by S. Bennett
“I can’t really afford my own place,” Hazel explains.
Dr. Peele says nothing.
“My husband was cheating on me,” Hazel says, and the tone of her voice is so desperate I go still. I don’t like her sounding that way. “And I caught him. And demanded he stop. And, well, he didn’t. He kicked me out and moved her in. I can’t even take care of myself, much less a dog.”
And now I’m sad because Hazel lost her happy. Whatever all that meant about a husband cheating and kicking her out sucks all of her joy away. I tug on her laces again, hoping she’ll look down at me so I can convey I’ll make her happy if she gives me the chance.
When Dr. Peele doesn’t say anything to comfort Hazel, she starts talking again as if she can’t stand the silence and what it means. “I’m a bartender for God’s sake. I make less than minimum wage and shit tips. I can’t afford a dog. I most certainly can’t keep it at my friend’s apartment. She’ll kick me out.”
“Not much of a friend,” the doctor grumbles. “And why even bother bringing that poor dog here? All you did was get his hopes up for a better life.”
I can feel something roll off Hazel. It’s a vibe. Like I can touch her emotion. I don’t know the word for it, but once I was wrestling with one of my sisters, and I grabbed her ear too hard. My owner was mad at me and yelled. It scared me, then it made me feel awful inside. I ducked my head and slunk away to the corner of the pen, weighed down by something heavy and wretched.
That’s what I feel from Hazel. I stop tugging for a moment, trying to figure out what to do to bring her happy back.
“I thought maybe I could take him to a dog shelter or something,” Hazel says.
“Nice,” Dr. Peele says sarcastically. “You’re a true angel.”
“Don’t judge me,” Hazel snaps with the utmost offense.
“Oh, I am.” The doctor sneers at her. “I’m totally judging you. Just like every young upstart around here that thinks the world is all about them.”
“What the hell, old man?” Hazel snarls in such a way that it scares me. I try to dislodge the laces from my mouth, but my teeth are so sharp they stick. Hazel pivots for the door. She must have forgotten I’m attached to her foot, and I go sliding along the tile floor as my feet shoot out from under me. I can’t help the tiny yip of fright. As I roll, the laces come free of my mouth.
“Oh, shit,” Hazel moans in horror, falling to her knees on the cold tile floor. She holds her hand out, but for some reason my instinct says to back away. I thought Hazel was nice, but she was very angry just now and she sort of hurt me.
Hazel’s face crumbles, her eyes getting a little wet. She holds her hand out and coos at me. “I’m so sorry. Come here, little guy. I won’t hurt you. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”
And just like that, Hazel is back. The one who has been very good to me and wants me to get better. I decide to give her the full benefit of the doubt. My butt wags with happiness as I waddle up to her, my lips stretched wide and curving up my cheeks in a smile so she knows I’m not mad at her.
“Give him to me,” Dr. Peele growls.
It’s a mean sound, but Hazel just sighs as she scoops me up from the floor. She pulls me in close, pressing me to her chest. My tail flaps back and forth on its own accord. It does that when I get giddy with excitement, and there’s no controlling it.
“I’ll try to find someone to adopt him,” Dr. Peele says with such exhaustion marking every syllable that I now feel sorry for him, too. He’s a very strange man. He smells old, mean, and sad, and I don’t know how that makes me feel about him.
To my dismay, Hazel hands me over to the vet. He cradles me with an arm under my tummy and pulls me into him. I sense nothing but care and gentleness, knowing instinctively he would never hurt me, but when he talks to Hazel, he doesn’t sound nice.
“Be here tomorrow at ten. You can start to work the bill off. It’s $135, and I’ll pay you $7.25 an hour. That’s minimum wage. However long that takes you given your other obligations.”
“Got it,” she says curtly, and then turns toward the door.
I bark at her, but she doesn’t even glance back at me. My heart sinks as I watch her disappear, and I start whining. It’s the sound I used to make when I was a baby and really hungry for my mama’s milk.
For a long time, Dr. Peele doesn’t move. He just stares at the door, holding me close to him. My whines finally die down because I’m feeling tired again.
CHAPTER 6
Hazel
Tipsy McBoozers has to be the dumbest name for a bar I’ve ever heard, and I know bars. The owner, Cary Boot, supposedly has Irish genes and perhaps thought to pay homage to that.
Cary’s a nice enough guy. He used to be a shrimp boat captain, following in his father’s footsteps, but rumor is he got seasick a lot and traded in the boat for a bar. At least Cary’s not an overbearing boss. He’s a barfly for sure, choosing to sit at a corner table with his old high school buddies from yesteryear, drinking cheap draft beer and playing darts. He’s been in the bar business for almost four decades now, and I’d heard once had a knockout of a wife. She enjoyed the prosperous times before the drinking age was raised, but when the downward turn hit and money wasn’t quite as good, she kicked him to the curb and married the owner of a tattoo parlor. One thing that never went out of popularity with the young marines were tattoos, and there was no age-limiting factor to cut into business revenues.
My shift is from seven PM to two AM every night but Tuesday and Sunday. It’s early and dead right now, but it will pick up later. Even though the marines have to be on base and ready to work usually by seven, they’re still able to party until the wee hours even on work nights. Granted, the weekends are busier, which means tips are better, but I’ll make enough on a Wednesday night to keep me in cigarettes and 7-Eleven hot dogs. I’m thankful for the night shifts, especially Friday and Saturday, which usually provide enough in tips to at least cover my terrible smoking vice.
The only downside to working the weekend shifts is that I can’t go out and have a good time. But ultimately, what does it matter? I have no close friends to share those evenings with. No man. I can’t even fill my Sundays and Tuesdays off with interesting things because I have no hobbies and no ambition to have any.
Movement outside the bar door catches my attention. It’s tinted glass, but it’s still light enough outside I see Bernard getting ready to come in. I have his draft beer poured and waiting for him by the time he sits down on his regular stool. Last one on the end where the bar top meets the wall, which provides a semi-secluded corner for him.
Close to eighty percent of the customers at Tipsy McBoozers are active-duty military. The bar sits on the southbound side of Highway 17, directly across from the entrance to the Air Station. The other twenty percent of patrons are comprised of bikers, locals with no direction in life other than to drink their nights away, retired military, and one homeless guy by the name of Bernard.
“Evenin’, Hazel,” he says as he sits his wiry frame down.
“Hey, Bernard.”
He pulls some cash out of the front pocket of his lightweight camo utility jacket. The pile is thick, but I know that’s because it’s all one-dollar bills. He has it neatly smoothed and folded in half.
With precision, I watch as he counts out fifteen ones and pushes them across the chipped Formica—brown with some black streaks to make it look like real wood—to me.
“Four beers tonight,” he says as he folds the rest of the money and stuffs it back into his pocket.
I pick up the cash, and Bernard takes the draft beer. After removing three dollars from the pile, I put it in my tip jar, sliding the remaining twelve dollars into the register. Bernard is budget conscious. Whatever he collects from panhandling during the day is carefully parceled out. Draft Busch is three bucks a pop so that meant the remaining three dollars he handed to me are intended to be a tip.
The first time I’d ever met Bernard was on my first da
y working here about a year ago. I had no clue he was homeless when he came in, but he advised me when he sat down on his stool that he paid for his beers in advance and no matter how much he might beg or plead, I was to cut him off after he finished his allotment. It’s been tradition ever since.
Some months later, I found out Bernard was homeless. After he finished his beers, he always loitered around, but I didn’t think anything of it. Conversation with him was always good. But one night, Cary chased him out because he was taking up real estate and not buying more beer.
When the door closed behind Bernard, Cary muttered, “Stupid fucking vagrant. I’m not running a hotel here.”
I was stunned. Nothing about Bernard seemed vagrant-like. I found him to be intelligent and funny. Hell, the man always tips me and that does not scream homeless.
These days, if Bernard is drinking and paying, Cary doesn’t care how long he sits on that stool. If he loiters more than fifteen minutes after draining his last beer, Cary is escorting him out. If Cary isn’t here, I let Bernard stay as long as he wants.
“Dead in here,” Bernard says after taking his first sip, then setting the mug down. He cherishes his beer, even if it’s crappy and cheap. He’ll make the four beers last for a good hour to an hour and a half.
“Terrible for tips,” I respond before moving down the bar to wait on two marines. I card them, note the IDs are completely fake, but serve them anyway. I do this not to put Cary’s liquor license in jeopardy, but because I remember fondly the days I would bar hop up and down Highway 17, grateful for those bartenders who would turn a blind eye to my youth.
So yeah, paying it forward and all that.
After serving them Bud in the bottle—to which they offer me no tip—I do a quick scan of the other handful of customers in the bar. Assured no one needs a refill, I head back down to Bernard.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks pointedly.
Staring at him a moment, I take in his craggy features. I have no clue how old Bernard is, but his dark skin is heavily lined with age and his wiry hair is sprinkled liberally with gray. His eyes are filled with wisdom born of hardship and loneliness.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I ask, curious as to the source of his intuition.
His gaze roams over me, and he shrugs. “Face is pinched, shoulders slumped. You look sad.”
God, but I’m sad.
All I can think about is that stupid puppy I left behind with Dr. Peele earlier today. I regret not glancing back at him just once more before I left. My arms actually ache with the desire to cuddle him. It’s so very strange because while I’m a woman who needs security from others, I’m feeling a profound sense of loss not to be able to provide the same for that dog.
“It’s a long story,” I say hesitantly, not sure if Bernard cares to hear it. I find myself to be the most uninteresting type of person. Unlikeable at my core, which makes my loneliness even more profound because I don’t even like myself.
“Got four beers to drink,” he replies.
The breath of relief I blow out is huge, lifting my thin, dry bangs from my forehead. Leaning in, I rest my forearms on the bar, giving a quick check around the bar to make sure I’m not needed. When I focus back on Bernard, I tell him all about my morning adventure.
I pour out to him all the emotion I’ve had bottled up since I left the veterinary clinic. How sad and pathetic that little dog was, and I even admit to him shamefully that I felt the dog was me and I was the dog. Abandoned, needy, and hungry for a lot more than food. I talk to Bernard like he’s my shrink and the bar I’m leaning against is the metaphorical couch in his office.
Bernard sips at his beer, listening to me without interruption. I talk and talk and talk about the sounds the puppy made when he was eating food from my fingertip, and how horrible I felt at leaving him behind. I ranted at him that no one has ever felt that way about me, and how scared I was that the puppy would always have vivid memories of me abandoning him.
It’s utterly ridiculous and pathetic and by the time I wind down, I regret opening my mouth.
Bernard just gives a casual shrug when I fall silent, and says, “So go get the dog.”
“I can’t care for a dog,” I say, jerking my chin inward at the preposterous suggestion. It’s no less ludicrous than when Dr. Peele suggested it. “I can’t even take care of myself.”
One salt-and-pepper eyebrow rises skeptically. “Hazel… you hold a job, have a place to live, and food to eat. You take care of yourself just fine.”
Easy for him to say. Three months ago, I lived in a house with a yard, had money to buy hair color, a car that worked, and someone to hold me in bed every night.
“But—”
Bernard holds up a hand. “Don’t give me every excuse why you can’t do it. I want to enjoy my beer. If you want to talk about it further, let’s discuss solutions.”
“It’s just a stupid dog,” I mutter.
“Then let it go,” he replies.
“I can’t,” I wail, and then huff with frustration as two customers walk in. I move down a few feet to meet them as they approach the bar. After serving them shots of bourbon with beer chasers, I thank them profusely for the generous tip they leave and then ignore Bernard for a bit while I step out from behind the bar to wipe the tables down and collect the empties as well as my thoughts.
When I finally make my way back to him, he’s ready for his second draft. I pour it, slide it in front of him, and say, “I don’t have a solution for my housing problem. I’m staying on a friend’s couch. I don’t have a place of my own, and she won’t let me have a dog.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Well, no. But her boyfriend’s a douche, and he won’t let me just because he hates me.”
“So, get your own place,” he suggests.
I roll my eyes. “I work thirty-five hours a week in a crappy bar. I can’t afford my own place. It would take me forever to just save up for the deposit.”
“I pay twenty-seven dollars a month for the storage unit I live in,” he says nonchalantly.
I’m so startled by that revelation I do a double take. “You live in a storage unit?”
I’d just assumed he slept on a park bench or something. Isn’t that what homeless people do?
Bernard chuckles then takes a sip of his beer. “Hazel… you know nothing of being resourceful, do you?”
That kind of offends me. I’m resourceful. I found a couch to sleep on when I became homeless. I talked a vet into saving a dog’s life. That’s resourceful.
“Look,” Bernard says in a matter-of-fact tone, locking his eyes with mine. “The point is you have options. You plan on spending the rest of your life on a friend’s couch? Make a plan and pull yourself out of the shit show you’re starring in.”
It sounds so simple.
It also sounds so very hard. I don’t want to acknowledge the truth in his words, so I turn it back on him. “Maybe you should take your own advice. I’m sure there are better places for you than a storage shed.”
Bernard shrugs. “The way I live my life is a choice I made a long time ago. I could change things if I wanted. I just don’t want to.”
And therein lies the difference between Bernard and me. I was like him just yesterday. But after pulling that puppy out of the culvert, I find I’m a slightly different person now.
I actually want my life to change.
CHAPTER 7
Hazel
“You’re late,” Dr. Peele says as I walk into the lobby of the clinic the next morning at five after ten. He’s sitting behind the receptionist window glaring at me.
“I brought you some coffee,” I reply, holding up one of the two Styrofoam cups I’m carrying.
“I drink tea,” he says as he pushes up from the chair with a groan and grabs his cane. I know this is a lie because I could smell coffee on his breath while we huddled over the sink together yesterday, bathing the puppy.
Giving me his back, the o
ld vet moves to a door that connects to the storage room/break area.
“All the more for me,” I mutter. Sighing, I head through the examination room door to my left that will lead me back to him.
I’m vibrating with a nervous energy and an excitement I don’t remember feeling since I was a kid on Christmas morning. My parents always went all out for Christmas. Big tree, lights all over the outside of the house, and all the presents that could be afforded for Liz and me on a marine and retail clerk’s salary.
When I enter the back room, my gaze sweeps around hungrily and I immediately find the prize. The puppy is in a small wire kennel stacked on top of a larger one. Dr. Peele has it lined with fluffy towels. The dog has his nose pressed against the door, tail wagging madly.
His eyes though are on Dr. Peele as he ambles into the room from the receptionist area.
“Hey, little dude,” I say softly, setting both cups of coffee on a counter before moving toward the cage. The puppy spares me a glance before staring right back at the vet, as if he’s the only living being on earth who is worthy of his notice.
That stabs me through the heart more than I’d like to admit. I’m the one who freed him from certain death, after all.
But you’re also the one who left him behind, Hazel.
Dr. Peele walks up to the cage. Leaning most of his weight on his cane, he reaches a fingertip through the wire to let the puppy lick him.
My palms actually itch with the need to get the dog out and play with it, but that’s all squashed when Dr. Peele says, “You can start by mopping all the floors. Start in the exam rooms and make it quick. My first appointment should be here by ten thirty. Mop and bucket’s in the utility room. Dump the dirty water out the back door so it doesn’t clog the drains.”
I tear my gaze from the dog. “And after that?”
Please say take the puppy for a walk.
“Then you can help me with my appointment. It’s a Rottweiler with a nasty disposition.”