something dead?”
I tried a diversion. “Forget that. Who’s feeding him now that the old man’s not around? Not you?”
“Maybe Mom is,” he said. “Not me.”
“Then whaddoyou care if the fucking dog stinks? He’s not your dog.”
“He’s filthy. I’m making a recommendation to Mom about Rocco. As you know, she’s asked me to help her in dealing with these kinds of issues now.”
“I’m only a little terrorized by that idea. Want a drink?”
“No.”
“Like dogs?”
“No.”
“Then fuck you,” I said.
In just over seven minutes, we reached Cross Creek Road on the Coast Highway. Fabrizio couldn’t be angry at me because he was preoccupied with his ETA. We were over aminute-and-a-half ahead of his personal best. He celebrated by gunning the big 460 Ford V8 as we approached the changing yellow light, and shouting, “yes!” when it turned to red and we blasted through anyway.
When I said I needed to stop and take a leak, the blood went out of his knuckles.
“Can’t you wait, for God’s sake?” he snarled, looking at his stopwatch. “Do we have to do this every time?”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not a personal attack. Just pull over anywhere here, and I can piss by the side of the car.”
He hated me again.
A quarter mile up the highway, after we passed the Malibu Pier, there was a Colonel Sanders fast-food fried chicken store on the left. Fabrizio slowed down to pull in and chirped his stopwatch to the “pause” position. Then he hung a left into the lot. As he jolted us into a parking space he announced, “You’ve got sixty seconds, mister.”
I was part-way out the door before my brain remembered that I would be leaving my brother alone with the dog and the rotting gopher. I realized that the stink would become much stronger with the car not moving and no air circulation. I could already sense the odor. Reversing my actions, I swung my leg back in and closed the car door.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where?” responded Fab.
“Away from here.” I made my tone sound hasty, anxious. “I can’t piss here.”
“What’s the problem now, Bruno?”
“It’s political. I can feel myself getting upset.”
“What’s political about taking a piss?”
“Colonel Sanders.”
“What about Colonel Sanders? Since when do you give a crap about Colonel Sanders?”
“He’s Iraqi. That’s why you never see him talking in the TV ads anymore. I won’t use a bathroom in a place of business that supports a genocidal dictatorship. Our boys died over there. American boys.”
“That’s crap, Bruno! He’s been dead for twenty years.”
“That’s the assumption we’ve been made to swallow. At the treatment facility, I was shown photocopies of published documents that reveal a contrary view. He’s now in hiding. They’ve discovered a link to Lee Harvey Oswald. The man whom we refer to as Colonel Sanders has used his fortune to help fund the research that eventually led to the development of the SCUD Missile.”
“Okay, Bruno, cut the shit!”
“I’m proud of my heritage and the fighting men who have defended our country. That’s all. I won’t piss here. I’m taking a stand. I’ll wait until we get to the hospital.”
Fab didn’t want to waste any more time arguing. He slammed the gearshift into “R” and screeched backward out of the parking space. Then he chirped his stopwatch back to the “on” position, pounded the gearshift lever back into “D,” and squealed rubber across the Coast Highway. We were quickly up to the speed of the cars headed south.
The force of the car’s acceleration had caused Rocco to tumble backwards in the cargo area a couple of times and bounce with a thud against the inside of the rear tailgate. I pushed myself up in the passenger seat so I could look in the back. Somehow the dog had managed to keep his jaws lockedaround the gopher cadaver with the car in motion. The clean Malibu air was once again blowing the stink
I tried a diversion. “Forget that. Who’s feeding him now that the old man’s not around? Not you?”
“Maybe Mom is,” he said. “Not me.”
“Then whaddoyou care if the fucking dog stinks? He’s not your dog.”
“He’s filthy. I’m making a recommendation to Mom about Rocco. As you know, she’s asked me to help her in dealing with these kinds of issues now.”
“I’m only a little terrorized by that idea. Want a drink?”
“No.”
“Like dogs?”
“No.”
“Then fuck you,” I said.
In just over seven minutes, we reached Cross Creek Road on the Coast Highway. Fabrizio couldn’t be angry at me because he was preoccupied with his ETA. We were over aminute-and-a-half ahead of his personal best. He celebrated by gunning the big 460 Ford V8 as we approached the changing yellow light, and shouting, “yes!” when it turned to red and we blasted through anyway.
When I said I needed to stop and take a leak, the blood went out of his knuckles.
“Can’t you wait, for God’s sake?” he snarled, looking at his stopwatch. “Do we have to do this every time?”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not a personal attack. Just pull over anywhere here, and I can piss by the side of the car.”
He hated me again.
A quarter mile up the highway, after we passed the Malibu Pier, there was a Colonel Sanders fast-food fried chicken store on the left. Fabrizio slowed down to pull in and chirped his stopwatch to the “pause” position. Then he hung a left into the lot. As he jolted us into a parking space he announced, “You’ve got sixty seconds, mister.”
I was part-way out the door before my brain remembered that I would be leaving my brother alone with the dog and the rotting gopher. I realized that the stink would become much stronger with the car not moving and no air circulation. I could already sense the odor. Reversing my actions, I swung my leg back in and closed the car door.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where?” responded Fab.
“Away from here.” I made my tone sound hasty, anxious. “I can’t piss here.”
“What’s the problem now, Bruno?”
“It’s political. I can feel myself getting upset.”
“What’s political about taking a piss?”
“Colonel Sanders.”
“What about Colonel Sanders? Since when do you give a crap about Colonel Sanders?”
“He’s Iraqi. That’s why you never see him talking in the TV ads anymore. I won’t use a bathroom in a place of business that supports a genocidal dictatorship. Our boys died over there. American boys.”
“That’s crap, Bruno! He’s been dead for twenty years.”
“That’s the assumption we’ve been made to swallow. At the treatment facility, I was shown photocopies of published documents that reveal a contrary view. He’s now in hiding. They’ve discovered a link to Lee Harvey Oswald. The man whom we refer to as Colonel Sanders has used his fortune to help fund the research that eventually led to the development of the SCUD Missile.”
“Okay, Bruno, cut the shit!”
“I’m proud of my heritage and the fighting men who have defended our country. That’s all. I won’t piss here. I’m taking a stand. I’ll wait until we get to the hospital.”
Fab didn’t want to waste any more time arguing. He slammed the gearshift into “R” and screeched backward out of the parking space. Then he chirped his stopwatch back to the “on” position, pounded the gearshift lever back into “D,” and squealed rubber across the Coast Highway. We were quickly up to the speed of the cars headed south.
The force of the car’s acceleration had caused Rocco to tumble backwards in the cargo area a couple of times and bounce with a thud against the inside of the rear tailgate. I pushed myself up in the passenger seat so I could look in the back. Somehow the dog had managed to keep his jaws lockedaround the gopher cadaver with the car in motion. The clean Malibu air was once again blowing the stink
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