Dorothy on the Rocks

by Barbara Suter

“I thought you said you didn’t think you had enough money? I would say forty dollars is plenty of money.”

  “Well the forty dollars has to do me for a while. I have to pay for the parking garage and the tolls every time I come here. I know I look like a million bucks but looks are deceiving. I thought maybe you could contribute to the cause,” Jack says as he opens a Rolling Rock.

  “So is that what you wanted to talk about? You want to talk about money and how I don’t contribute to the cause?”

  “No, it wasn’t about money.”

  “Because I would like to point out that I have some overhead myself. I do pay the rent on this love nest, after all.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m not living at home with my parents.”

  “Parent.”

  “Parent. What’s the difference really?”

  “Look, this is getting off base. You have no idea what I want to say. You can’t even listen long enough to hear,” Jack says.

  “Go on then, I’m listening. I’m all ears,” I say putting my hands behind my ears and pushing them forward like the three-year-old child I’ve become.

  “I don’t have to defend my life to you.”

  “Am I asking you to? I’m just making observations,” I say punctuating my statement with a swig of scotch.

  “Look, Mags, I think I’m going to take off.”

  “Boy, it doesn’t take much to get rid of you, does it?”

  “Don’t do that. This is your call, not mine. I thought we were having some pizza and maybe hear some music and maybe have an adult discussion. It’s called a date. Not a showdown.”

  “This is just a stopover for you, isn’t it? A drive-by fuck on the way to the rest of your life. Go on. I wouldn’t want to keep you,” I say taking another mouthful of scotch. I feel my toes getting numb. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from the rest of your life in Queens, which I would like to point out I have never been invited to visit. Do I embarrass you? Is that it, Jack?”

  “What are you talking about? Do you even know what you’re talking about? We’ve only known each other a week. When did we have time to go to Queens?”

  “I’m talking about us. About you and me and how miserable I feel right now because there really is no you and me, is there?”

  Jack starts untangling the clothes on the floor, finds his shirt and puts it on. He pulls on his socks.

  “You’re drunk,” he says. “And this is out of hand.”

  “And who are you to judge what’s in and out of hand?” I say, not knowing what the hell I’m trying to say, but trying nonetheless.

  “I think you’re right. I think I should leave and let you cool off and then maybe we can talk. Now where are my shoes?”

  “I don’t know? Are you leaving? Is that it?”

  “Didn’t you tell me to?”

  “Well if you want to leave, you are certainly free to leave. Go right ahead.”

  “I am going right ahead the minute I find my shoes,” Jack says.

  I get up and start looking. I pull the cushions off the couch.

  “I’m sure they’re here somewhere. Aha,” I exclaim, seeing them under the bookcase next to the bathroom. Jack turns and looks. I throw them, one at a time, directly at his head.

  “There are your fucking shoes,” I say. I don’t hit him—the half bottle of scotch I have ingested impedes my aim—but my intention is dead on.

  Jack doesn’t say a word. He gathers up the shoes, checks his pockets to make sure he has everything he came in with, and exits through the front door.

  I SIT DOWN on the couch and try to figure out what just happened. How did it get so crazy so fast? Bixby, my cat boy, jumps on the couch next to me and kneads my leg with his paws.

  “What have I done, Bix? What the hell have I done?” Bixby settles against me and starts to purr. Goodie lands in the middle of the coffee table and shakes his wand.

  “Why do you have to be so dramatic all the time? Life is a lot simpler than you make it,” he scolds.

  “Simple? Life isn’t simple.”

  “Sure it is,” Goodie says, picking some lint off his feathered skirt. “All you have to do is keep both shoes on and be home before midnight.”

  “Don’t make jokes,” I say

  “All right, let’s not joke. Let’s be dead serious,” Goodie says. “I am seriously worried about you, Maggie. I’m worried that you’re all tied up in a tight ball of yourself, and you’re so afraid that life is going to pass you by and you’re not going to get what you want and maybe you don’t even know what you want and all you can think about is what you don’t have and not what you do have and you can’t stop for a second and really see what’s right in front of you.”

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  “I’m only telling you what I see, and telling you what I learned. You and I were a lot alike, Mags. I didn’t see my life most of the time, and then it was gone. I know this is one big cliché, but sweetie, wake up and smell the roses. I only say this because I love you.”

  “You’re living in a fairy tale.”

  “No, you are, stop living in some bad movie version of what you think the drama of your life should be. It doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

  “I think I want to be alone right now.”

  “Oh, that’s smart,” Goodie says. “Wallow.”

  “That’s enough, Goodie,” I say. “Get the hell out of here and leave me the fuck alone.”

  “All right. I know an exit line when I hear it. But be careful, Maggie Mae,” Goodie says with a wave of his wand. “I’m warning you.” And with that Goodie is gone.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Is that a threat?” I yell over the trail of fairy dust.

  Somewhere in my scotch-soaked brain I remember I’m supposed to be taking care of Mr. Ed for the next couple of days. There was a message on my machine from Sandy. Shit. The thought of getting up and even putting my shoes on seems too much for me. What does it matter if Ed takes a walk or not? An uninvited picture of dog dung smeared into the delicate pile of Sandy and Dick’s eight-thousand-dollar imported oriental rug gets me on my feet and looking for my Dr. Scholl’s.

  Mr. Ed is frantic when I open the door to the apartment. He rushes by me and is down the stairs without a word. I look around for the leash. I have to keep one eye shut and one hand on the countertop to steady myself. I am a wreck. I squint at the clock on the wall. It’s 10:17 and I’m drunk as a skunk. I hear three sharp barks from next door. Mr. Ed is furious. I grab the leash and stumble down the stairs. I open the front door of the building and Mr. Ed is gone in a flash.

  “Eeeedieee,” I yell. “Wait for me.” Terriers have terrible tempers, and Mr. Ed is fit to be tied, indeed. I am also fit to be tied—as in tied to a chair and beaten with a stick. How did I let this happen? How did I get to be forty-one years old, single, drunk, running after an angry Westie in a pair of ill-fitting Dr. Scholl’s at 10:17 on a Saturday night on the Upper West Side of Manhattan?

  There is no time to ponder—Mr. Ed is halfway across Columbus Avenue and heading for the park. Terriers not only have tempers, they are also spiteful. I clickity-clack after him in my wooden-soled shoes. The light changes and as I’m about to dart across the avenue, a wall of cars motor toward me forcing me back on the curb. Mr. Ed is half a block ahead of me moving at the speed of light.

  “EEEEEEEDD!!!” I scream as loud as I can. The light changes and I careen across the intersection. My head is spinning and I feel nauseous. I would like nothing better than to sit down and put my head between my knees and hyperventilate for a few minutes. Where is Goodie when I need him? He could fly ahead and knock Mr. Ed out with his magic wand, but no, Goodie has renounced me because I’m living in the movie version of my life. Well if this truly was the movie version of my life, even a bad movie version, I would be richer, younger, and thinner, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be chasing a dog. I’d have my servants do that.

  I get to the entrance of the park at Eighty-sixth Str
eet. Ed is nowhere in sight. It is well past sunset and streetlamps illuminate the park. I weave along the soccer field, past some benches where two elderly gentlemen sit smoking cigars.

  I head toward the Great Lawn. I pat my pockets and find a crushed pack of cigarettes. I get one out but discover I have no matches. Shoot. There is nothing worse than having the drug but not the means of administering it. I consider circling back and asking the cigar-smoking gents for a light but the thought of circling makes me woozy. I put the cigarette between my lips and am momentarily comforted by the warm rush of anticipation. I get to the Great Lawn and start around the perimeter.

  “EEED!” I yell into the tranquil evening. I spot an older woman sitting on a bench having a cigarette with her toy poodle perched in her lap. The two of them sport matching pink hair ribbons.

  “Excuse me. Do you have a light?” I ask.

  She reaches into her bag and produces a half-empty book of matches and hands it to me.

  “Here,” she says. “Keep them.”

  “Thank you.” Smokers are always happy to accommodate other smokers—we are a band of outcasts linked by our common need.

  “Oh,” I add as I turn to leave. “Did you see a little Westie, off the leash? Out on his own?”

  “I did see him. He stopped and barked at my Azalea and almost scared her to death.”

  “Sorry, he has a thing about poodles. Which direction was he headed?”

  “Over towards the castle,” she answers as she snuggles up to Azalea. “Yes, he was a brute, wasn’t he? Just a brute,” she baby talks to the trembling poodle.

  Belvedere Castle sits on a promontory rock above the Delacorte Theater and is quite a hike from where I stand, especially considering I’m drunk, tired, and wearing inappropriate footwear. The way I feel it might as well be Mt. Everest. I know Mr. Ed is doing this on purpose.

  I start toward the castle with Ed’s leash draped around my neck. At least I have my cigarettes to keep me company. I go past the theater and around the side and up the path that leads to the back of the castle. As I get to the top I hear a familiar bark to my left and turn down an adjacent path.

  “Ed,” I call out. The streetlamps are not as plentiful in this part of the park. I head in the direction of the bark and find myself in the middle of the Ramble. My drunkenness has mellowed into a mild headache and a very dry mouth. I would give anything for a glass of water. I hear voices to my left, and see a man and woman walking hand in hand. That’s sweet. A moonlit walk with the one you love.

  I amble along, not knowing where I am. I’m Gretel minus Hansel, lost in the forest. I turn down another path and move further into the darkness. A couple of streetlights are out and it’s suddenly pitch black. I suspect Ed is hiding from me, playing his own doggie version of hide-and-seek. I call out again but my mouth is so dry I can hardly muster his name.

  Then I hear footsteps behind me and as I turn I’m pushed to the ground. Someone is on top of me breathing into my ear. The breath is foul and acrid.

  “Don’t move,” a harsh voice says.

  I’m too stunned to do anything. My arm is twisted behind my back. I can feel my heart beating against the ground; it feels like it’s going to explode. I try to scream, but I have no air because the knee in my back is pressing my lungs flat in my chest. I fear I’m going to pass out, that this is my last moment, my last chance. My drunken mind clears. I try to roll over; my fingernails dig into the ground for leverage. The body on top of me is heavy, too heavy for me to throw off.

  “Don’t fucking move, you bitch!” the voice hisses. I lie still. Oddly, I flash on an article I read once about people in life-threatening situations and how they don’t implore God for help as is widely thought, but rather their mother. That’s usually the response. They cry for their mother.

  And indeed, “Mother!” is what comes out when I muster enough air. “Help me, Mother.” I pray the couple I saw earlier is still in the vicinity. I kick my legs to make noise and try to scream, but my mouth is too dry and fear has gripped my throat, the only thing I manage is another barely audible “Mother.” I’m sure the couple is too far away by now to hear. A hand grabs my neck, fingers clamp into my windpipe.

  “Shut up!” commands the voice. I try to bite the hand but get only a mouthful of glove. I feel the leash being pulled tight around my neck like a noose. I try to get my free hand out from under my body. My pants are ripped down from the back. I know what is about to happen and I can’t stop it. The hand tightens the leash. I can’t breathe. I try desperately to relax. I know struggling will make it worse. Panic is the enemy in these situations. At least that’s what I have read, but when in the situation it is hard to do anything else. I will myself to relax, and as I do my attacker seems to do the same and air finds its way down my windpipe.

  “That’s right, just lie still. Try to enjoy it,” says the voice and the hand that has ripped my pants down now moves between my legs. Oh my God. It’s going to happen and I can’t do a thing.

  At that moment loud staccato barks cut through the air coming right in my direction, then snarls and yipes.

  “Shit!” the voice grunts. The barks are emphatic and then a low growl and then the hand is pulled from my throat, releasing the noose and my attacker curses in pain. I turn my head to see Mr. Ed biting down hard on the hand that is attached to the body that is holding me hostage. The body picks Mr. Ed up and lobs him into the air.

  I roll to my right and get up on my knees in time to see Ed recover his footing and take off after my assailant. I’m too shaken to stand. Mr. Ed’s barks are like high-pitched warning signals, mixed with snarls and yelps, and then abruptly they stop. No sound. I taste blood in my mouth. My lip is bleeding and my left wrist is throbbing in pain. I listen for Ed. Nothing. Then I hear footsteps again, this time from the path to my right. My heart almost stops. I frog walk into the underbrush just as a large golden retriever comes bounding toward me.

  “Abby!” the owner calls. “Come here, girl.”

  I make out a young man coming up the path. Abby, the retriever, circles back to him. I’m sure this isn’t the same person who attacked me. At least, I’m almost sure, and I’m very sure I need help.

  “Hello?” I call out, struggling to my feet and pulling my torn pants up as best I can. “Excuse me. Can I walk out of the park with you? I was attacked and I’ve lost my dog.” I move into what light there is.

  “My God!” he says. “What happened?”

  I start to shake all over. My teeth chatter. My wrist is still throbbing and my lower back feels like someone hit it with a two-by-four.

  “I was attacked and Mr. Ed saved me. He chased the guy off. I heard him barking and then he stopped and I don’t know what happened.” Tears are coming out of my eyes, but I’m not conscious of crying. I’m just leaking. The body is 80 percent water and I feel so liquid with fear that very soon I might be reduced to the 20 percent of matter left after all the water leaks out.

  “When did this happen?” the young man asks. He is tall, Afro-American, and wearing a Mets cap.

  “Five minutes ago, maybe.”

  “Look, my name is Spider, and you’re going to be all right.”

  “Your name is Spider?” I ask, thankful to note I haven’t lost my sense of humor. I mean, really, is anyone actually named Spider?

  “What direction did they go in?”

  “That way. The barking was coming from there.” I point up toward the castle.

  “Well, let’s go see if we can find your dog.”

  “What about the guy that attacked me? What if he’s waiting there?”

  “He won’t be,” Spider says with assurance. “He’ll be long gone.”

  I follow Spider up the path. I reach out and take hold of his shirttail as we make our way up to the castle. Abby is sniffing and running and sniffing and running. She senses a hunt, and sure enough in a few minutes she starts barking. Spider and I follow and find Mr. Ed lying on his side, laboring to breathe.

&nb
sp; “Oh, no, Mr. Ed.” I squat down next to him. “Oh my God, Ed.” I put my head next to his. “You’ll be okay, you’ll be fine.”

  Mr. Ed opens his eyes and looks at me and tries to get up.

  “Don’t move, Eddie. Stay still,” I say.

  Spider squats next to me and puts his hands on Ed’s chest. Ed winces in pain, and that is a good sign. At least I hope it is.

  “Hey, little guy,” Spider says. “I’m going to pick you up, is that okay?” Ed’s eyes are fixed on me.

  “It’s okay, Ed. Spider’s not going to hurt you. He’s going to take you home.”

  Abby is dancing around us, proud of herself for retrieving what needed to be retrieved. Spider cradles Ed in his arms and carefully gets to his feet. As we make our way out of the park, I hold onto Ed’s front paw and tell him everything is going to be fine.

  I cringe to think what happened to my little friend. I imagine he was kicked very hard in the chest, and I wonder if, in that moment of fear, Mr. Ed, like me, cried out for his mother.

  When we get to the entrance at Central Park West where the traffic is whizzing by, and doormen are standing in front of the luxury buildings that border the park, I begin to breathe again. I realize I haven’t taken a full breath since the whole thing started.

  “What were you doing in the park at this hour?” Spider asks waiting for the light to change.

  “I was looking for Mr. Ed. He got off the leash and took off and I wasn’t thinking about the time. You know how it is.”

  “I have to say it was pretty crazy to be back there in the Ramble by yourself.”

  “You were there by yourself,” I point out in my defense.

  “I think that’s a little different and don’t pretend it isn’t. I’m a six-foot-two, 230-pound, twenty-three-year-old male with a black belt in karate.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a Mets fan,” I say, trying to divert attention from the obvious.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t want to find you next week after it’s too late. Do you hear me?” Spider stops and looks hard at me. Even Mr. Ed turns his head and casts a scolding eye.