Written by Dave Rowe –

It’s a thick, scratchy black and tan dog suit, and on these sultry days Tom stands on the sidewalk inside of it, waving cars and pedestrians toward Gus’s Pets. This afternoon a woman, middle-aged at best, walks up.

“Oh sir,” she says, “I’ve been so sad since I lost my FiFi – do you have any miniature poodles – white ones – inside?”

Tom shuffles his feet. “I don’t know ma’am – you’ll have to go in and ask.”

She walks in the store then several minutes later emerges empty-handed and frowning.

“Ma’am,” says Tom, “you oughta try the Humane Society. I bet they got poodles there and the dogs there that don’t get adopted get exterminated.”

She thanks Tom and walks off and Tom, as he often does, speaks to himself. “We dogs,” he says, “we got to stick together.”

The sultry afternoon then goes by uneventfully until a skinny kid with glasses approaches from up the street. He’s carrying a stack of records under his arm and stops when he reaches Tom.

“So Mr. Dog,” he says, “How’s the weather in there?”

“Hot,” says Tom, “So what music have you got there?”

“Some used stuff – they all look to be in pretty good shape. There’s some Miles Davis, some John Coltrane, some Charlie Parker.”

Tom whistles. “Charlie Parker – the Bird, he sure could fly. Do you play yourself?”

“No, when I was a kid I took piano but I didn’t stay with it. What about you?”

“I play sax, alto. Way back when I played in a quintet we were getting gigs but it ended – too many big egos, too much drinking on my part. Don’t have a sax now, but I’ve got my eye on one at this pawn shop – a Selmer. The tag says $179, the owner says I can have it for $130.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Good luck to you with those records -hope they play alright.”

Finally, after some more futile waving, five o’clock rolls around. Following a final check-in with Gus, Tom finds himself back in his two-room apartment, local news on TV, canned ravioli on the hotplate. Tom wishes he’d stopped at the Quick Mart for some cupcakes. A beer is what he really wants but that’s out of the question. After drying out for the third time at the VA detox unit and after having drunk himself out of a relationship and several jobs, he keeps telling himself he’s finally learned.

The dog suit gig, well, he’d found it through a flier on a grocery store bulletin board and it is a good fit – eight dollars an hour under the table, no way would it disturb his monthly disability check from the VA. Now he puts away whatever he can in a glass jar on the table marked “Selmer.” $93 at last count. It won’t be too long now.

So, following a night of mind-numbing TV, it’s the next morning at nine o’clock and Tom, with a large Dunken’ Donut’s coffee in hand, is passing the time of day with Gus, who’s clutching the sports page. “These Tigers,” Gus says, amidst the chatter of a monkey and the shrill sounding of a Macaw. “They’s 63 and 73. I wonder why it is that I care anymore.”

“Oh I bet they’ll start doing better,” says Tom, who then puts on his dog head and goes out the door and onto his sidewalk. For the first part of the morning his waving is futile. Then a car pulls up to the curb, a black and white car with a red siren bulb on top. “So Mr. Dog,” says the policeman rolling down the window and leaning out. “You aren’t blocking the sidewalk, are you?”

“No sir – I keep as close to the building as I can.”

“Yeah, well you better watch it – one complaint and you’re out of a job.”

“Yes sir,” says Tom and the patrol car pulls out of sight.

Soon, from down the street, things brighten up. It’s the skinny kid with glasses and this time he’s clutching a book. “So,” says Tom, “what is it that you’re reading?”

“It’s a book called The Dharma Bums.”

“That’s Jack Kerouac,” says Tom, who occasionally tries his hand at writing. “You know someone once told me he tried to pace his paragraphs like jazz phrases – don’t know how many times I’ve read On the Road – this Dharma Bums, what is it about?”

“It’s about two characters and how their adventures are affected by Buddhism – it’s good.”

“So where are you headed with it?”

“City Java – it’s right up the street – pretty girls behind the counter, free unlimited refills.”

“Damn, wish I could go there with you, but no, I’ve got to stand out here inside this dog suit all day. Well, you have fun.”

So several weeks go by and the skinny kid, whose name turns out to be Ralph, moves on to Thomas Wolfe. He and Tom agree that Wolfe was a master of description. Ralph, You Can’t Go Home Again in tow, on this particular afternoon then goes on his way.

Six cars get waved in that afternoon and Gus, with the Tigers approaching 500, is all smiles. Inside the dog suit, Tom’s features brighten considerably when Ralph, the next day, tells him a new sign is up at City Java, “Live Jazz Tuesdays at 8, Open Jazz Jams Thursdays at 8.”

At home, shortly after the classical music on the public radio station has segued into jazz, Tom counts the money in his jar – nearly $110. “Huh,” he says overtop Chick Corea, “Another week or two I’ll have that Selmer and a place to play it stone-cold sober. No telling what it’s going to lead to.”

The next day is another hot one, but inside the dog suit, Tom’s face feels cool and his feet, well, they are dancing.

 

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