There the conversation ended and Professor Clayton ushered Larry from the room. If he were a betting man, Larry would have wagered dollars to donuts that Professor Clayton was a good friend of Dr Young’s!
Larry walked back to the elevator wondering what had become of the world – especially the world as it had been in the late nineteenth century – and was about to push the button when a familiar voice rang through the corridors: ‘Who in the name of Hell brought a dog into the department? There’s paw marks everywhere!’
Larry didn’t return home directly but instead headed for Volta Park.
The indignant sound of Clive’s voice had panicked him, and rather than wait for the elevator to arrive and run the risk of bumping into the irate janitor, he’d hurried to the stairwell and coaxed an unwilling Moses down twelve flights of stairs. The visit to the park was the dog’s reward for its endeavours and a chance for its short, stubby legs to regain their composure. It was also a chance for Larry to regain his composure, too.
The park was empty when they arrived and the grass still damp. Mosquitoes were in the air and a buzz-saw sounded in the distance. Larry let Moses off the leash and wiped the remaining drops of rain from a bench with his handkerchief. He sat down and retied a loose shoelace, looked at his watch and then stared into the distance and sighed. ‘Well, that was unexpected,’ he said.
The visit to the Intercultural Centre had been an unsettling one, not at all as he’d imagined. The department had marched on without him and his position usurped by a man who bore more resemblance to a wrestler than an academic. What had once been familiar was now strange, and it slowly dawned on him that he no longer belonged there. Neither, it seemed, was he wanted.
Another man might have been more troubled by such thoughts but Larry, who was an optimist at heart, consoled himself with the belief that at least his reputation remained intact – and for an academic, this was the important thing. He’d left his mark on the department and would forever be a part of its history. And what was it that Professor Clayton had said about him? What was the word he’d used? That was it: irreplaceable. He was considered irreplaceable. Larry could think of no better accolade. And it appeared that it wasn’t just the History Department of Georgetown University that held this view: it was also the Advanced School of Environmental Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Just wait till he told the gang on Saturday.
The thought of meeting up with his new friends cheered him. Maybe his old world had disappeared but a new one was taking its place. The dog park was his campus now and the Dog People – as Wayne referred to them – his new circle. And then, of course, there was Wayne himself, another new friend and potential protégé. He wondered where Wayne was at this moment, what he did with his time when he wasn’t delivering the Current or climbing trees, and smiled at the thought of how pleased he’d be when he told him of his decision to make him his charge.
Moses by now had tired of exploring the park and was sitting on the grass by Larry’s feet. ‘Sorry about the stairs, old pal,’ Larry said, rubbing the dog’s scruff. ‘You’re not built for them and I’m getting too old for them. How about we both stick to flat surfaces in future?’ Moses said nothing but appeared to agree, and made no fuss when Larry put the leash over his head and prepared to leave the park.
It was after they’d crossed Wisconsin and were walking down R St that a black Smart car drew up alongside them and slowed to a halt. The passenger window slid down and a voice called out: ‘Hey, MacCabe! You up for some ladder climbing?’
‘Now?’ Larry asked, surprised to see Tank behind the wheel of such a small car.
‘No, next December! I like to plan ahead.’
The window slid shut and Tank eased the car into a driveway two houses down. Larry followed on foot, unsure if he was expected to climb the ladders now or in December until he saw Tank manhandling a set of aluminium triple extension ladders out of his garage.
‘You’re sure you’re okay with this, Larry?’
Apart from climbing the ladders Larry had no idea what this was. ‘I’m quite happy to climb a ladder, Tank, but what do you want me to do when I get to the top of it?’
‘I want you to take a look at the guttering. There’s a blockage somewhere and the run-off’s not draining into the downpipe. I’m guessing it’s leaves from that tree over there,’ he said, pointing to the large sculpted tree in the yard.
Larry looked at the tree admiringly. ‘What kind of tree is that?’ he asked. ‘It’s not one I’m familiar with.’
Tank glanced at the tree and appeared to give the matter some thought. ‘It’s a wooden one,’ he said eventually. ‘Now let’s get the dogs settled.’
Larry followed Tank down a narrow path at the side of the house and through a high gate into the back garden. By Georgetown standards the yard was large, but compared with the garden at the front sadly neglected. The lawn was in need of a mow, the borders were overgrown and the water in the ornamental pond had turned green. It appeared to Larry that the gutters were the least of Tank’s problems.
There was the sound of barking and Tank’s Dogue de Bordeaux came running towards them. Sherman’s build was powerful, his body thick-set and muscular, and from floor to ceiling he measured two-and-a-half feet. The dog’s most notable feature, though, was its massive, trapezoid-shaped head which, by Larry’s estimate, accounted for half its 140 pounds. The head was broad and wrinkled, and a thick upper lip draped over the lower jaw. The dog’s eyes were set wide apart, its ears were small and pendent and there was a mask of red under its large nose.
Larry hung back while Tank quieted the large mastiff and then stepped forward and held out his hand. Sherman accepted it, licked it for all it was worth and then turned his attention to Moses. At Tank’s bidding Larry took the leash off Moses and the two dogs ran to the far corner of the garden. Larry looked at the slobber on his hand and turned to Tank. ‘Just wipe it on the grass,’ Tank said.
They returned to the front yard and Tank propped the ladders against the wall of the house. He extended them without effort until the rungs were resting just below the guttering and close to the downpipe. He then tested their rigidity. Once satisfied, he handed Larry a small trowel and told him to shovel any debris he found on to the ground.
‘Just out of interest, Tank, why am I climbing the ladders and not you?’
‘I don’t like heights, Larry, and I’m not prepared to employ someone to do something I could do if I wasn’t afraid of heights. This job’s worth a cup of coffee, but no more than that.’
‘You must suffer from acrophobia, then,’ Larry said as he started to climb the ladder. ‘You don’t have anything to be ashamed of though: a lot of people are afraid of heights. Some other phobias are a bit more niche. Take apiphobes, for instance, they’re afraid of bees. And then there are people who are afraid of the number thirteen and they’re called triskaidekaphobes. And people who don’t like needles are called belonephobes. With every rung climbed, Larry told Tank of other phobias: ailurophobia (cats), astraphobia (lightning), achluophobia (darkness) and so on until he reached the top of the ladder. In the hope of seeing Dent St he turned to look over the roofs of houses opposite, but was soon distracted by the smell of cigar smoke rising from below.
‘I thought you told Delores you only smoked one cigar a week,’ Larry called down to Tank.
‘What can I tell you, Larry? I lied. Now what are you seeing up there?’
Larry looked into the guttering. There were a few leaves here and there and a weed growing further along, but nothing that would explain the water pooling at the mouth of the downpipe. He reasoned that the blockage was in the pipe and started to prod the inside with the trowel. Sure enough, something was wedged there. ‘You don’t have any rubber gloves, do you, Tank?’ he shouted.
‘Probably, but I don’t know where they are. Just use your hand, Larry. Use the one that Sherman slobbered ov
er.’
Reluctantly Larry did and got hold of something sodden and bristly. He pulled gingerly at first and then, as the object moved, with more force. What looked like a tail came into view and then claws, and then Larry gave a short scream and launched whatever it was he was holding into the air. The water in the gutter drained and as Tank looked upward a dead squirrel landed on his face and broke his cigar in two. ‘Goddamn sonofabitch! What in the name of God, Larry!’
Larry quickly descended the ladders and started to wipe Tank’s face and head with his damp handkerchief. ‘Sorry, Tank. I didn’t mean for that to happen. It just slipped out of my hand.’ He looked down at the dead squirrel. ‘You’re not sciurophobic, are you?’
Tank glared at Larry, grabbed the handkerchief from his hand and placed it over the squirrel. ‘Goddamn sonofabitch!’ he said.
It was unclear to Larry if Tank was addressing him or the rodent and so he remained silent. Tank spat on the ground a couple of times and then opened the front door of the house and led Larry through an empty lounge into a kitchen without table and chairs. They washed in the sink – Tank his head and Larry his hands – and wiped themselves dry on an old tea towel. Tank then took a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard and poured two glasses: one for him, and the other also for him after Larry declined the whiskey in favour of lemonade. ‘It’s a bit early in the day for me, Tank, and Thursday night’s Moses’ bath night. Laura would never forgive me if I drowned him.’
Glasses in hand they left the kitchen and walked to a small den off the lounge crammed with furniture and a bed. ‘This is where I do most of my living,’ Tank said. ‘One thing I don’t suffer from is claustrophobia.’
Theodore ‘Tank’ Newbold was fifty-four years of age and worked at the State Department. He was a Foreign Service Specialist attached to the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs and had spent more nights in hotels than his ex-wife had cooked him hot dinners. His love of the confined, however, though confirmed by these stays, dated to his time as a tank commander in the 1st Armoured Division, as did his byname.
Tank was born and grew up in San Antonio, Texas. His father worked in construction and his mother at the city’s Visitor Information Centre across the street from the Alamo. He had two older brothers and one younger sister. The Newbolds like all parents wanted the best for their children, but had never been sure what Tank’s best was. Unlike his brothers who were now in college, one studying petroleum engineering and the other business administration, Tank had never excelled in the classroom and had barely made it through High School without having to repeat a year. While both school and parents acknowledged that Tank wasn’t stupid, they were baffled by his inability to see further than the end of his nose and recognise that there was more to life than tinkering with old cars and watching endless repeats of Star Trek. It appeared to the Newbolds that their youngest son was without ambition. But then, one morning, Tank surprised them. He sat down at the breakfast table and announced that he was going to become a tank commander. ‘Like Humphrey Bogart in Sahara,’ he said by way of explanation.
The previous night’s late movie had inspired him, and by morning his mind was made up. ‘I think it’s something I could do for a living and enjoy,’ he said. And it was something his parents thought he could do for a living, too. Whether or not he’d enjoy it they had no idea, but it would at least get him out of the house. ‘You get the forms and I’ll sign them,’ his father said, crunching his way through a piece of toast.
Tank’s application was accepted and he was despatched to Fort Knox, Kentucky, where the 70th Armor Regiment was stationed. He was eighteen at the time and, until introduced to the M1 Abrams tank, had never before been in love. It was a relationship that lasted longer than any of his four marriages.
A commander rose through the ranks, and for the next six years Tank familiarised himself with the tank and its operations. He learned how to maintain the mechanical and electrical systems, how to load the munitions and target the guns, how to communicate with other tanks and the commanding officer and eventually how to drive the juggernaut. And a juggernaut it was. The Abrams was 32 feet long, 12 feet wide and 8 feet high. It was heavily armoured, weighed 68 tons and could reach speeds of 45 mph. It was armed with machine guns, grenade launchers and flame throwers and its cannon could deliver rounds of 120 mm armour-piercing or high explosive ammunition. (A battalion of such tanks – forty-eight in number – had the firepower to level a major city in less than three minutes.)
Tank was promoted to Staff Sergeant, became a tank commander in the style of Humphrey Bogart, and in March, 2003, when American forces invaded Iraq, rolled into his very own Sahara. By then he was a Lieutenant, a platoon leader commanding four tanks. He and his crews were at the vanguard of the assaulting forces and the first to secure a bridgehead over the Euphrates. They cleared routes, secured areas and destroyed enemy forces at Al Hillah, Al Kifl and closer to Baghdad, and, once the fighting was over, helped control and stabilise the situation.
Tank’s ambition was modest. All he’d ever aspired to be was a tank commander. He had, however, qualities of leadership and split-second decision-making that were recognised by his commanding officers and it was they, rather than him, who put his name forward for promotions. As long as Tank could sit for hours in the bowels of a tank it mattered little to him if he was a Staff Sergeant, a Lieutenant or a member of the Klingon High Council. During the time of pacification, however, it was noted that Tank was as effective outside the tank defusing situations as he’d been inside it creating them, and his services were co-opted by the Coalition Provisional Authority.
Tank’s mediating style was matter of fact and to the point. He believed that all parties in Iraq had an obligation to make the lives of its people as comfortable as the situation allowed, and the only way to do this was by compromise. It would be to no one’s advantage if one party left the table on foot and the other drove home in a top-of-the-range SUV. Both should leave the meeting behind the wheels of mid-range cars.
It helped in these discussions that Tank had a fundamental grasp of the native language. Although no conventional linguist, as a teenager infatuated with Star Trek he’d taught himself Klingon, and while serving in Kuwait (another Sahara) during the Gulf War had recognised its similarities to Arabic. To the ear, both languages sounded as if the speaker was trying to cough up a ball of trapped phlegm, and there was nothing to suggest that a person who could pronounce one would be incapable of pronouncing the other. Tank decided to give it a try and found Arabic far less complicated to learn than Klingon. His vocabulary was limited but sufficient to make a difference.
The outcome of these meetings was not always favourable or even as expected, but Tank acquitted himself well. His reputation as a skilled negotiator spread, and in the spring of 2004, his time in the military drawing to a close, he was approached by the State Department and offered a position in the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs. The job sounded interesting, and with no other irons in the fire Tank accepted their offer. The only part of the deal that didn’t appeal was moving to Washington DC. His fourth wife, Missy, however, loved the idea.
Tank Newbold was the marrying kind, but probably shouldn’t have been. He was a romantic and fell in love easily, but for most of his married life was out of love. He first married when he was twenty-eight, again when he was thirty-four and for the third time at the age of forty-one. None of these marriages lasted more than four years, and one (his second) only six months. He’d met all three wives while on leave, married in haste and then, once back in his tank, repented at leisure. By the time he met and married Missy he had two daughters and one son, each living with a different mother and stand-in fathers with children of their own. Tank acknowledged that the situation was messy, but rationalised his behaviour on the grounds that it was more important for the nation to have a full arsenal of nuclear weapons than it was to be populated by nuclear families. He saw his children occasionally, but his
support was more financial than emotional and he looked forward to the day his youngest child graduated from college.
Missy was supposed to have been the keeper, and at the outset of their relationship the augurs were good. She was from Texas, her father and brothers were in the military and she herself had been divorced twice. It appeared they had lots to talk about and for seven years the marriage worked. But then, as always happened, Tank found himself in a bar wondering what it would be like to return home to an empty house.
He made a list of things he liked about Missy and things he didn’t. On the plus side was her looks, but that was as far as the plus side got. Against Missy was a full page. She talked too much and her conversation was inconsequential. Her laugh was too loud and the things she found funny he found stupid. She was tone deaf and whistled out of tune. She had too many teeth in her mouth and prepared too many salads. She spent money on clothes she never wore and bags she never carried. She was allergic to cats and didn’t like dogs and was talking about getting a budgerigar. She collected miniature armadillos. She dragged him to plays that bored him and concerts that made him want to kill the conductor. She was too social climbing and her friends and their husbands were all phonies. She’d furnished the house with too many rugs and too many cushions, and the antique chairs she’d bought were all uncomfortable and not one of the settees long enough to stretch out on. She’d bought his and hers towels and matching dressing gowns. She… and the list went on.
Of all her faults it was the whistling that irritated him most. Her damned, tuneless whistling! What person in their right mind whistled these days, let alone a woman? Yet his wife would whistle along to every shit song that came on the radio and to every bird-brained tune that played in her head, and on occasion she’d even accompanied the kettle while it boiled. The last thing they needed in the house was a budgerigar! And once, after they’d finished making love and he’d moved to his side of the bed, she’d lain on her back and whistled the jingle to an old antacid commercial: Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is and left him wondering if she’d been glad they’d made love or was simply relieved that they’d finished.
Larry & the Dog People Page 12