John Sayles - The Anarchist's Convention and Other Stories

If he was Danny Naccaratto and could dance like they did on TV he could ask her to a dance.

If he was Tim Dougherty he could offer her a ride home in his GTO with the rabbit-fur dashboard.

Even if he was Russ Palumbo he could flash his rubber and see if she knew what it was.

Out of the fog he heard Mrs. Peletier ask if anybody knew what Bouviers des Flandres were. There was the half-minute of silence that followed any of Mrs. Peletier's questions.

"Ils sont un type de chien," said Brian. He felt Serena turn to look at him. "Un type tres feroce."

It was Mr. Pettit's dream to have nothing but Bouviers, to cater to the country-estate crowd. If only their name were different.

"It sounds kind of faggy. People hear Doberman pinscher, German shepherd, they think Nazis, right, black leather and spike collars. Bouviers could eat them other two for breakfast, but people think French, they think poodle. It's an educational problem."

"Eh bien," cooed Mrs. Peletier, "as-tu un Bouvier?"

"Non," said Brian, "mais je travail avec les chiens. Avec les chiens feroces."

Mrs. Peletier said it was tres interessant and then the bell rang.

"You're really lucky." It was Serena, talking to him.

"Huh?"

"To get a job working with animals."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess I am."

"I like dogs best."

Brian said yeah, meaning so did he, though he could take them or leave them. The old man had hated dogs, so Brian never had one as a little kid. He was allowed to have a turtle once, but all it did was sleep.

"I have a dog named Spencer," she said. Brian didn't know where they were walking, but they were doing it next to each other, down the hall. "He's a fox terrier."

"They're nice."

"He's got a really fantastic personality."

She stopped in front of a Home Ec room, girls hurrying in with dress patterns. She had her back to the wall, books held to her chest, smiling up at him. Brian asked her if she'd like to go to a football game with him sometime. She said she would. She said she'd like to visit where he worked sometime. He said she could. The bell rang and released them. He took his time getting downstairs and stared coolly at Mr. Crozier as he walked in late to study hall. It was something he had been working on.

They went to the football game together and held hands and he put his arm around her. It was so cold and their clothes were so bulky. He explained the game.

He started walking to school with her in the morning and in the halls during lunch period. They did a lot of walking. They talked some, but afterward Brian could never remember what it had been about. They necked through a movie on a Saturday. That was nice, Brian discovered they really did get excited just like guys, the way he had always heard but never really believed. Serena seemed very — very understanding. That was it, that was why they never talked much, because they understood all they had to about each other. Or maybe they were both just quiet.

Work was a drag now that he had Serena to be with instead. It was cold and the dogs weren't getting enough exer cise and were all on edge. And Brian had the worst jobs because he was low man. Lovell did a little feeding and the exercising and helped run Discipline Class and took care of Thor. He spent most of his time with Thor, brushing the stud dog over and over, talking to it, feeding it his special meals of beef and liver and eggs and cottage cheese. Mr. Pettit just sat in his little carpeted office with his feet up on his desk, taking phone calls. He wore white shoes.

"These shoes," Mr. Pettit would often say, "are the symbol of my success. I started out where you are, McNeil, but those days are long gone. I have stepped," he would say, "in my last pile of dogshit."

The worst job was caring for Wotan. Wotan was old and scarred and mean, a holdover from Mr. Pettit's shitkicker days. One eye was blind, the lid torn off in a fight, the white ball staring at you even when the dog was asleep. Sometimes Wotan would ignore his meal, sniffing haughtily, walking to the rear of his cage to sulk. Brian would put the bowl in the next cage, in front of Loki, and then Wotan would roar and leap at the wire mesh till Brian gave it back. He'd gulp the food down without a chew, his good eye darting warily from Brian to Loki and back.

"That one," Mr. Pettit always said, "that one you never turn your back on."

Brian had to plant Wotan at the switchyard at night. After his old man had died the railroad went to dogs to patrol the yard, over heavy union flak. Dogs were cheaper, and though they might fall asleep they'd never drink on the job. Brian would wear the gloves and keep Wotan muzzled till he was tied to his post. The voice, the deep, steady, authoritative voice Mr. Pettit taught him had little effect on Wotan. You muscled him into place, hooked him up, slipped the muzzle off and got away quick. Brian was glad it was Lovell who had to collect Wotan in the morning.

"I never like it in the morning anyhow," Lovell would say. "You got to give him a couple hours, recharge the batteries."

Lovell was crazy for women, of any size, shape or age, and would talk for hours about the stable of them he was going to put together someday.

"This here's my trainin grounds," he would say. "This where I learn the fundamentals. Watch old Thor, watch the bitches, and I know the principle of the whole thang, y'dig?"

Brian had been walking around with Serena for a couple weeks before she came to look at the puppies.

"You gettin any?"

Lovell asked so abruptly, before Serena was even out of sight, that Brian didn't think to lie.

"Why not?"

The way Lovell said it made it sound like an oversight, like it had slipped his mind when the chance came along. Why not? Why wasn't he getting any? He shrugged, not knowing.

When he asked Serena she didn't seem to know either. They were down a block from her house pressing together just out of range of the streetlight. Serena had her arms under Brian's sweatshirt and he had his under her parka and their breathing frosted the air like a freight train chuffing into the station.

"I don't know. I never really thought about it."

"Don't you think we should?"

"I, uhm, 1 — "

"I'd really like to." Brian looked her straight in the eye the way he'd seen Lovell do it with the ladies in Discipline Class. The way Mr. Pettit taught him to look at the puppies when they were messing up, staring till they curled their tails under and flattened their ears and whined for forgiveness. Serena avoided his eyes, looking around at the street as if to say, "But where?" and Brian tightened his hold on her.

"It would be nice," he said. "Someplace warm, where we could be alone."

"Okay," said Serena. She didn't sound too ecstatic.

"When?" Brian pressed against her harder.

"Uhm — Saturday. My parents will be out Saturday."

Brian gave her the look again and Serena looked back, one of those solemn-faced ones he figured were looks of understanding and then she just about sprinted to her house. She'd agreed. She'd said yes, out loud and right to him. It was all set. It was all he could do when he got home to keep from calling and telling her not to forget.

Brian went to the Hibernian to stock up. Lovell probably could have gotten him some but he was embarrassed to ask, just as he was embarrassed to ask in a drugstore. He remembered the machine in the men's room at the Hibernian from when he used to collect the old man there. The machine sold combs and Kleenex and latex spiders and the last slot on the left gave you rubbers, even though the little window was empty. He got through the bar, pockets bulging with five dollars' worth of quarters, without any of the old man's cronies noticing him. But he was still feeding the dispenser when Slim Teeter sloshed in. Slim only had one kidney left and was a beer drinker from way back, so the men's room was his second home.