completely in half by a watermelon truck over there, and now Gram seemed plagued
with the notion that I was going to be next. It might have been false confidence on my part, but I had no fear of produce trucks. The trolleys that used to run downtown, with all that blue
electricity groaning and snapping from their overhead power arms, seemed more menacing to me.
But the real problem occupying my mind at the moment was the time. It seemed to me that right now I had a better than even chance of finding Mom at home alone, which was the best-case scenario
unless you counted things like Jack going to prison for life or choking on his own tongue, to name just a couple of outcomes that I knew for a fact it did no good to pray for. Mom being there alone
would leave open the prospect of having a Coke with her, showing her the fish and telling her the whole story of what had happened. The next best possibility would include both of them being there
but with Jack sober and cutting the grass or working in the garage, which would allow me to back away before I was seen. Of course, there were plenty of other ways it could play out, but somehow I
managed to steer my thoughts away from those. One more illustration of the difference between being intelligent and being smart.
As I rounded the corner of Elmore a few cold fat drops were still falling from the trees, and you could see from the leaves and branches in the street and the steam rising off the pavement where
the sun struck it that it had rained hard here too, but I didn’t see any more fish. There was almost no traffic and I was making pretty good time, thinking of the fish and dreaming up ways to
describe the episode to Mom, when the dog came at me.
I knew from previous trips through the neighborhood that he was the worst kind, a biter instead of a barker, fairly fast and persistent, staying after you longer than most dogs considered
necessary. Just an all-around shit of a dog. He was reddish and funny-looking, like maybe a dachshund-collie mix or something, with semi-floppy ears that he laid back tight when he chased me. Jack,
who wasn’t a big guy himself, had heard me talking about the dog one day and with a hard grin said, “Collie and dash hound, huh?” A wink at Mom. “Somebody must of put his
daddy up to it.”
I had the advantage of the grade on this block, and, wanting to build as much speed as possible for the chase itself, I got up on the pedals for leverage as the dog was angling across his yard.
He was pumping too, his head driving up and down and his tongue swinging out at the side of his mouth. His hind claws threw up chunks of grass behind him as he ran. When he caught up with me in the
middle of the block I put my near foot up on the handlebar and with my off leg tried to keep up a rhythm on the pedal, really punching on the downstroke and trying not to kill my speed by wobbling.
I could hear the dog’s claws on the pavement and the sound of his breath beside me, but he was fairly stupid for a bad dog and he did what he always did—kept snapping at the pedal, even
though my foot wasn’t there.
This time it turned out worse than usual for him. The pedal happened to catch him under the chin on an upswing, and I heard a loud clack and a couple of yelps as the dog broke off the chase. I
looked back and saw him shake his head and make chewing motions with his lips pulled back as if he had peanut butter in his mouth. Pedaling away, I hooted at him and pumped my fist in the air, full
of victory and knowing now what a winning streak I was on.
9 | Tries
I WAS STILL replaying the chase in my mind as I coasted around the curve of Alameda and into Mom’s driveway under the old magnolia. The storm must
have been a strange one in other ways than being full of fish, because it obviously hadn’t rained here at all.
The house was painted white now instead of the light yellow it had been when I lived in it, and the windows were framed by new green
with the notion that I was going to be next. It might have been false confidence on my part, but I had no fear of produce trucks. The trolleys that used to run downtown, with all that blue
electricity groaning and snapping from their overhead power arms, seemed more menacing to me.
But the real problem occupying my mind at the moment was the time. It seemed to me that right now I had a better than even chance of finding Mom at home alone, which was the best-case scenario
unless you counted things like Jack going to prison for life or choking on his own tongue, to name just a couple of outcomes that I knew for a fact it did no good to pray for. Mom being there alone
would leave open the prospect of having a Coke with her, showing her the fish and telling her the whole story of what had happened. The next best possibility would include both of them being there
but with Jack sober and cutting the grass or working in the garage, which would allow me to back away before I was seen. Of course, there were plenty of other ways it could play out, but somehow I
managed to steer my thoughts away from those. One more illustration of the difference between being intelligent and being smart.
As I rounded the corner of Elmore a few cold fat drops were still falling from the trees, and you could see from the leaves and branches in the street and the steam rising off the pavement where
the sun struck it that it had rained hard here too, but I didn’t see any more fish. There was almost no traffic and I was making pretty good time, thinking of the fish and dreaming up ways to
describe the episode to Mom, when the dog came at me.
I knew from previous trips through the neighborhood that he was the worst kind, a biter instead of a barker, fairly fast and persistent, staying after you longer than most dogs considered
necessary. Just an all-around shit of a dog. He was reddish and funny-looking, like maybe a dachshund-collie mix or something, with semi-floppy ears that he laid back tight when he chased me. Jack,
who wasn’t a big guy himself, had heard me talking about the dog one day and with a hard grin said, “Collie and dash hound, huh?” A wink at Mom. “Somebody must of put his
daddy up to it.”
I had the advantage of the grade on this block, and, wanting to build as much speed as possible for the chase itself, I got up on the pedals for leverage as the dog was angling across his yard.
He was pumping too, his head driving up and down and his tongue swinging out at the side of his mouth. His hind claws threw up chunks of grass behind him as he ran. When he caught up with me in the
middle of the block I put my near foot up on the handlebar and with my off leg tried to keep up a rhythm on the pedal, really punching on the downstroke and trying not to kill my speed by wobbling.
I could hear the dog’s claws on the pavement and the sound of his breath beside me, but he was fairly stupid for a bad dog and he did what he always did—kept snapping at the pedal, even
though my foot wasn’t there.
This time it turned out worse than usual for him. The pedal happened to catch him under the chin on an upswing, and I heard a loud clack and a couple of yelps as the dog broke off the chase. I
looked back and saw him shake his head and make chewing motions with his lips pulled back as if he had peanut butter in his mouth. Pedaling away, I hooted at him and pumped my fist in the air, full
of victory and knowing now what a winning streak I was on.
9 | Tries
I WAS STILL replaying the chase in my mind as I coasted around the curve of Alameda and into Mom’s driveway under the old magnolia. The storm must
have been a strange one in other ways than being full of fish, because it obviously hadn’t rained here at all.
The house was painted white now instead of the light yellow it had been when I lived in it, and the windows were framed by new green
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