, the parents had decided to install bars over the windows only a week before. Imagine them pressed up against those iron teeth, trying to bust their way through a cage they’d made for themselves as the little room filled with smoke. The image horrified me when I first read it. I think I knew then that I had to break out of the suburbs and make a name for myself in the real world. I’ve hated bars and locks and chains ever since. When I was twenty-two I remember the manager installing a similar gate around the apartment building I was sharing with a couple of friends I was going to college with. At every opportunity I would leave the gate unlocked as my own subtle protest. To this day I did the same exact thing whenever I entered Heather’s building.

  I buzzed Heather’s apartment on the intercom. Like always, I had to wait for a long time. As I did, I noticed a weir
d bit of graffiti spray painted on a Starbucks across from Heather’s building. It was a mural, about twenty feet long and twelve feet high, extremely detailed. It depicted a giant terrier, so finely drawn I could see every single hair on its back, rising up onto its hind legs while sort of dematerializing in a cloud of green vapor. Floating out of the dog’s gaping mouth was a wispy word balloon that read: “Good morning!” What that meant, I had no idea. All I knew was that the “graffiti” around here was getting a hell of a lot more sophisticated. This crap would’ve been worthy of Diego Rivera or Robert Williams.

  After leaning on the bell for a full minute, I finally heard Heather’s groggy whisper: “Mm, yeah? Who the hell is it?”

  “If the Pope had sex with puppies would he give birth to another Pope or more puppies?”

  A beat. “Elliot? What the fuck are you doing here so early?”

  “It’s 11:11. The rest of the world has been up for hours. Now will you please open the door? I’m about to be run down by Cossacks on horses out here. I’m in great danger. I feel as if my enemies are closing in on all sides.”

  Heather sighed. “Jesus, all right. Hold on a second while I throw on my robe.”

  “Throw it out the window for all I care, just hurry. I’ve got members of the Mexican Mafia gunning for me.”

  A few minutes later the door to the building opened and Heather emerged wearing a fluffy white robe and sandals. “This damn well better be important,” she said, unlocking the gate with a tiny silver key. There was something fresh and appealing about her mussed-up pillow-hair, her unmade face. From somewhere in the back of my mind came the thought: This is what she would look like if I woke up beside her. Because it reminded me of my drunken attempt to seduce her, I tried to banish the thought as soon as possible.