Joseph O’Neill - The Dog

MY morning starts with a glitch: the office has not been cleaned overnight. I’m not going to complain to the building administration, because I’m guessing that the cleaning crew (whoever they are; they never swim into my ken; they are substantiated only by newly empty trash containers and a lemony after-smell) really don’t need more shit in their lives; and, let’s face it, we’re only talking about carrying two small, light wastepaper baskets to the utility area in the hallway, tipping their contents into a larger container, and walking the baskets back to the office. Normally, Ali would take care of this without my even having to think about it; but he’s on enforced leave. It isn’t an ill wind, though: the chore is perfect for the kid.

I say to him, ‘Hey, Alain, do me a favour. Can you take these out?’ I’m standing by his desk, tendering the little baskets.

‘I døn’t think sø,’ I hear him say.

This makes me curious. ‘How come?’ I say.

‘How come what?’ he says, so lethargically it comes out as a moan. I get it. His time here is coming to an end, and he feels he can experiment with insubordination and insolence. I’m just grateful he didn’t have this thought earlier.

How come he doesn’t think he should take out the trash? I answer.

‘It’s not my job,’ he says.

Funny. As if the kid had a job. ‘And whose job is it?’

The kid is sitting at his desk, face resting on one hand. He is contemplating his next move.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ he murmurs very quietly at the wall.

That’s a bold play — a power play. He’s pushing me into the corner of truculence. Or so he thinks. I still have my best move to come.

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘You’re hurting my feelings when you say something like that.’ (I learned about this communication technique in the days when I searched online for expert emotional guidance. Apparently the vulnerable announcement of one’s suffering will almost certainly give pause to one’s interlocutor and awaken in him/her a measure of receptiveness to oneself that would certainly not be forthcoming if one proceeded the usual way, by complaint and criticism.)

The kid sniggers.

Now, that snigger bothers me. Vulgar abuse and childish f-bombs are water off a duck’s back. But this snigger is directed at the very notion of fellow feeling.

I take out the trash myself. Then I retreat behind the partition. The kid and I stew in our respective juices.

I hope you’re happy with your handiwork, Sandro. Your son is unresponsive to the most basic appeal to his humanity.

S — You know what? Forget that last message. It’s not my funeral.

I fight off a bitter urge to take the brat into the bathroom and weigh him.

To cool off, I go online, onto the Dubai Police website. One of the more civilized aspects of the Dubaian way of doing things, in my opinion, is that cameras and radars, not traffic cops, control speeding. If you’re electronically caught, you get an electronic ticket that you don’t know about until you’ve checked the police website. I’m not against this system. It’s true that there’s something fundamentally unsettling about machine-based justice, but I prefer it to the delay, dishonour and terror inflicted by a flashing, squawking American patrol car. The street-parking situation here is crystal clear: either you feed a meter or you get a ticket. You are spared the cruel enigmas and triple meanings of the parking signs of midtown New York City, which rise like strange totems up the sign-poles and gave me great trouble during my stay in the Lincoln Tunnel luxury rental, when I leased a car to cheer myself up. Three times I got towed. I found out that the fleet of the police tow trucks was based a block away and those flatbed-driving fuckers would essentially fill their daily quota in the neighbourhood, where the lowest-hanging fruit in the city — tourists, commercial drivers, and me — was most densely concentrated. On the other hand, the car pound was right next door, and I won’t say that it didn’t occur to me to skip the whole parking and ticketing and towing production and drive directly to the pound and leave the car right there.

(Each time I went to the pound, I’d get a police document stamped REDEEMED. One day, looking more closely at this police-blue piece of paper, I noticed this notice:

!!! WARNING!!!

THE SCOFFLAW STATUS IS UNDETERMINED

What? I was maybe a scofflaw? I had that hanging over my head too? Even though I wasn’t a scofflaw? I made phone calls. I mailed registered letters to the New York City Department of Finance with copy receipts of the parking fines I had paid. I sent faxes and e-mails. Several times over I demonstrated my innocence. It made no difference. There was never an official response. My scofflaw status remains to be determined.)

I see that I have no Dubai speeding tickets. Excellent. Phew. Since I’m logged in, I check on Sandro’s status. This is one of those borderline responsibilities I’ve had to accept. I’d love to be able to dine out on stories of Sandro’s motoring excesses, but of course that would be a breach of confidence and not even Ollie can be told about the roughly ten thousand USD worth of traffic violation tickets that Sandro annually picks up. It’s not that funny, to be honest. Periodically, his licence is suspended and he gets one of the guys at Fort Batros to serve as his full-time driver. Even if there’s no rush whatsoever, he yells at the driver to speed up, with the consequence that this unlucky individual soon has his licence suspended, which of course is a calamity for him. This has been the subject of much real and imaginary mail to Sandro, who, I know for a fact, makes no provision for the loss suffered by his drivers on his behalf. I have had to take it upon myself to make unofficial hardship payments to these unfortunates (out of the Family Office operational budget).

Using my corporate card, I pay Sandro’s fines.

His son’s writing assignment is on my desk. To get rid of it, I read it.

My Summer Holiday

This year I spent my summer holiday in Dubai because I had to get a job and work. Usually I spend my summer holidays in Beirut. My grandfather lives there and we hang out on his yacht. Dubai is a lot of fun though. But its very hot. There are lots of malls to go to. I had a lot of fun. I swam a lot and listened to a lot of music. I like waterskiing and we did a lot of that. Usually I drove the motorboat and my friends skiied. I have a lot of friends here. My job was really boring though I have to say. I got pretty good at Sudoko though. I’m a brown belt. I’m going to make sure I get a better job when I leave my education. I don’t want to loose my time on this earth.

Not too bad, I guess, given the limitations of the genre and the author. He really is not super-mature. (It would be nice if he’d use some of the high-value words I’ve taught him, but I don’t want to get dragged into an editorial or pedagogic or hands-on role here.) Next paragraph:

I got into trouble with my Dad because I tried to take money out of the cashpoint that my family has. He caught me out, aaa! I was not trying to steal though. My Mum asked me to get it out for her. Its complicated!

Well, well, well. The kid took the fall for the mother.

This essay is a cry for help. My duty is clear.

I send Sandro a text advising him to read my e-mail ASAP. The e-mail reads:

Hi Sandro — please see the attachment. This is a scan of Alain’s summer essay assignment, which I’ve just read. You’ll see that Alain suggests that Mireille played a role in his attempt to withdraw cash from the ATM.

If Alain is being truthful — I have no opinion about that — it might explain another matter I need to raise with you. It seems that Alain has been attempting to pressure my assistant, Ali, into giving him (Alain) money. Young people can act uncharacteristically when they are in difficulty, and I would guess that Alain may be ‘acting out’ because of the ATM incident.