Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  Lewis tried to look interested. At least, George thought he was trying, even if neither of them were convinced.

  The streets were narrow and hilly and roads intersected with each other seemingly at random, not neat and precise blocks like George would have preferred. George had left after rush hour, or what he perceived rush hour would be, and they were on the north banks of the Allegheny River in relatively short order.

  “There it is—Pittsburgh.”

  Lewis looked through the windshield and offered a weak wuff in return.

  “See the metal and cable bridge there—just down the block? It’s the one I want to see.”

  George navigated the RV across the span, turning and twisting in his seat when he reached the other side, hoping against hope a large parking place would suddenly open up.

  No such space was to be found.

  George drove around for fifteen minutes, thinking there must be an open space somewhere.

  There was not.

  He began to get panicked. It was the return of a familiar feeling he thought had ceased with the passing of . . .

  I don’t want to think about it right now. I’ll leave her out of this.

  He felt a bead of sweat on his forehead and quickly wiped it away.

  I came all this way. It is such a stupid idea. Like this would somehow make me feel better. As if drawing things will fill this emptiness. And now, I can’t find a place to park the stupid RV. I should have thought of it. I should have driven a car. Or I shouldn’t even have bothered with this foolish trip. I’m an old man. With no purpose. I’m fooling myself. Just wandering, lost, in a strange place. This is foolish. It is. But I guess I’ll have to fake this as long as I can . . .

  As he turned the corner on Ninth Street, a parking lot came into view. It was not full, not by any means.

  “Can I park the RV here?”

  The young man at the booth shrugged.

  “Gotta charge you like a truck.”

  George wanted out of the RV and out of traffic and wanted to sit for a minute without being nervous or anxious or lost.

  “Okay. I’ll be couple of hours.”

  “Whatever. Pull over there by the wall. You won’t get blocked in.”

  George gathered up his materials, chair, and bag and snapped the leash to Lewis’s collar.

  “Some dog you got there,” the attendant said as they walked past. “He friendly?”

  George was beginning to get used to the question, but it was still a bit peeving.

  “Extremely.”

  The attendant stepped out of his booth and bent down to Lewis, who greeted his approach with a canine, lopsided grin. He wuffed as the young man scratched behind his ears.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No. Gloucester.”

  “Where?”

  “In Massachusetts.”

  The young man still appeared puzzled.

  “Sort of by Boston.”

  Only then did the young man nod, apparently having heard of Boston before, but George was certain he would never be able to point it out on a map.

  No one knows anything about geography anymore.

  “Well, you two have a good morning. Maybe I’ll see you when you get back,” the attendant said, with hope in his voice.

  “Maybe.”

  George and Lewis began walking toward the river and toward the bridges.

  “They’re called the Three Sisters, Lewis,” George explained, as if Lewis needed to know why they stopped at this particular place. “The bridges, I mean. They are all alike—pretty much—and all are suspension bridges, all self-anchored. Tremendous design and execution for the time they were built. You’ll see, Lewis. They’re famous—as bridges go.”

  They crossed the street and immediately came upon the first of the trio, the one on Ninth Street. The other two identical structures were at Sixth and Seventh streets.

  George walked to the bridge, touched the thick metal plating, ran his fingers over the rivets holding the sheets of steel together, tracing the arc of the metal. Walking out a ways, Lewis sniffed and stared out at the fast-flowing Allegheny beneath them.

  At least these are solid things . . . real things . . . they last. Nothing else in life does, apparently.

  Lewis cowered, a little, edging closer to the inner rail.

  “Have you ever been on a bridge before, Lewis?”

  Lewis snorted and kept his left shoulder almost touching the interior side of the protected walkway.

  “Well, we don’t have to walk the whole way across. You don’t care much for rivers, do you? Let’s go back and I’ll start to draw, okay?”

  Lewis turned halfway through his sentence and hurried back to the more solid ground. George looked for a moment and found a good vantage point, close to the bridge, with a clear view of the entire structure, off the sidewalk, in a bit of an alcove of sorts.

  “This will do,” he said, as he opened the chair, sat down, and took out his sketchbook.

  Lewis appeared relieved and sat down heavily, his back to the river, his face to the sidewalk.

  George looked about. There was little pedestrian traffic but hardly any on the river side of the street.

  Good. No interruptions today.

  Lewis sighed deeply and offered George a weak smile of encouragement.

  “I know, Lewis. But maybe we’ll meet someone back at the RV park today.”

  Hopefully, we won’t.

  * * *

  No more than five minutes had passed, and George was discovering drawing a bridge was more difficult than drawing a building.

  A lot more parts to a bridge. At least this bridge.

  He had the arch of the span drawn, he had the roadway penned in, and now he was starting to draw the supporting cables. He kept working, drawing with care. The time ticked past. It was taking much longer than drawing a house or a building.

  A voice from behind him almost surprised him into making an errant line.

  Thankfully, it didn’t.

  “Hey, what are yuns doing?”

  George wondered what a “yun” was, but obviously it was a plural, indicating he meant himself and Lewis together.

  George turned his head.

  A young man wearing white sneakers, white pants, white T-shirt, and a thin windbreaker stood there, holding a white paper bag in his left hand.

  “I’m drawing the bridge,” George replied.

  Why do people ask such obvious questions?

  “You’re pretty good. Good perspective. It’s hard to do freehand.”

  Lewis stood and wuffed.

  “Hey, boy, how are you?” The young man bent down and patted his side. Lewis stopped a moment, then inhaled deeply, as if savoring some aroma. Lewis tended to be obvious when he found a scent he liked.

  “He smells the bread, I bet. I work in a bakery. Always come away smelling like cookies or donuts or fresh bread. All the animals love me. Birds and squirrels especially.”

  George nodded.

  You don’t have to stop. You know that, right? I can do without the company this morning, okay? I’m in no mood to be personable right now.

  “Good dog. Good dog,” the young man repeated, as Lewis pushed the top of his furry head against the young man’s chest. This level of intimacy was mostly reserved for people he knew well—or those he knew for more than four minutes.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lewis.”

  If I give short answers, maybe he’ll take the hint.

  “Well, Lewis, you are one friendly dog.”

  Lewis took a deep sniff, poking his nose close to the white bag in the young man’s hand.

  “Ahh, you smell the pepperoni, don’t you? We make the best pepperoni rolls in Pittsburgh.” The young man looked over at George. “Could he have a bite of one?”

  George shrugged, trying not to answer or involve himself.

  Listen, I don’t want to talk today. Let me be miserable, okay?

  “
You can have one small bite.” The young man took out a fist-sized roll and tore a third of it. From the corner of his eye, George could see layers of pepperoni, coloring the roll, letting loose a terrific smell of yeast and bread and Italian seasoning.

  I’m almost mad I’m in a bad mood.

  Lewis gently opened his mouth and slowly moved toward the roll. He gently closed his jaws, making sure there were no errant fingers mixed in with this delicious new taste. He began to chew, and his eyes almost sparkled in response, his head bobbing, as if he was hearing music.

  “Wow, you like this, don’t you? Want a little bit more? Is it okay?”

  “Sure,” George grunted, not taking his eyes off his sketchpad. He could tell by the loudness of Lewis’s chewing he truly did relish the taste.

  The young man hunched on the curb, refolded the bag, and said softly, but firmly, “That’s enough,” then draped his arm around the dog and turned to watch George draw.

  “You’re not an architect. It’s not an architect’s style. I would say an engineer. But I don’t think mechanical. They would use small insets to show the placement of the rivets and cables. I would guess some other field of engineering altogether. The precision shows. Maybe chemical?”

  Okay. I’ll talk. Then will you leave?

  “You were right at mechanical. I might do the inserts on a separate page.”

  The young man in white laughed.

  “Hey, I’m Lucius Boziok. And I’ve met Lewis.”

  “And I’m George. George Gibson from Gloucester.”

  “It’s right on the ocean, isn’t it? What are you doing here? Besides drawing bridges, I mean. On an engineer’s busman’s holiday? It’s what they call it, right? A busman’s holiday if you keep doing the work you did when you left on vacation?”

  “It is what it’s called . . . but I’m retired. I always wanted to do this—take a long road trip and draw the things I saw. Mostly buildings. I’m not real good with scenery. But I might have to . . . like at Mt. Rushmore or the Grand Canyon.”

  “Wow. This sounds so cool. I’m jealous.”

  Lucius watched silently for a few minutes as George added details to his drawing.

  “They used to call them the Three Sisters—these bridges, I mean.”

  George turned around.

  “They changed the name? The guidebook I used said the Three Sisters.”

  Lucius waved his hand in the air in a good-natured act of dismissal. “Now they call them the Three Siblings—and named them after some famous Pittsburgh people. I guess it’s okay, but I liked the way the Three Sisters sounded. Like a Chekov play or something.”

  George nodded in agreement. Even Lewis wuffed twice, as if making it unanimous.

  Ask questions.

  George shook his head. He was almost getting used to this sort of nudge from somewhere . . . but it still went against his innate nature.

  “You like being a baker?” George asked. “I admit the roll smelled awfully good.”

  Lucius kept his hand on Lewis’s neck, scratching, as he replied. Lewis watched him speak, watched carefully.

  “It’s okay. The people are nice. The pay is okay. The hours are horrible. But I’m only doing it to save up money.”

  “For what?” George asked, although if he had been asked, he didn’t care.

  “To go back to school.”

  “College?”

  “Yeah. I’m a year shy of graduating.”

  Ask questions.

  “From where . . . in what?”

  “You know Carnegie-Mellon? Right next to University of Pittsburgh?”

  “I do. A good school, I’ve heard.”

  “And expensive. I have one more year to go. And I ran out of money.”

  “What are you studying?”

  Lucius smiled, and only Lewis saw him.

  “Well, I suspect you know more about this than most people—mechanical engineering.”

  At this, George turned around and lowered the sketchpad.

  “You are?”

  “Actually, I have a little less than a year to go. They said they would hold my spot for another semester. I’m getting close to having enough cash. I’m even selling some stuff to make up the difference.”

  Lewis wuffed excitedly. Then he stood, walked over to George, and placed one meaty paw on his arm.

  George shook his head as if to say no.

  Then Lewis half-stood and placed both paws on his arm, looking deeply into George’s eyes, pleading as it were.

  “Lewis, you can be a real pest, you know?”

  Lewis wuffed in agreement.

  George felt the nudge full force, especially with Lewis leaning on him. It was not typical behavior for the dog. This was Lewis in his insisting mode, George thought.

  I must be growing soft. But . . . maybe Hazel would have done this.

  “Where do you live, Lucius? If you don’t mind waiting until I finish this, Lewis and I could take you home. Save bus fare, right?”

  The young man grinned and pointed.

  “It would be great. I live in West View. It’s over there about seven miles.”

  This time, George grinned.

  “It’s where we’re camped . . . or RVed. Sort of on our way home.”

  “Cool.”

  So, Lewis settled down, stepped away from George, and wuffed softly as he allowed Lucius to pet him while George finished his drawing of the first of the Three Sisters, or Siblings, bridge.

  * * *

  “Right over here. I live in the basement. Small, dark, and cheap.”

  George maneuvered the RV up a narrow gravel driveway of a ramshackle Victorian house, perched at a seemingly precarious angle to the steep hill behind it.

  “How do you manage all these hills in the winter, Lucius? I’m getting the heebie-jeebies now with no snow. And . . . no one says heebie-jeebies anymore, do they?”

  “Probably not often,” Lucius said.

  “And these narrow streets. I’m tempted to leave Lewis at home tomorrow and take a bus downtown. It is not easy parking this big thing,” George explained.

  “I can imagine,” Lucius replied. “It takes me two buses to get here, and I get nervous riding in them sometimes. The roads are narrow.”

  Lewis began jumping and wuffing and bouncing in the rear of the RV. George thought it was because Lucius had his seat for the drive home.

  “Okay, Lewis, you can have your seat back now.”

  It did not settle him down, not at all.

  “You need to go out?” George asked.

  Lewis snorted and kept on bouncing, a most uncharacteristic behavior for the generally docile animal. Bouncing and wuffing and even turning in circles, like a small, overexcited bear trying to play charades.

  Ask questions. Ask questions.

  George shook his head.

  Lewis, if this is you, you can stop. I’ll ask questions.

  “You said you were trying to sell things,” George said. “Anything I might be interested in? Or Lewis? Like a soundproof cage, perhaps?”

  It’s when Lewis went even more ballistic, wuffing, standing at the door, whining almost. Lewis was not a dog who whined, nor often needed to.

  “Well, maybe. I mean, I don’t have a cage, but I might be able to help with your parking problem.”

  * * *

  Lewis and George stood in front of a small, square trailer, painted black, well-cared for.

  Lucius went to the rear door and grabbed a padlock and unlatched it and lowered the back door, which formed a ramp. Inside the trailer was a motor scooter with an attached sidecar.

  Instantly, George felt himself temporarily thrown backward in time, back to when he attended college and when he first met Hazel. They were both poor college students, barely enough cash on hand for a shared milkshake. And George had come squiring this wonderful girl, this young, pretty, funny, vivacious Hazel . . . on his motorcycle.

  It wasn’t much of a motorcycle—a small BSA model, English, just powerful en
ough to carry them both, at speeds well within the legal limit.

  George found himself smiling.

  Hazel had loved the motorcycle. She had laughed as they drove together, her hair lost in the wind, her arms around George’s waist, her chin against his shoulder, even in chilly weather, when she would gather her arms even tighter around him.

  She had cried when, two years later, the spring of their senior year, the engine seized and the cost of repairing it went well beyond their modest means. George had sold it for parts, bought a used Buick and a thin wedding band, and put down twenty-five dollars as a security deposit on their first apartment.

  There was a photograph of the two of them, sitting astride the motorcycle, smiling the smiles of youthful passion and love, each face turned to the other.

  George had not thought of the photograph for years.

  It is buried in a box back home, he thought. How she loved the bike. Buried.

  Lucius was in the trailer explaining the workings of the scooter. George had hardly heard a word, so deep and powerful was his first memory.

  It has been nearly fifty years since I thought of my motorcycle.

  “It’s not fast, but you can keep up with traffic. And Lewis can ride in the sidecar. At least around here, it’s legal. I asked a cop once. I took a friend’s dog for a ride. He seemed to like it. More wind in his face, I guess.”

  Lewis had climbed in the trailer as well, sniffing, turning back to George, then sniffing again, wuffing quietly to himself.

  “It’s my last big-ticket possession,” Lucius said. “To be honest, I never used it enough, even when I could. Been trying to sell it for months, but it seems as if everyone wants something bigger and faster and more dangerous.”

  George saw an image of Hazel, sitting on this new machine, and blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  It was one powerful rumination.

  He took a deep breath.

  And no one says ruminations, do they?

  “What do you think? Your RV already has a trailer hitch. This whole unit hardly weighs anything.”

  Lewis climbed down the ramp, excited, wuffing loudly, head-butting George’s thigh, circling him, looking back to the trailer, then up to George.

  Lewis could manufacture a pleading look, and today, his look appeared to be on steroids.

  George let his engineering checklist mentality ask the first question.