Thomas Pletzinger - Funeral for a Dog

I take a sip from my beer can, Vonderlippe looks at me in the rearview mirror. No open containers in the car, he quotes in a dull voice, no open containers, no animals, no weapons, says Vonderlippe with the law behind him. Laws are in vogue these days, Lua barks. I can’t close the beer can, I say, at which point Vonderlippe says that he has to expel me from the vehicle anyway because of the dog. Okay, I say, nothing can be done about it, sometimes there’s no way back, once something’s open it’s open, at least when it comes to beer cans. In the middle of the BQE Vonderlippe puts on his hazard lights and pulls over. Couldn’t you at least let me out at the next exit? I ask, but Vonderlippe just shakes his head, this is no time or place for compromises, so Lua and I get out. Vonderlippe immediately drives off and leaves us with my beer can in the middle of a bridge over the roofs of Brooklyn, good luck with your foot, he yells out the window. Happy birthday, asshole, I shout, and want to throw the beer can after him, but these days overreactions lead to nothing but trouble. And I don’t have a nail in my foot anyway, I think, I have a splinter in my heart, my God, I’ll just walk.

Lately I’ve been avoiding walking to Enid’s, the way there leads past too much. On the bridge there’s no shoulder to speak of, the cars honk, a helicopter with a searchlight flies over me, but they’re not searching for people with beer cans, they’re searching for terrorists. My telephone rings, it’s Tuuli or Felix, I don’t answer. Since Monday I’ve stopped answering when Tuuli or Felix calls. Today is Saturday, on Monday I moved out. Because of Tuuli and Felix I’ve stopped walking to Enid’s, my old apartment on Lorimer Street stands in the way, the two of them are living there for now. They lugged his old leather suitcase up the stairs, his cameras and Tuuli’s books, Tuuli her pregnant belly. I liked the apartment, the three rooms and the leaky roof, the smell of the bakery, but eventually there’s only so much you can take. I left on friendly terms, at least it looks that way, the lease is still in my name, the telephone too. Now I live with Lua on a sofa owned by a sculptor who’s in Holland welding scrap metal into art in public space. When Tuuli or Felix calls, Svensson Home comes up on the display, but I don’t want to talk to Tuuli or Felix. We’re not alone, we’re three, we said, but we miscalculated.

Pressed against the plastic guardrail, Lua and I slowly make our way across the bridge and jump down the slope on the other side. In a few weeks the three of us will be four. The telephone rings again, I trip over some black plastic bags and spill beer on my pants, but I don’t answer. When I find a hole in the barbed wire for Lua, I cut my hand, and when I myself land on the sidewalk, I twist my ankle. I curse and Lua barks. Apparently I’m in Greenpoint. That’s good, that’s where I wanted to be. Under a streetlight two old men are sitting in wheelchairs and smoking, I ask them for the time and for cigarettes. The younger one says, almost midnight. I don’t smoke, but for weeks I’ve been pocketing one cigarette after another. I collect cigarettes. First you’re a nonsmoker, and then suddenly you’re collecting cigarettes. Tuuli will eventually want to start smoking again, and then I’ll be able to offer her some. I ask where Manhattan Avenue is and the older of the two old men says, the hospital’s that way, as he gives me the cigarette. Are you okay, young man? The other old man gives me a light. My hand is bleeding on the cigarette and on my shirt, Lua and I are limping, I have a beer can in my hand and a cigarette in my mouth, I inhale and inadvertently cough smoke into the face of the man in the wheelchair. No time for the hospital, I cough, we still have something to take care of.

By the time we get to Enid’s the beer can is empty, and I buy a Rolling Rock at the bar. What happened to you, asks the bartender. Nothing, I say, and as a matter of fact for a few weeks not much has been happening. Tuuli, who may be the love of my life, and my friend Felix are making phone calls on my dime, they’re probably fucking between calls, Felix is probably fucking Tuuli surrounded by my furniture, my books. Tuuli is seven months pregnant, Felix is taking care of Tuuli, I now take care of the dog. They always call me when they’ve finished fucking, Svensson Home appears on my display. But because eventually there’s only so much grieving you can take, tonight I’m wearing Tuuli’s purple T-shirt, that’s a first step away from the widower I am. I have to give things new meaning, I think, on the purple you can scarcely see the bloodstains. Can I quickly wash the blood off myself in the back? I ask, and the bartender says, sure, honey, but it actually looks really good on the purple. Of course, I think, wounds and scars make a man interesting, my blood is a fashion statement. The bartender is probably a fashion designer, and fashion is going crazy, so the bartender is going crazy. In the Enid’s storeroom I wash the blood off my fingers. What madness, I think, and watch myself in the fluorescent light over the mirror as I down the new beer in one swig. My telephone rings, Svensson Home . I don’t answer, I take another bottle of Rolling Rock out of a case. Tomorrow I’ll get a haircut, I think, holding my hand next to my face, the blood from the cut mingles with the water. I look myself in the eyes and ask myself how it could have gone this far. From the hole in my hand blood is running down my arm and dripping into the sink. Nena is playing in the bar, here in Enid’s they’re at the forefront of retro, time is passing much too quickly for me too, and as I watch myself burping and crying, there’s a woman with a camera standing behind me, she brushes my hair from my forehead, just a second, please, she says, can you stay like that?

Two hours later Lua and I are sitting on a stoop next to Enid’s. The woman with the camera is taking pictures, I open another beer. She’s wearing black pants and a black blouse, she has black curly hair and dark eyes, her laughter flashes in the darkness. My hand has stopped bleeding. Lua gets up, hobbles across the street and through an open steel door into the Polish bakery and comes back with a loaf of bread. A baker chases him into the street, fucking dog, he shouts, and stops when he sees the woman with the camera. She takes pictures. It’s all just a fashion statement, absolutely, I say to Lua. We share the bread and the beer, and maybe the dog says, strange times. At which point I raise my drink to him and he takes another bite. Lua reserves his wisdom for the decisive moments, I’m drunk and full of resolutions. Things have to be different from now on, I say to Lua, and kiss him on his scruff, but how’s Tuuli doing? No idea, says Lua, why don’t you ask her. And how am I supposed to do that? Call, says Lua, or even simpler: pick up the phone! But it’s not that simple, I think, don’t pick up under any circumstances, I resolve, today the splinter is getting removed. Lua puts his foreleg on my knee and looks into the camera. Stay like that, says the woman with the camera, you two look good. Can you give the dog some more beer? she asks, and takes pictures. When the dog is drunk, I say, we have good conversations. A dog isn’t a parrot, says the woman. Lua got some bread, I say, petting the dog between the ears. You know, Lua, I say, lately I haven’t been getting enough sleep, lately I haven’t really been myself. Come with me, the woman with the camera says, and walks to a Polish corner store two blocks down, you can’t go to a party empty-handed. So we buy two six-packs.

A GIRL WITH RED hair and a birdcage without a bird is climbing the stairs behind us and says, I’ve lost hope. What? asks a short Mexican guy with a pink water gun in his hand. On the top floor it’s loud, everywhere people are raising their arms to the music, everyone’s wearing white. I’ve lost hope, repeats the girl with the birdcage. Let’s hope I get the bastard, says the Mexican, hiding behind a sofa on which some people in white are balancing with their arms in the air. Kiki Kaufman, says the host to the woman with the camera, kissing her on the neck. He apparently knows Lua too, good evening, Mr. Dog, he says. Lua doesn’t say anything, but instead lies down in the middle of the loft under a gigantic, dust-brown Christmas tree with purple glass ball ornaments. Behind a cardboard Dolph Lundgren, a tall black guy in a white shirt is kneeling on the floor, he leaps over Lua in a single bound and aims his Super Soaker full of red wine at the Mexican guy, who defends himself. Showdown, he yells, die, motherfucker, die! They both empty their magazines, boom, boom, bye-bye, shouts the black guy, cha-cha-cha, yells the Latino. White is innocence and red is war, says the host, with red wine you see the hits better, there’s beer in the bathtub, and yes, there’s a truckload of plastic toys hanging on the walls, salvage items, there’s liquor on the roof, don’t ash on the Christmas tree, it’s four years old, fire-extinguishing water is in the buckets by the window, piss from the roof into the neighbor’s garden in the back. I’m Pierre, says the host, make yourself at home. Take care of yourself, says Kiki Kaufman. Pierre grabs her hand and pulls her along behind him onto the roof. I’m Svensson, I say. I’ve lost hope, sings the girl with the birdcage. Want a beer anyway? I ask, but she dances through the room and isn’t listening to me anymore. On the edge of the bathtub a gorgeous Chinese girl in a snow-white suede coat is sitting and cooling her feet in the beer bottles. My shoes are too small, she says. You can have mine, I say.