Of mice and dawgs.

[saltdawg]

We had just been in a car accident just about three miles off of the interstate in Batavia, New York. I knew it was coming before I even felt the impact even though I couldn't see the other car. I could hear it coming. There was some damage to both cars, and nobody seemed to be hurt, and the dog? The dog seemed almost happy. She knew something was going on.

We had left the hotel late that morning, as we would do when we left hotels. Sleeping in and making grouchy phone calls to the front desk about late check out. Depending on what the front desk had to say about the late check out, we'd either reset our alarm, or frantically try and stuff all our crap back into our bags. Frantically stuffing and searching for things that we might leave behind us when we left. Searching by opening drawers we hadn't even opened before, looking under the comfy chair in the corner that we hadn't even sat in. Both of us seemed to be accustomed to leaving things behind us. Both of us were absolute slobs.

From just about the moment we would step into a hotel or motor court, our bags would seemingly explode with all the crap that we had. After being in a room for about a half an hour, it would look like we had been living there a month. I know I always seemed to bring things that in a last minute panic would think I needed. The morning of the car accident, I clearly remember pausing from the frantic packing and searching to turn to her with a pair of shorts in either hand.

Why did I bring these? I asked her, not expecting a response. Why did I bring these, I said, waving the shorts in front of me like I was doing a spastic semaphore It's fucking January, for Chrissakes. I knew the answer, and didn't expect an answer; which belied the fact that I wasn't really paying attention. She was thoughtful. Perhaps too thoughtful, on occasion, and if I had been paying attention to anything other than my own way of thinking I would have known she would try and tell me why I had brought two pairs of shorts for a one night stay in Niagra Falls. I think I told you to bring shorts. I think I told you something about there being a pool here or something. You probably couldn't find your trunks, and then after you packed the first pair, you forgot and packed another. That's why you probably brought those. Of course, she was right, partially. But by the time I she had thunk about it, and told me why I had two pairs of shorts with me in the middle of january, at niagra falls I had figured it out and had already stuffed the shorts back into my pack and was overturning things looking for my eyeglasses which I had already put in the same place I always keep my eyeglasses in my pack. In the same pouch with my passport. We had driven all that way to Niagra Falls, but I hadn't even touched either my passport or my eyeglasses. We both knew I wasn't allowed to leave the states, we had only gone there because it was convenient.

Through all the searching, the dog was curled up in the mussed sheets and blankets on the big bed. Every once in a while, when one of us would look under the thing, or when we were packing up her leashes and bowls and shit, she'd get up and wag her tail like she thought we were going out. But the two of us were slobs, and we still had some time before we could leave.

We had left the hotel late, a little after check out. But only by a half an hour or something. The front desk girl wouldn't give us a late check out, but we knew the hotel was far from full and could get away with signing out a little after with no major hassle. We had left late, and got right on the highway. We had only been driving for a couple of hours, well, maybe like an hour and a half before we got to Batavia. We were both hungry and I was driving and I liked the way “Batavia” rolled off of my tounge. It sounded like a place where you could find Schnitzel shops on the street-corners or something, so I took the exit.

We came off the exit and merged onto a four-lane road. Right by a strip of strip malls. It wasn't what I had imagined Batavia to look like, and I knew it had more to offer than that. We merged off of the exit onto that four lane road, and we read the signs of all the restaurants to each other: How about APPLEBEE'S? Do you want to eat at THE RED LOBSTER? I've never been to a PONDEROSA. We were hungry, but I don't think either of us thought we'd seriously stop at any of the places we were saying aloud. I think we were saying the names of the places aloud just so the other would know that we had seen the sign, and it wasn't an option. Or at least, I should say, that's why I was reading the signs out. She may have genuinely interested in seeing the inside of a PONDEROSA. I don't know. I never figured out the way that girl thought.

We were both hungry because we had eaten a lot, we had eaten early the night before. We had made it to Niagra early enough that we had the day to see what little you can see on the american side during January. But we weren't there to see the sights, really. We were there to meet the man with the dog. My dog. The dog that was a lingering pain in my ass from a previous relationship. As much as I loved her, the dog, that is, my situation was one that made keeping her impossible. I'd be away for weeks on end and I'd have to find someone to look after her and usually the people who would would resent me for asking them. She was what the dog adoption people called a “difficult” dog.

In Batavia, we rolled down the strip calling out CHILI'S? And OLIVE GARDEN? Until the strip was gone. We were on a two lane with little but auto-shops and plumbing services on either side of us and I wanted to turn around. The day was clear and the road was straight and I could see for miles that there wasn't going to be any schnitzel shops coming up. I wanted to turn around, and because of my situation I didn't want to make a U-turn. I didn't know the laws in Batavia, or how ferocious the police were and I didn't want to chance anything. I wasn't supposed to be out of the state, much less that far out of the state with out checking in with my sort-of Probation officer. I didn't want to risk anything. I wasn't supposed to have any contact with Law Enforcement as a condition of my situation.

I didn't know the laws there and the other side of the street was busy with cars rushing towards the stripmalls. I pulled into the left-handed lane across from a derelict gas-station, and waited for a chance to pull into the lot to turn around and find someplace to eat. I had my blinker on, and cars were passing me on the right. The girl was saying things like: Why are we stopping? Why do you want to turn around? I need to stop somewhere soon, I'm hungry. I'm getting a migraine. My eyes were trained on the other side of the road, waiting for an opening in the on-coming traffic. Waiting for my chance. I don't know if I explained myself to her. I don't remember. And I wouldn't even remember that she had been saying those things. I wouldn't probably remember even trying to make that turn if it hadn't been for the accident.

In the fall, we had made a shorter trip out to a commune in the hills of New York. South of Rochester, to give the dog to the people who were caring for her. They lived in Ohio. It had been so long, and I had exhausted all of my limited friends with the dog that I had to go all the way to Ohio to find someone who would willingly take her, And by the time we were in Niagra Falls, I think they resented me a little too.

So when we dropped the dog off at the commune, we handed her off to the wife. It was the husband that had to make the trip to hand her back to us. While we waited for him to arrive we rolled around the town, buying medicine for her migraines and motion-sickness. We visited the American side of the Falls and it was so cold and we were so close that the mist was blowing across my face and freezing tiny icicles in my beard. We looked at all that water together and she wasn't complaining about the cold. I don't think she even noticed next to the power of all that water. And she was even thoughtful enough to say to me Give me your camera. I want to take a picture of you next to the falls. She was thoughtful and she really loved me and I don't think I even had the decency to take a picture of her next to the falls. Maybe I didn't have the decency, or maybe she didn't want her picture took. I don't know. I do know it was really freaking cold though and that I admired her for not complaining about it simply because she knew I'd never been there before. But even still, the cold was cutting through me too, and we spent more time in the gift shop than we did actually looking at the water and ice falling over.

In Batavia, I think she had said something about another migraine when I heard the other car. There was no oncoming traffic and I was just about to start moving when I heard someone lock 'em up somewhere. Somewhere close. I knew enough not to move the car. I didn't have a complete grasp on the situation, I knew what was about to happen, but I didn't know how it was going to happen. She said something about migranes, I think, and I heard the brakes locking up and the rubber squeal and I dropped my hands from the steering wheel into my lap and pressed down on the brake with my right boot. I knew it was pointless to try and steer in a situation like that. All you can do is sit and wait to see what happens.

I don't think she knew what was going on until the other car hit us. Clipped us, really. If I had tried to steer, if I had done anything other than what I did, the accident would have been much, much worse. I knew what I would have done if I reacted. But I didn't and the other car only clipped us. And nobody was hurt, though I really feel bad that I had forgotten to check on the dog. That I had forgotten to check on the precious cargo that we had made the trip for in the first place.

When the man with the dog showed up at the falls, it had been so long, or it was so cold that the dog didn't even really greet me. I mean, I had been away from her for much longer stretches of time, and she would be much more excited to see me than she was that day. She barely even let me pet her at first. There were other people at the falls that afternoon and it was getting dark. The four of us, dog, girl, man and me were standing still with greetings and everybody else was headed to their cars. The gift-shop was closed and the wind was picking up. After the dog did her business, the four of us headed for the hotel.

Back in the room, the man with the dog sat in that comfy chair that neither of us had sat in and filled me in on dog related stories. He told me about escapes she had made, and distances traveled. He tried to describe the places she had visited and people who had found her that winter. But much of it didn't have any sense of place or gravity to me. I had only seen his neighborhood once in my life. So he told me about dog related stuff and I rooted around in her bag of dog-medicine. And I was pissed off that they hadn't been giving her the heartworm pills since they took her to their house. When I brought the dog back to mine, I was giving her to the pound. And I knew that I was going to have to take her to the Vet for a check-up again. Simply because they hadn't been giving her those pills. I had already talked to the pound and I knew what they expected.

He told me about the dog, and some book he was reading about medieval Sohm music or some bullshit and much sooner than we had expected, he said Well, I have to get on the road, it's a five hour trip, and I need to get something to eat. The thing of it is, that earlier in the day, when we rolled around town, marveling at how decrepit it looked, we were trying to scout out a good place to take him for dinner. I wanted to take him to dinner to thank him for making the drive, to thank him for taking care of the dog. I wanted to take him someplace nice, so I would look like I was thoughtful. The thing was that we couldn't find anyplace that really looked appealing. All the places that looked like they might be good were closed for the season or because of poor business decisions. We finally settled on this half-timber Olde English-y looking place, the menu looked decent, and there really wasn't much other choice.

In Batavia, My hands were in my lap when the car clipped us. When we had our accident. I was waiting to take that left hand turn, and if I had made the move that I was going to make before I heard the brakes lock up, I probably would have been hurt. For whatever reason, the other guy was going pretty fast in the lane I was stopped in. Waiting to turn. He was going fast and for whatever reason didn't see me and didn't pass me on the right like all the other cars had. He stepped on his brakes and when he recognized he wasn't going to stop in time, he swerved across the double yellow line. He swerved left, fishtailed and gave us a pretty good thwack to our left-hand rear quarter. We moved even though my boot was still on the brake. We sat there in silence for a beat and I reached out for her at the same time she was turning for me. One of us asked if the other was alright. The other car moved to the shoulder, and when I checked to see if anything else was going to ram me in the ass and saw I was clear, I did the same. As I was pulling over to the side of the road I was saying that motherfucker. Now there is going to be a record that I was out of state. I thought that if the sort of probation officer checked, I'd be in big trouble with the law again. The girl turned to me and said that the dog was ok, and I immediately felt like a complete asshole for thinking about police records and shit like that, for thinking about myself and the car and my insurance rates all at the same time instead of giving a thought to the dog in the back seat. The dog was happy. She was excited. Something was going on, she didn't know what, but it wasn't like any of the other car rides the three of us usually made.

The kid that hit us tried to skate. The old “here's my information and I'm late for work so let's not get the cops involved” routine. But it was one of those times where you learn that you are a lot older and scarier than you look. I told the kid that he was not going anywhere, and that the cops were already coming and how come the name on the insurance doesn't match the name on the registration? I didn't want the cops there either, but I was driving a rental, and didn't get a loss/damage waiver, so criminal ramifications be damned, I wasn't going to get stuck with this bullshit. The kid didn't argue with me, and I recognized how angry I must have sounded when I saw the look he gave me afterwards. I'm sure he would have understood if he knew I was really just worried about the Felonies.

The cop came and put all of us back in our cars. The girl, I think, may have been taking the dog out for her business while we waited. The cop put us back in our cars, and when he took my license/registration bullshit I was panicking that he'd run my name, see what I was accused of doing in the other state, and find a way of fucking me over. The girl knew better, and tried to calm me. They can't access the NCIC without a major hassle. They will run your name through New York databases, but not NCIC. And even if they did, they can't do anything to you because of it. She said, I still worried all the way through until the cop finally came back and gave me my papers and shit, and told me: Mister, it was all that kid's fault. He even admitted it. You don't have anything to worry about, but you do have to file an accident report with the Batavia Police within two weeks. That's New York law. And all that other have a good day and directions to the police department and crap. He even had a thermal printout of his report, with everybody's names and insurance and stuff on it.

Obviously, the car wasn't damaged that badly. It was cosmetic stuff, really. To the rental, that is. The girl didn't say anything about the migraine again, I don't think, but we finally got all turned around and headed back on into town, past all the strip malls. To the Main street where I wanted to find in the first place, if only that exit hadn't merged right and I had maybe a choice to turn left. We found that main street and drove past the police station. The accident report could wait. We were both very hungry.

So the man with the dog told us that he was heading back to Ohio, through Canada, however that's done. And I told him that we had reservations for a restaurant. I was lying, but both of us-the girl and I-we both understood that it was a necessary lie to get him to stay and eat. I wanted to look like I was thoughtful and thankful and I told him that I was taking him out for diner and that we had reservations and that was that. End of story.

We took two cars to the fake half-timber olde english restaurant. I drove alone, and the girl rode with the man who brought the dog. The dog stayed at the Howard Johnson's. He followed me, and it really wasn't all that far at all to drive. And as soon as we three walked into the place in our flannel and chamois and denim, and took one look at the Maitre'd, I could immediately see that we were far underdressed for what he was used to. But I've never really cared about that sort of stuff, and I don't think the other two really noticed anyway, and I know that my money spends. And anyway, we over ordered appetizers and by the time our main course got to us, I think we were all pretty much full. I ordered a second cocktail. We lingered in our booth as the rest of the place filled with suits and fur coats.

We lingered and listened to the man who had brought the dog talk about Olde English nobility and things that he didn't even really have cocktail-conversation knowledge of. Neither of us really corrected him when we knew better. This was his dinner, and if he wanted Mary, Queen of Scots to have an affair with Rasputin, that was his prerogative that night. We listened to him and I had my second cocktail and all three of us were waiting for someone to mention leaving when there was this big kerfuffle at the 4-top nearest to out booth. The next thing I knew the Man with the dog and the girl were on there feet, looking at something I couldn't see. Speaking to the almost-shrieking woman in words I couldn't understand. I stood up and stepped into the aisle. And when I looked at the floor, at what they were all looking at, I finally understood one of the words. It was coming from the fur coat at the 4-top. It was: “rat!”

In Batavia, we drove past the Police station and found a Pizza Parlor that had diet root beer and a Greek name. I don't remember what I had, but I don't think it was very good. It was probably a Meatball Grinder. That's what I usually eat in a situation like that. I do remember having a couple diet root beers though. It's rare that you find a resturaunt that serves any kind of diet soda aside from cola. I also remember that I didn't have any pocket money, and that the girl barely had enough in her Key lime green pleather wallet for a decent tip, though the waitress didn't deserve it. And I remember walking out to the car and the girl asking me about the dog. Should we feed the dog? And it was then that we realized exactly what t was that we had left behind, in Niagra. I told her that it would be OK. That the dog could wait until we got back to the strip of strip malls. There was sure to be a place where we could buy dogfood. We'd even get wet-food. The alpo slices, in gravy. Chicken flavor. The poor dog. She had been riding in a car for so long, and this was the last road trip she'd ever be with us again. I kept forgetting about the pound, too.

And in the fancy resturaunt when I recognized the word “rat”, I recognized the mouse, moving much slower than a normal mouse would, across the floor between us and the 4-top. The Seaman in me started to lift my boot to stomp the little fucker. To shut the fur coat up, at least. But already feeling out of place, underdressed and about three decades ahead of the resturaunt, I took the wadded up napkin I had clenched in my fist. I took it and draped it over the mouse, and scooped the whole thing up in one quick and surgical kow-tow, or at least I thought.

I think I crushed it. I said to maybe the man with the dog, maybe to the girl. I think I crushed it, it's not moving. And I sat down for a moment to take stock. To think about weather I had maybe been rougher and less surgical than I had thought I was. I had been moving on the floor, and now, in the napkin...Dead. My thoughts were that I was going to just go outside and let it free to die in the snow anyway, but. But somehow crushing a thing like that by accident was somehow much worse. And now I had a dead mouse in a napkin. And I didn't know what to do with it. I walked up to the hostess and told her, in hushed tones, what had just happened. I was looking for a garbage can. I got the manager.

He kept offering us a free round of drinks, but I was the only one drinking and I had already had two, and had to drive yet. Free Desert? No, we already had to get things wrapped. Ostensibly for the dog. He ended up giving us half off the bill. I paid the whole amount, leaving about a forty dollar tip for the help. I had plenty of cash in the bank, I had no real worries or debts outside the horrible feeling that the pound was giving me, and I think I wanted them to think I was thoughtful or something. Chivalrous, maybe?

The girl and I walked through thigh-deep snow-drifts to get to the river. It was lit up different colors by spots, and with all the ice was, quite frankly, quite beautiful. We walked all the way back to the Howard Johnson's by the river. Laughing about the man who had brought the dog and his historical mashups and made-up facts. Speculating on weather I had killed the mouse, or if it had been staggering around in some kind of arsenic stupor and had just happened to expire at the same time I snatched at it. We talked about the power of the water. The sadness of having to adopt out the dog.

It had warmed in the darkness. The wind had died and there was fog over the river. We walked all the way back to the hotel by the river. I would have to take the dog out again anyway, and I could get the car then.

 

Comments

[roadskoller.livejournal.com]

You're back with your mad writing skills!
You can always make me feel like I was right there too.
I smooch you.

[saltdawg.livejournal.com]

Thank you. It's a mess, but I think I can clean it up some when I have another chance to really sit down again.

[roadskoller.livejournal.com]

I've missed you and want more.

[skinface.livejournal.com]

i love this entry. i don't understand why there aren't more comments saying that. maybe you left out the part about the whores distracting the other driver and the fistfight at the restaurant.