Chump Change by Dan Fante

went back into the kitchen and told Fab that I had decided to bring Rocco to the hospital to say goodbye to Dante, he rejected the idea. No animals were allowed in his station wagon or the hospital. Fab’s mood was ugly because of his hangover. He gave me another sermon, as if he were informed about the hospital rules regarding pets; although I knew he was making it all up. This only annoyed me and served to further strengthen my resolve.
    When I suggested that Rocco’s presence in the room might bring on a further change in the old man’s condition, Fabrizio sneered at the absurdity of the idea. To him, it would have no effect whatever.
    As he talked, I began to be disgusted at his condescending, officious tone, and his narrow, self-satisfied CPA mouth. I felt myself filled with spite for the situation, and for my brother.
    To cut through the shit and get my way, I decided to shift to insanity. I screamed at him and called him a yuppy-cheezedick-fuck. Selfish pink-pussies like him were why people like me got suicidal and locked up and tied down in detox. Then I hurled my whiskey-filled coffee cup at the wall where it smashed into a thousand pieces. After that, Fab backed off and agreed to take Rocco with us to the hospital. He insisted, though, that the dog be kept in the back cargo area of his station wagon.
    It wasn’t easy for me to persuade the dog to do anything. Rocco was unresponsive to everybody except Dante himself and currently devoted only to his dead gopher. He had no collar or leash that I knew of, so I couldn’t think of any way to get him to do what I wanted. I tried calling, whistling, andclapping, but nothing helped. When I attempted to pick him up bodily, he showed me his teeth.
    Finally, I realized that the key to igniting his participation was the stinking gopher, so I returned to the house and brought back several hunks of cheddar cheese and, using them to distract him for a second, I made a quick grab and snatched the gopher up by the tail.
    It turned out to be the right move. Once I had the carcass in my hand, he followed me around the lawn and down the walkway to the carport. Then, dangling the body a foot from his face, I led him to the rear gate of Fab’s station wagon and he hopped right in. I put an extra pint of Jack and some hunks of cheese from the house in a plastic bag and stuffed them under the front seat for later.
    With the dog in the cargo area, I closed the rear door of the wagon and rolled the tailgate window down all the way. I got in the passenger seat and honked the horn for Fab to come out. I made sure to keep the interior lights of the car out so that my fastidious brother would be unable to see the rotting body in Rocco’s mouth.
    When Fab got in, he was too hungover and too busy making calculations about timing the ride to the hospital to notice anything about Rocco’s rat. Even his own bad mood was a secondary issue. What was critical, again, was our ETA to the IC unit.
    We backed out of the carport, with Fab resetting the car’s trip odometer and changed his digital watch to the “seconds” mode. He looked back at Rocco, mumbled something, but kept his attention on the task at hand.
    My brother hit the “go” button on the stopwatch part ofhis “G-Shock” chronometer and peeled out simultaneously. As we took off, I snuck a glance back at Rocco in the dark cargo area. All I could see was the top of his head. No gopher.
    When the air current changed, I could smell the odor of decomposing flesh so, to counter it, I cranked down the passenger window, even though it was chilly. Fab wanted cold air for his nausea, so he kept his window down too.
    My brother refused my offer of a drink or a cigarette. This run to the hospital was requiring all of his concentration.
    We were wheeling it pretty good around the corners on Point Dume on our way to pick up the Coast Highway, when Fab put his hand to his nose. “Bruno,” he said. “What’s that stink? Did that dog roll in