her again. This time she didn’t call back.
Huge dark clouds appeared in the distance. Underneath lay a city with some towers,
but not many and not as tall as ours back in the Valley.
“True I’ve been here before,” Bernie said. “But only sort of. Four-day leave. I remember
zilch.” Traffic thickened around us and we slowed down. Still the middle of day, but
the sky got very dark and headlights and taillights lit up on both sides of the freeway.
“Was her name Bubbles?” Bernie said after a while. “Seems impossible.”
What was this about? I waited for more, but no more came. We entered the city, swung
onto an off-ramp and were soon on a street lined with small houses except for the
corners, which had a bar pretty much on every one. A bolt of lightning sparked across
the sky, its pattern a lot like Bernie’s stitches. I smelled burned air, the kind
of burned air that meant— BOOM! And there it was: thunder. Panting sounds started up right away.
“Easy, big guy,” Bernie said.
The panting? Me? Probably had to be me. Bernie wasn’t panting the least bit—he hardly
ever did, just maybe sometimes when we were hiking in steep country—and no one else
was around, except for a few dudes sitting on their front steps, one or two drinking
out of paper bags. “It’s only thunder,” he said.
The thunder wasn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was that burned air smell.
“Now you’re barking? What’s with you? Put a lid on it.”
Nothing. Nothing was with me. Lid was what again? I shut myself up, or at least amped
down to a low growl. There’s only so much I can do. Hey! But it’s a lot. And just
like that, I was in a great mood, never better. More burned air, more thunder, more
lightning? I hardly even noticed.
“Fishhead’s,” Bernie said, and there, sticking out over the sidewalk was a big sign
that looked like the head of a fish, a grinning fish wearing a bandanna and an eye
patch, very confusing. “Here we are.”
He pulled over. As we hopped out—me actually hopping, Bernie a little slower which
happened sometimes after long drives, what with his war wound and all—a big fat wet
thing hit me right on the tip of my nose. I hadn’t seen rain in so long—it hardly
ever rains in the Valley—that I didn’t realize what was going on until I was soaked
practically through to my skin and Bernie was trying to raise the top on the Porsche.
So much time had passed since the last time we’d needed the top that I’d forgotten
how tricky it could be. The tools came out. Bernie said things I’m sure he didn’t
mean. A passing drunk offered to help. He turned out to be an expert. The top got
raised. Bernie and I walked into Fishhead’s, trailing our own puddles.
I’ve been in a lot of bars—comes with the job. And in all of them, even the very fanciest,
you can pick up the scent of human puke first thing. Maybe not you. No offense. Fishhead’s
was no different. I sniffed around. Far from the fanciest, but Fishhead’s wasn’t the
grubbiest either. In the grubbiest you find actual grubs, edible although I can’t
really recommend them. No grubs at Fishhead’s: that’s the kind of thing I know the
moment I enter any new place. They did have roaches, spiders, of course—no getting
away from them—and possibly a snake, but way down under the floorboards somewhere.
The floorboards themselves were very worn and wonderfully soft against my paws. There
was a small stage in one corner, a few rickety chairs and tables on one side and a
long dark bar on the other. As for people: a gray-haired woman at a table, cigarette
in one hand and a drink in the other; a big old white-bearded dude at the bar, wearing
a straw hat, possibly the kind called a boater; the bartender, who had bright red
hair and full sleeves on both arms, the inked kind; and a guitar player on stage.
Hey! Was he singing “Baby Please Don’t Go?” Kind
Huge dark clouds appeared in the distance. Underneath lay a city with some towers,
but not many and not as tall as ours back in the Valley.
“True I’ve been here before,” Bernie said. “But only sort of. Four-day leave. I remember
zilch.” Traffic thickened around us and we slowed down. Still the middle of day, but
the sky got very dark and headlights and taillights lit up on both sides of the freeway.
“Was her name Bubbles?” Bernie said after a while. “Seems impossible.”
What was this about? I waited for more, but no more came. We entered the city, swung
onto an off-ramp and were soon on a street lined with small houses except for the
corners, which had a bar pretty much on every one. A bolt of lightning sparked across
the sky, its pattern a lot like Bernie’s stitches. I smelled burned air, the kind
of burned air that meant— BOOM! And there it was: thunder. Panting sounds started up right away.
“Easy, big guy,” Bernie said.
The panting? Me? Probably had to be me. Bernie wasn’t panting the least bit—he hardly
ever did, just maybe sometimes when we were hiking in steep country—and no one else
was around, except for a few dudes sitting on their front steps, one or two drinking
out of paper bags. “It’s only thunder,” he said.
The thunder wasn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was that burned air smell.
“Now you’re barking? What’s with you? Put a lid on it.”
Nothing. Nothing was with me. Lid was what again? I shut myself up, or at least amped
down to a low growl. There’s only so much I can do. Hey! But it’s a lot. And just
like that, I was in a great mood, never better. More burned air, more thunder, more
lightning? I hardly even noticed.
“Fishhead’s,” Bernie said, and there, sticking out over the sidewalk was a big sign
that looked like the head of a fish, a grinning fish wearing a bandanna and an eye
patch, very confusing. “Here we are.”
He pulled over. As we hopped out—me actually hopping, Bernie a little slower which
happened sometimes after long drives, what with his war wound and all—a big fat wet
thing hit me right on the tip of my nose. I hadn’t seen rain in so long—it hardly
ever rains in the Valley—that I didn’t realize what was going on until I was soaked
practically through to my skin and Bernie was trying to raise the top on the Porsche.
So much time had passed since the last time we’d needed the top that I’d forgotten
how tricky it could be. The tools came out. Bernie said things I’m sure he didn’t
mean. A passing drunk offered to help. He turned out to be an expert. The top got
raised. Bernie and I walked into Fishhead’s, trailing our own puddles.
I’ve been in a lot of bars—comes with the job. And in all of them, even the very fanciest,
you can pick up the scent of human puke first thing. Maybe not you. No offense. Fishhead’s
was no different. I sniffed around. Far from the fanciest, but Fishhead’s wasn’t the
grubbiest either. In the grubbiest you find actual grubs, edible although I can’t
really recommend them. No grubs at Fishhead’s: that’s the kind of thing I know the
moment I enter any new place. They did have roaches, spiders, of course—no getting
away from them—and possibly a snake, but way down under the floorboards somewhere.
The floorboards themselves were very worn and wonderfully soft against my paws. There
was a small stage in one corner, a few rickety chairs and tables on one side and a
long dark bar on the other. As for people: a gray-haired woman at a table, cigarette
in one hand and a drink in the other; a big old white-bearded dude at the bar, wearing
a straw hat, possibly the kind called a boater; the bartender, who had bright red
hair and full sleeves on both arms, the inked kind; and a guitar player on stage.
Hey! Was he singing “Baby Please Don’t Go?” Kind
Similar Books
