|
Leif Peterson
The worst job I ever had was walking Mrs. X’s dogs. But it was the job that introduced me to Jeff, and for that I’m grateful.
Jeff had an Akita that was an angel. I don’t mean that he was well-behaved and good. I mean he was actually an angel, a celestial being, one of the heavenly hosts come to earth incarnate as a dog to teach us that there is wonder and mystery in the world, that the free gift of grace is available to us, that God chooses to be among us, if we just have eyes to see it. At least that’s what Jeff claimed.
I know that people are given to moments when everything is altered for them, key instances when a word or a look or a wayward galvanic notion cements that nothing will be exactly the same again. For me it was the chance encounter with Jeff and his dog, Raphael. But maybe chance had nothing to do with it.
Mrs. X had three Corgis, a breed that is amiable and cute, but has manic herding instincts and doesn’t know how to wipe itself. I took them to the park every weekday at noon where I would let them off their leads and watch them herd the squirrels and ducks and other dogs. Mrs. X made me take them whatever the weather. But mostly it was nice, and I could sit on a park bench and read. It really wasn’t a terrible job, but I was grieving and feeling insignificant, aimless and generally bad about myself at the time. So, I naturally transferred these emotions to my employment.
A year earlier I’d had everything figured out. I was going to spend the summer working as an editorial intern at The Garden City Review then start graduate school in the fall. But a week before my internship was to start, my parents were both killed in a car accident. I spent the summer putting their affairs in order and drinking screwdrivers for breakfast every morning. By the end of the summer, it was clear even to me that I was in no shape for graduate school. I’d closed all my parents’ accounts and paid off any outstanding debts. I hadn’t bothered to pay the phone and only paid the power bill once all summer, enough for the ice for my screwdrivers. I still hadn’t decided what to do with the house. I didn’t want it, but selling it seemed more than I was capable of. I sat in my parents’ drab olive kitchen one morning toying with an untoasted English muffin and sipping a screwdriver that was more vodka than orange juice when I spied Mrs. X’s ad in the paper.
I read the ad over then looked out the window where a garbage truck had stopped between our driveway and the neighbor’s. I watched as a lanky young man with unkempt hair dumped the neighbor’s garbage into the truck then replaced the cans neatly on the lawn. I hadn’t put out any garbage in weeks because I wasn’t generating any, but the young man still walked over to the foot of the driveway and lingered there a moment, as if he was uncertain what to do. He glanced up at the kitchen window and brushed the hair away from his eyes. I gave him a little wave, but there must have been a glare on the window because he didn’t react. I was thinking, “C’mon in. Take a load off. I’ve got nothing better to do.” But the truck started moving. Mr. Lean and Lanky jumped on the back holding on with one hand, his other hanging casually at his side in a way that I thought was overtly sexual. I was left staring at the neighbor’s empty trashcans. I really should be generating a little garbage, I thought. Something more than orange juice cartons and bottles of vodka. If not for myself, then for the nice garbage man. I couldn’t help thinking he was a little disappointed with me.
Leif Peterson is the author of the novel Catherine Wheels. He lives in northwest Montana where he writes and raises pheasants.
|
