Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

  STRAY DOG

  The gun club was located in West Palm Beach, off Okeechobee Boulevard. Jacob parked his van in the half-empty lot and stepped into the blinding noon day sun. Now I know why Clint Eastwood was always squinting in those spaghetti westerns. He checked his dive watch, estimated what time he had to leave in order to get back to work for his afternoon shift, and then entered the building.

  An assortment of handguns and knives were displayed in locked glass cases; assault weapons lined the walls. A female clerk, heavyset and graying at forty, was showing a pistol to a well-endowed redhead and her skinny tattooed boyfriend.

  “This is a Glock-26 subcompact, nine millimeter. It’s very popular, great for a concealed carry. Your boyfriend may prefer the Glock-19, which has a longer grip—” She glanced over at Jacob, offering a cherub smile. “Be right with you, sweet britches. Why don’t-cha look around.”

  “Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone . . . Mrs. Kleinhenz?”

  “Ruby’s on the range with the women’s group. Through that door and turn left. Grab yourself a pair of earmuffs when you go in, Honey-buns.”

  “Thanks.” Jacob opened the door and entered a small alcove that led to a glass door which sealed off an air conditioned egress corridor. Inside the shooting area, half a dozen women encircled a gray haired male firearms instructor.

  Ruby Kleinhenz spotted Jacob and waved him over.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Mr. Appleseed and I’ll be your firearms instructor for today. As you know, these are dangerous times. Just this morning I read about a fatal car-jacking in Fort Lauderdale; last week another woman was raped and assaulted in Palm Beach County. Ladies, there are three kinds of people in the world. Most are sheep . . . frightened creatures dependent on the flock. Then there are your wolves—the animals that prey on society, the assholes who force us to live in fear. Finally, there are sheepdogs, the ones who don’t take shit from the wolves.”

  The instructor held up a 9mm semi-automatic handgun. “This, ladies, is the instrument that turns sheep into sheepdogs.”

  Jacob growled beneath his breath.

  Ruby snickered, nudging him with her elbow.

  The instructor recited a few safety regulations, then assigned each woman to a stall, the targets: cardboard male silhouettes.

  Jacob watched Ruby expertly snap a loaded magazine into place. “You look good, Jacob. Did you lose weight?”

  “Five pounds. Been exercising.” He glanced one stall over where the instructor was observing a timid brunette. The college sophomore aimed her pistol down range, her slender arms shaking. Looking away, she squeezed off a shot, the recoil nearly hitting her in the face.

  Mr. Appleseed shook his head in disgust. “That’s no way to discharge a weapon. Look at your target. You’ve got one shot before he rapes you! Shoot to kill. Now, fleabag!”

  Suddenly the timid brunette became Dirty Harry, scattering six holes across the target.

  “That’s better. Load another clip, only this time try aiming.” The instructor moved over one stall to watch Ruby. The divorcee spread her legs in an exaggerated horse-stance and fired a perfect cluster . . . punching holes over her target’s groin.

  “Impressive cluster, Ruby. Only those aren’t kill shots.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill him. I wanted to make him suffer.”

  Jacob cringed.

  Ruby loaded another magazine and turned to face him. “You’re up, lover.”

  “Whoa, not me. I’m afraid of guns.”

  “You’re afraid of a lot of things. Now get your sweet ass over here before I put a bullet in your crack.” She handed him the loaded weapon, then stood behind him, positioning his arms. “Strong arms. Aim and squeeze the trigger.”

  His body quaking, Jacob aimed and fired, flinching at the recoil—the bullet hole visible over the target’s heart.

  Ruby kissed him on the cheekbone. “See that? You’re a natural.”

  “Ruby, why am I here?”

  “You’re here because I got you an amazing gig—a private birthday party on a millionaire’s yacht. The job’s in two weeks and pays five gees.”

  “Five grand? Holy shit.”

  “There’s a catch. The woman arranging everything wants to see your act first. She’s a friend, but she’s a hardcore feminist, so you need to revise your act accordingly.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “I don’t care, just do it. There’ll be a lot of deep pockets at the party, including a few television producers, so take this seriously. No Helen Keller jokes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. When and where is the audition?”

  “Friday at noon. I’ll text you the address.” Turning to face the target, she rapidly discharged eight more rounds until the gun’s slide popped out.

  Jacob nervously checked his watch. “I better go or I’ll be late for work.” Mindful of the gun, he offered her an awkward hug.

  Ruby groped him through his Bermuda shorts. “Why Jacob, is that a Glock in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

  Jacob ducked away from her advances and hurried out of the shooting area—

  —never seeing the muscular woman staring at him from her stall.

  Jeanne Pratt watched Jacob disappear out the egress door before she turned and fired the two Glocks down range, one gun in each hand.

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  LESSON NINE: SOCIAL ISSUES

  Nancy gripped the dog’s leash tighter, half-leading, half-dragging Sam down the sidewalk, her sister Lana power-walking beside her. “What else did Jeanne say?”

  “She said Ruby’s advances seemed to make Jacob uncomfortable, but he definitely had a hard-on when he left the shooting range.”

  “That little shit. Know what he said to me the first night we moved in together? He said he’d cut off his balls if he was even tempted to cheat on me.” She quickened the pace, tugging harder on the German Shepherd’s choker collar.

  “Want me to send Jeanne and her PMS crew after Ruby? Send a little message about moving in on another woman’s man?”

  “The bitch carries a gun, Lana. Besides, Jacob’s the one that needs the warning.”

  They crossed the street, approaching an older black man walking a Golden Retriever.

  Before she could react, the chain was torn from Nancy’s hand as Sam went ballistic, growling and attacking the Golden Retriever. Screaming, “heel,” she attempted to separate her enraged animal from the other canine, the retriever’s owner yelling and dragging his dog away.

  Finally managing to grab Sam’s choker collar, Nancy pulled it tight, yelling, “bad dog! Bad!”

  Lana’s heart was racing. “God, that was scary.”

  “That was scary.”

  “Sam could’ve killed that dog. Then what? The owner sues you.”

  “Like I don’t have enough problems. This is all Jacob’s fault.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Lana said. “I specifically told your boyfriend to get you a Bichon.”

  “Can’t trust a man to do anything right.”

  “I couldn’t have been clearer.”

  “Maybe you should’ve pulled a Ruby Kleinhenz and grabbed him by the balls.”

  “I did.”

  Nancy turned to her sister. “What do you mean, you did? You grabbed my boyfriend’s balls?”

  “Not sexually. You know . . . just to get his attention. Sort of like Sam’s choker collar.”

  “Don’t touch Jacob’s balls! Touch your own boyfriend . . . touch Jeanne’s balls. What is it with other women going after my boyfriends’ private parts?”

  “Take it easy, Nance—”

  “Maybe I should castrate my men before I let them move in with me? Maybe that would keep them from cheating on me?”

  “. . . just breathe, little sister. Breathe and count to ten.”

  “Maybe I’ll start with his damn dog? Bet that would keep him from being so aggressive.”

  “Fix Sam? That would certainl
y get Jacob’s attention.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Nancy paused, a kernel of thought taking root in her brain. “Wait a second. Oh my God, that’s it! That’s why Jacob’s mother refuses to give Mr. Cabot the time of day.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Carmella’s Jewish. She’s dating Jewish men—circumcised Jewish men. Cabot’s not circumcised; she must have seen his foreskin peeking through his Speedo bathing suit.”

  “Gross.”

  “It’s not gross, Lana, in fact it makes perfect sense. What’s gross is what Cabot will have to do if he really wants to be with Jacob’s mother.”

  DISTEMPER ISSUES

  Jacob sat in his I.T. cubicle, agitated. His blood felt like it was flowing ten degrees too hot. His skin was annoying to be inside of, like it was wrapped too tight. His thoughts were helter-skelter, his problems popping up in his brain like a never-ending game of whack-a-mole.

  My share of the rent’s due again, I already owe Nancy from last month’s expenses. And the van’s transmission could go any time. I need this yacht gig, only Ruby won’t let up until I sleep with her. Can’t cheat on Nancy, but I need the money . . .

  Jacob could feel the anxiety building, the blood vessels in his left arm tightening.

  The iPhone on his desk vibrated again . . . RUBY CALLING. He turned the cursed machine off.

  Sanjay Patel leaned into Jacob’s cubby. “Take line fourteen please.”

  He snatched the headphones off his desktop, connecting the line. “Name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Can I have your name, please?”

  “James.”

  “What’s your problem, James?”

  “My problem is my fucking internet won’t work.”

  “Have you tried rebooting?”

  “Three times.”

  “Close all of your programs, then click on START, then RUN, then type in—”

  “Whoa, slow down, pal. I have to save a bunch of stuff.”

  Jacob’s heart beat faster and harder. Do you want a career as a stand-up . . .?

  “Okay. Do what now? Hello?”

  Jacob saw the squiggly line in his vision. Migraine coming. This is bad.

  “Yo dude, you still—”

  “Click on START . . . then RUN—”

  “Where’s RUN? Oh, wait, I see it. Now what?”

  “Type in capital C, colon, then capital R, T, forward slash—”

  “Wait, what comes after the C?”

  “Colon.”

  “That’s the thing with two dots, right? Hello? Yo, pal, you still there?”

  Jacob was gone—the toggle switches in his brain having flipped from down to up, all rational thought drowning beneath a tidal wave of anxiety as he ripped the headphones from his ears and tossed them at the cheerleader calendar hanging crooked on the cubby wall.

  He found himself outside, the spots in his vision partially blinding him, causing his heart to race faster. He managed to locate the Volkswagen van. Keying in, he started the engine, not to drive (he still couldn’t see), just to power the A/C, which hadn’t run cold since the unit began leaking Freon six months ago. He crawled in back, feeling the thick brown shag carpet beneath him as he collapsed face-first on a down pillow. He rolled over onto his back, hot and sweating in the airless metal box, suffering and suffocating—hyperventilating thoughts at the moment still too frightening to consider as the migraine stabbed him in the left eye.

  Trapped in purgatory, desperate to keep from falling into his own private Hell, he felt for the battery-operated fan, purchased a year ago when he was forced to live in his vehicle, out of work, out of money, out of options.

  The breeze momentarily restored his sanity.

  The rumble in his gut shattered it.

  Sliding open the side door, he leaned out and puked, the ferocity of the act igniting every blood vessel in his head as his brain sought to restore equilibrium.

  He finished, slammed the door closed, and searched the back of the van, desperate to quench the burning sensation in his esophagus. Locating a long-forgotten bottle of water, he swished the hot remains in his mouth before swallowing, then laid back down, his body trembling until finally, mercifully, he passed out.

  Several hours later, he stirred in his sauna refuge to Sanjay banging on the side of the van. The migraine had passed, leaving him with a dull hangover.

  “Jacob, come inside please. My uncle wishes to speak with you.”

  * * * * *

  “YOU’RE FIRED.” AMIR Patel delivered the news from behind his immaculate desk.

  “Please don’t fire me, Mr. Patel. I just had a bad morning.”

  “A bad morning? My friend, you are in a state of denial. You hate your job, you hate your co-workers, you speak with disrespect to our clients, and from observing the way in which you live, I imagine you are at the top of your own shit list. I like you, Jacob, but what am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. What does the elephant say?”

  “The elephant says you are an asshole.” Patel shook his head, as if to settle an internal debate. “Answer my questions, and do not lie to me. Are you self-medicating?”

  “No.”

  “Drinking?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you seeing a therapist?”

  “Sort of. She’s not treating me; we’re just renting a house together. She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Apologize, start seeing a therapist, get on an exercise regimen, speak to a medical doctor about prescribing an anti-depressant, then come see me next week, dressed in a white collared shirt, black slacks, and matching dress shoes. If you’ve done everything I asked I’ll start you out on service calls using one of our company vans. It’s less money, but it’s a job. You can thank the elephant if you get that far.”

  * * * * *

  THE WAITING ROOM at the gynecology center was packed with women, Dr. Cope running an hour behind schedule. Wanda grabbed the next chart from the receptionist and opened the door, calling out, “Cory Verdoliva?”

  The forty-eight-year-old mother of two gathered her belongings, wondering how long she’d have to wait in the exam room.

  Wanda handed the brunette a plastic cup and clean dressing gown. “Bathroom’s on the right. Pee in the cup, leave it in the cupboard, then wait in room three and get into this gown, Dr. Cope will be right with you.”

  Wanda was about to close the door when she spotted Jacob entering the waiting room. “Damn, boy. You look like two miles of bad road.”

  “I need to see Vin.”

  “Go wait in his office; I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Another patient grabbed the door before Wanda could close it. “Nurse, I’ve been waiting an hour. How much longer will it be?”

  “Not long, Ms. Kirsten.”

  “Not long? How many more hours is not long? I am so tired of doctors over-booking their schedules.”

  “Yeah, it sucks, don’t it.”

  “Is that your response?”

  “Well, I could tell you the insurance companies ain’t payin’ like they’re supposed to, forcing doctors to book more patients just so they can afford their malpractice insurance, but you don’t really care about the why, ya’ll just want to bitch and maybe extract a little payback for those of us making you wait.”

  “It just seems like things are moving extra slow today.”

  “Well, we ain’t given pedicures back there. We’re knee-deep in smelly, leaky, yeast-infected vaginas. Ya’ll want speed? Get your pootie tuned up at Jiffy-Lube. Otherwise, sit your cute little ass down and wait ‘til I call you.”

  * * * * *

  JACOB ENTERED HIS brother’s office. Vincent Cope’s desk was covered with stacks of medical files, his two walls with Samurai swords and martial arts weaponry. A suit of Japanese armor adorned a human skeleton.

  Damn. Yoko would love this shit.

&n
bsp; Jacob removed a short sword from its perch, recognizing it as a blade used by Samurai to commit Seppuku, a ritual suicide that involved gutting the stomach. Situating himself on the edge of his brother’s desk, pressing the tip of the steel blade against his shirt-covered belly, he imagined himself as a depressed Samurai warrior, about to meet his death—

  —when the door suddenly flew open and Ruby Kleinhenz rushed in, her naked features flirting with the front of her half-buttoned patient’s gown.

  Startled, Jacob stabbed himself with the blade, the jolting pain causing him to knock over the skeleton clad in its ancient suit of Japanese armor.

  “Jacob, are you okay?”

  “Fine . . . good.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Huh?” He looked down at the specks of blood spreading across his tee-shirt. “It’s okay, just a flesh wound. Why are . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I was waiting to see your brother in the exam room across the hall when I saw you come in.”

  “I meant, why are you in here? In my brother’s private office . . . naked.”

  “It’s been three weeks since my surgery; I just wanted your opinion.” She lifted the front of her gown, exposing her shaved vagina. “Didn’t your brother do a great job on my labia?”

  Jacob felt the blood rushing from his face as his fingers pressed the torn tee-shirt against his stab wound. “Uh, great.”

  Vincent entered in a huff. “Jacob, what the hell are you doing in here . . . Ruby? Pull your gown down and get back to your room, you lunatic. Ah, hell, look at my Samurai armor—and you dislocated Red Skeleton’s collar bone!” He rushed to aid the fallen icon, noticing his brother’s pale complexion. “Jacob . . . are you bleeding?”

  “Yes, please . . .”

  Jacob’s eyes rolled up—Vin catching him as he fainted.

  LOVE HURTS

  Jacob opened his eyes. He was lying on an exam table, his lower belly in agony. Through his delirium, he could make out his older brother washing his hands at the sink . . . scrubbing up for major surgery?