Thomas Pletzinger - Funeral for a Dog

I stand with the pizza box in the room, and Grace says, get undressed, you idiot! She puts the milk on the floor and ties her hair back with a rubber band. Nice stars, I say, standing on one leg, and kick my pants over to her clothes. One for each love, says Grace. Where are they now? I ask. Not here, says Grace, pulling me onto the bed and between her legs. She does that much too soon, the pulling me between her legs, she kisses me, she almost devours me, she swallows me, she clings to my shoulder, and I can’t stop it or help it. I kiss back, but I don’t kiss big enough for her, things aren’t moving fast enough for her, fuck, let’s get this going, she says, pushes me off her and turns me on my back, she lets down her hair. Faster than I can think she has my cock in her mouth, her hair brushes against my belly. Grace, I say, putting my hand on her forehead to stop her brushing and breathing and squealing and her up and down, even though I’m not supposed to object to it, even though it should sound good. Grace, I say, but that doesn’t sound right either. Bullshit, says Grace with my cock in her mouth, and keeps going. Stop, I say, but she doesn’t stop until I take her head in both hands and stare into her eyes, maybe a bit too dramatically. My wet cock lies cold on my belly. The pizza, I say. I hear myself talking and don’t like what I hear. Grace ties her hair back again. You’re weird, she says. The pizza, I say, all words fail me except “pizza,” and so we share her slice, then Grace goes into the bathroom and gets an Advil. Want one too? she calls out, and once again she’s faster than I. She comes back, draws the curtains, turns around, and strokes herself between her legs, I’m still wet, she smiles. No, thanks, I say, meaning the headache pills, and Grace turns away and washes down her Advil with milk, before long she’s asleep, her mouth slightly open, her stars in the dawn.

I OPEN MY EYES and for a few seconds don’t know where I am. Grace turns her back to me, from the nape of her neck to her tailbone seventeen Chinese characters. Get out of here, I think, just get out, because I want to think this thought, and I take the milk and what’s left of the Earth Mother, take my T-shirt and shoes and run into the porcelain dog in the dark. I close the door softly and get dressed only once I’m in the stairwell. It says Grace Chan on the door of apartment 4F. I feel my pulse in my hand again, my ankle hurts, I have a headache. I walk along Waverly Place and want to hail a taxi, want to go home, but where is my home? I think. It should be with Tuuli and Felix, that’s what we said, but it’s not there anymore, and no taxis are stopping. Fucking cabbie bastards, I shout. That’s right, says a woman in high heels standing outside the pizzeria, and I walk uptown toward Chelsea.

In front of a French bakery a Chihuahua barks at me as if I were a bum. Someone has tied him to a streetlight. I talk to dogs now, I remember, and say politely, bonjour, Monsieur Dog , but the Chihuahua doesn’t reply, he just barks. Nothing is simple, I say, just look at all this shit: things can’t go on like this, you should have seen this woman, she takes off her panties in the pizzeria, and I make stupid jokes and forget Lua in her living room. I kneel down on the ground next to the Chihuahua, he looks at me and growls. You know, I say, Tuuli and Felix are fucking their brains out in my apartment, even though they’re expecting a child, and I’m accomplishing nothing here, nothing at all. The dog tilts his head, he’s wearing a green collar. Things can’t go on like this, can they? I ask, and feel my tears coming. Nice collar, by the way, I say to the Chihuahua, offering him some of the milk, he doesn’t drink. You know, I say, I want to get rid of this feeling, I want nothing more to do with the two of them, I don’t want to always remember them, I don’t want to think of Tuuli every fucking minute and of Felix every other one, I want, I want, oh, I have no idea. I’m kneeling in a blood-smeared T-shirt next to a streetlight in the West Village, talking to a Chihuahua and wiping away my tears when a little girl holding two baguettes comes out of the bakery and says, you talking to my dog, mister? and the ring of the bell when she opens the door feels like a slap in the face.

ON A PLAYGROUND at the edge of the West Village, I’m sitting on the end of a metal slide and finally eating the pizza when two guys climb through the hole in the fence, hey, Yo-Yo, what do you think of Bird? says the first one, a short, stout Mexican guy. Yo-Yo snatches the basketball from his hands and bounces it twice through his legs. He looks me in the eyes, I chew the pizza. Hey, Yo-Yo, says the Mexican guy, what do you think of Larry Bird? Yo-Yo dribbles two more times and says, he got nothin’, Eduardo. Yo-Yo shoots and scores, and Eduardo in baggy pants comes over to me. Hey, white boy, what do you think of Larry Bird? He doesn’t look at me, he looks past my eyes at my left ear. Larry Bird is the best player of his generation, I say with my mouth full. What? asks the Mexican guy. Yo-Yo is standing behind him, spinning the ball in his hands. You’ve got to be kidding, I think, drinking the rest of the milk, you’ve got to be kidding, the short, stout one is talking, and the tall one is waiting and playing, and in a moment the short, stout one will threaten me, and the tall one will want to play me for honor or my nuts, I think, putting the milk down between my feet. Afterward I’ll be told never to show my face on this playground again, because this is their turf, those are the rules in the ghetto, those are the rules on television. What? asks the Mexican guy again, what did you just say? and his voice makes a small leap. Listen, kid, I say, not meaning Eduardo or Yo-Yo, but rather myself and that I’m sitting on a metal slide and eating pizza while Grace is asleep upstairs. Okay, I think, I have a headache and blood stains on my T-shirt, I’m drunk, and Tuuli and Felix are playing by their own rules in my apartment, under my roof, and if this is all a game, then I’m up for it, I’ll play along. I say, Larry Bird was the most complete player of his generation, and your mother saw it on television and cried with joy, I say, since she definitely can’t read, so shut up and play. Eduardo laughs and spits on the pavement. Yo-Yo stares at me, now he’s spinning the ball on his finger. What are you doing here, white boy? asks Eduardo, as if he didn’t hear me, he’s not talking to me, he’s just talking, wasn’t that your mother calling you a minute ago to come home and fuck her? Is your father shitfaced again? Shut up and play, I say, taking fifteen dollars out of my pants pocket, your mother, your father, your sister, if I win, the money stays here along with yours, and you do a job for me tonight. I put the money on the ground between my feet and place the milk container on top of the bills. To eleven, says Eduardo, throwing fifteen dollars in the pot. Rule one: whoever scores keeps the ball, two: it’s a foul when I say so, and three: if you lose, you fuck off. Got it, I say, and Yo-Yo asks, you drinking milk, pansy ass?

Yo-Yo and I play in jeans, Eduardo sits on the slide and smokes, foul, he says. Yo-Yo has a good inside game, Yo-Yo can jump, but Yo-Yo has no outside shot. I have the ball and fake Yo-Yo out with a crossover, the first shot goes in from the free-throw line, a moment later one from outside, two points, then I score again from the left, I’m winning three nothing, crybaby, I say, wimp, pussy, come on! I say to Yo-Yo, come on. I drive past Yo-Yo with the ball through my legs, seven nothing. Yo-Yo grins at me and throws the ball at my knees. I catch it and am about to drive past him on the right, I think, today the thorn is coming out, tonight these two will carry my sofa out of the Lorimer Street apartment, they don’t look like movers for nothing. I see them carrying the boxes of books, the records, and for a brief moment I know I’m going to win, but on the very next offensive possession Yo-Yo’s hand comes down past the ball on my arm. I miss my shot, I shout, that’s a foul, asshole, and Yo-Yo snags the ball from the backboard. Ref didn’t see it, says referee Eduardo, and Yo-Yo keeps the ball, streetball, white boy. Yo-Yo can jump, Yo-Yo weighs ten kilos more than I do, all in the upper arms. At nine in the morning Yo-Yo throws his T-shirt on the ground and boxes me out so I tear my pants and my knee on the asphalt. Eduardo calls fouls that aren’t fouls, Eduardo rolls a joint and smokes, traveling, he says, as I make a clean drive past Yo-Yo. Yo-Yo has a good inside game and pushes me under the basket with his broad back, Yo-Yo dunks on me, Yo-Yo is fast, Yo-Yo makes a midrange shot, and now Eduardo is shouting “in your face” and “pussy” and “yo mama.” Seven to five, then seven to nine. I roll up my sleeves, I gasp for breath, I’ve used up my vocabulary and my strength, because for weeks I’ve been preoccupied with other things. I feel my twisted ankle, there’s a hole in my shooting hand, and when two other people are making the rules, you’re outnumbered. Once again the calculation is off. Good work, Svensson, I think, as Yo-Yo leaves me in the dust and the ball rattles through the chain net, seven to eleven, it’s over. Larry Bird’s a bitch, shouts Eduardo, your girl is a bitch. She is not, little man, I say, I don’t care about Larry Bird and I don’t care about basketball, but don’t talk about Tuuli, man, don’t talk about Tuuli! My knee is bleeding, Yo-Yo puts his T-shirt back on, and Eduardo takes the money from under the milk container. I take one of Tuuli’s cigarettes out of my jacket and offer one to Eduardo and Yo-Yo. Eduardo gives me a light and my money. Keep it, white boy, he says, you look like you need it. And what now? What now? I limp to the hole in the fence, nothing can come of this, I think, enough is enough, and Eduardo calls after me, the rules of streetball, brother.