Though it's only Tuesday, the thought of another day at the office and the ensuing nightmare of trying to schedule the flow of operating cylinders through a factory full of morons who eschew our hundred-thousand-dollar Mapics computer system for a scrap of paper and a pencil keeps me in bed past nine o'clock. I stare at the glowing digital numbers ticking away the minutes of my life and I think I should be in a production meeting right now, explaining why our lag time is eight weeks rather than the six-week industry norm.
The bed is empty; has been empty long enough to embarrass me away from specifics. Even lying here, the bed seems empty. The emptiness crowds me out of the bedroom into the kitchen where I pour a bowl of Raisin Bran and slice up an orange.
Hunched over breakfast, I can see my desk piled high with diagrams of the plant detailing machine positions and flow lines, a list of two hundred thirty-six cylinders Strang Inc. produces along with the thousands of part numbers comprising inventory.
Somewhere in that pile of shit lies a formula which will resurrect Strang's profit margins from the toilet bowl where the corporation's future now rests. I've been charged with finding this formula. A Holy Grail, the existence of which it is heresy to doubt.
Robinson nudges my shin with his long banana snout. I absently stroke his shaggy head. I picked up Robinson when I bought the house. At the time, having lived most of my life in apartments, the house seemed spacious. I needed company. Also my past accommodations never allowed for a pet any larger than a healthy goldfish.
I remember bringing Robinson home in my jacket pocket. Now his back reaches my mid-thigh. He's a collie/shepherd mix, with the collie's build and grooming, the shepherd's dark coloration, and all the brains of granite rock. Five years and the dog still won't shake hands or fetch a tennis ball. I dole a few slices of bologna into Robinson's dish, its sides caked with crusted Alpo.
Robinson taken care of, I throw my cereal bowl into the sink and head for the shower. I stand under the hot water I don't know how long, waiting to be soothed. The water only runs down my skin, offering no comfort.
A soft tinkling of metal like dimes dropping on brass catches my attention. Someone at the front door? I hear Robinson's paws padding across the carpet toward the front of the house but no accompanying bark. Strange, I think. He should be going apeshit by now.
Towel wrapped securely around my waist, I walk into the front room to investigate but the blinking red light of the answering machine stops me. Shit. I forgot to call in.
I hit the playback button and the boss's voice erupts through the speaker. "Max. Couldn't help but notice you're not here. No phone call, nothing. Just didn't show up. That's not how we do business, buddy. It's no easier getting product out the door if we don't show up. I'm sure you have a real good explanation for your absence."
Maybe I'll tell the bastard my mother was involved in a horrendous automobile accident and I don't appreciate him leaving a vaguely threatening message on my answering machine.
Robinson snuffling at the mail slot catches my attention. His tail wags frantically as his snout presses against the door. I open my mouth to call him away from the door but stop myself before speaking.
What the hell is he doing? He looks like he's cornered a mouse, playing with it. I walk ninja-stealthy, not even aware that I'm intentionally keeping silent until I'm at the door, looking down at the penis jutting through the mail slot.
Perhaps sensing in his stupid, canine brain that licking cock is wrong-- at least while I'm around-- Robinson backs away. The circumcised penis is small, compared to mine anyway, though I don't figure a mail slot would do justice to anyone's perspective where comparing penile length and girth is concerned.
Why am I looking at some guy's cock?
And why would Robinson lick some guy's cock? I consider all the times Robinson licked my face, the sole reason I keep the toilet bowl exceptionally clean. Meaningless, now.
A quick sharp whistle and a whispered, "Here, doggie, here, doggie," breaks my trance. I grab the sturdy London Fog umbrella next to the door and bring it down in a sweeping arc, like a nun striking a ruler against a child's knuckles, except infinitely worse. I feel the impact all the way up my arm.
The beginning of a shriek erupts before the dick's owner muffles his mouth. The penis disappears back through the mail slot like a groundhog retreating into its hole. I can hear someone shuffling across the cement porch.
I have to kick Robinson out of my way before I can open the door. Seeing the dog licking a cock poking through the mail slot has me so shook I can barely speak. "W-w-wh-what... the... hell?"
It's the neighbor kid-- Bradley, I think his name is. Lives two doors down with his unemployed father and three hundred sixty pound mother. Fourteen years old, give or take, though he's small for his age. Scrawny.
He writhes on the porch, the pain of a busted cock constricting him into a fetal position. He tries to crawl away and pull his pants up at the same time. Hearing my voice and Robinson's whines, he rolls over on his back, panting and sweaty. His eyes are large, horrified.
"Why aren't you in school?" Better to lob an easy question at him, I figure, before demanding to know why the hell he's sticking his dick through my mail slot. The kid does his impersonation of a guppy.
"Answer me, goddammit! Your mom and dad know you aren't in school?"
His t-shirt tells me I'M DUCKING FRUNK.
"I took the day off," he says. Robinson pushes against the back of my leg. I put the heel of my foot into his throat and wedge him back inside, shutting the door.
"You took the day off school so you can come here and stick your dick in my mail slot?"
The question hangs in the air for a second as the kid considers his options. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says.
"What? Your dick, in my door, that I cracked with the umbrella. Ring a bell?"
"I didn't put my dick in your door."
The little bastard has the audacity to look me in the eye when he says this. He's still in too much pain to regain his feet, though.
"Oh, so I was hallucinating, then."
"I think so. Pervert."
At the word "pervert" I take a step forward with my hands out in strangling mode before I'm able to regain control. The kid backs away, lobster crawling toward the steps.
"Yeah, let's go to your mommy's house. See what they say when I tell them their son likes to have his little tallywhacker licked by a goddamn shepherd collie."
"Let's go." He looks down at the towel around my waist, not quite large enough to cover everything. "I'll tell them you tried to assault me. Sexually."
My mouth hangs open. I can feel my chin dangling. "What did you just say, you little sonofabitch?"
"You heard me, Nancy. I'll tell everybody. I was waiting for the late bus and you come out here exposing yourself at me."
His brown eyes pulse with malice. He grins wickedly, as though he stuck his dick in my mail slot just to... set me up with this bullshit.
"Dude. You stuck you dick in my mail slot for the dog to lick. How sick is that? How'd you even come up with the idea?"
"I didn't come up with any idea. You did. Sicko."
With every word he seems to gain confidence, courage. He pulls himself into a sitting position against the porch rail leading to the stairs. I'm on the verge of kicking his acne-ridden ass down those stairs. Calling me a sicko.
"You got about three seconds to get off my porch." I squint my eyes, channeling Robert DeNiro in what I hope to be a steely gaze.
"You got about three seconds to kiss my ass," the kid says, but only after he's managed to regain his feet and descend half way down the stairs.
"That's right. Let me catch you sticking your dick in my mail slot again. Next time, it won't be the umbrella, I'll whack it with a goddamn butcher knife."
He waits until he reaches the sidewalk before calling out, "Fuck you and your faggot dog." He flips me the finger and walks toward his house, where there's no telling what sort of perversities occur. I turn to go inside. What the hell's wrong with kids today? I remember when I was young, the cool thing to do was ringing door bells and running away. Or maybe throwing snowballs at cars when...
The door knob refuses to turn in my hand. Locked. Suddenly, the towel around my waist seems too small by half.
I try the knob twice more, my hand so sweaty I can scarcely get a grip. Goddammit. I lean my forehead against the door, close my eyes. And I can hear Robinson, nose snuffling against the mail slot, tail thwapping back and forth, anticipating dick.
Originally from Chicago, Karl Koweski now lives on
top of a mountain in northen Alabama. His collection of stories, Playthings,
is available from Future
Tense Books. This is his first story for Lime Tea.
