Ian MacAllen

originally published in The Anthologist, the literary journal of Rutgers College

“I met an old man today,” she said to me.

“What was his name?” I asked.

“He didn’t have a name. I called him Frank. We talked about sliced bread.”

“Why?”

“He never had it before. Frank said when he was younger, either you made your own bread or you didn’t have any. He makes his own bread everyday.”

“Isn’t that a lot of work?”

“That’s what I thought, but apparently it isn’t. Frank is very old and I don’t think he could make bread if it was a lot of work. Maybe that’s why he bought sliced bread today, because it’s too much work to make it himself any more.”

We didn’t eat sliced bread for the rest of the week. Half a loaf of Wonder Bread sat on the counter until I threw it out on Friday. The funny thing about Wonder Bread is that even after a week it doesn’t get green and brown. I threw it out anyway, on principle alone.

Saturday was cold and since the heater was still not giving heat into our little apartment, Lena went to the grocery store on the corner to warm up. She bought bread from the bakery section. It wasn’t pre-sliced and was uneven and hard to cut.

For lunch we ate toast with butter and jam, and afterwards since the apartment was still cold, we sat together on the couch. Luckily we were not married, so the experience was very romantic.

“Since when did we start getting the Times delivered?” I asked.

“We don’t,” she said.

“Well, I have a copy right here.” I opened it up to show it to her.

“Where did you get the Times from?”

“It was outside the door this morning.” I said.

“It must be the old man’s from next door. The delivery boy must have left it in front of our door this week. You should fold it back up and give it to him.”

“Who, the boy?”

“No, the old man.”

“Does he have a name?”

“No. Call him Herb, I think his son calls him herb.”

“He has a son?”

“I think so.”

“You know the man has a son but you don’t know his name?”

“I saw a young man down in the lobby with Herb on Tuesday.”

“If the young guy was Herb’s son, wouldn’t he call Herb dad?”

“I don’t know. What do you call your father?”

“Dad.”

“Oh, then I don’t know if Herb has a boy. Maybe not”

“Its cold in here.”

“Let’s go to the movies.”

We went to the movies to avoid the frigid apartment and came home for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Lena loves peanut butter and jelly. Since I hate consistency that bread acquires when jelly is placed on it, I cannot for anything eat peanut butter and jelly. If I didn’t love Lena so much, I would tell her she couldn’t eat peanut butter and jelly. But I do love her, so I try to think of thick cheeseburgers with bacon when she spreads the jelly. I’m not allowed to eat cheeseburgers with Lena, since she is a vegetarian.

As Lena made a second sandwich, this time substituting fluff for jelly, I escaped into the outside world for a walk. Relatively speaking, outside was warm. A single orange lamp lit the street and this caused the ordinarily green door to the apartment to appear gray. I walked to the corner of the block where a man was selling newspapers.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you sell the Times?”

“The Times? The New York Times? Sure. Daily is thirty-five, two-fifty on Sundays.”

“The delivery boy sent the paper to the wrong door today.”

“I don’t deliver.”

“Do you know who does?”

“No.”

I bought a Yoo-Hoo and continued down the street and around the block. I did a lap, a walk long enough to finish the Yoo-Hoo but not so long as to tired me out. I passed some people, some walking dogs or smoking cigarettes or talking on the phone or eating hot dogs, but none of them were exceptionally beautiful or surprisingly engaging. Back in the building lobby, a little fat boy stood playing with a yoyo. I hate little fat boys, since they make me think of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Lena was soaking in the bathtub when I came. I went directly to bed.

Winter passes quickly, and so soon the leaves on the trees began to sprout, and the bulbs Lena had planted in the flower boxes flowered. Maybe it was April when we walked through the park. A clown with white face paint was handing out balloons to little children.

“How trusting those children are.” She said.

“They don’t know any better,” I said.

“Their parents should watch their children better than that. If we ever have children, you better watch them closely.”

“I will, but you should too.”

“I would be a mother. Mothers always make better parents.”

“Why is that?”

One of the children’s balloons popped; the little girl wearing a red dress began to cry and I assumed the balloon had been hers.

“I don’t know. My mother was a much better parent than my father.”

The child’s mother ran up to her.

“You’re father beat you, obviously you think your mother was a better parent.”

The mother held the little girl in her arms.

“So did my mother.”

The girl stopped crying.

“But not as much.”

The mother put the girl on the ground, took her hand and led her out of the park.

“We should get a dog,” she said

“I don’t like dogs.”

“Not a big dog.”

“You know I don’t like dogs.”

“It would be a small one.”

Another week passed. I was sitting on the couch watching Tom Brokaw and eating out of a box of Chinese food, which I don’t like. Chinese that is, I think Tom Brokaw is an honest looking Newscaster, a trait so lacking in Newscasters these days it makes me wonder why we trust anything we hear on television. So while having a mediocre dinner, Lena brought the thing in. It was a small hairy, smelly thing. The best way to describe in a way that is neither vulgar nor incorrect is to say it looked like it had been through the washing machine.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A dog.” She closed the door and let it loose.

“Why do we have a dog.”

“We talked about it.”

It came up to me and began licking my feet.

“And I thought we said no dog.”

She picked it up and put it on my lap. The mangy thing makes a much better sell licking your fingers.

“I can take it back, if you really don’t want it.”

Who could say no to that face. The dog’s, not hers. But I love her too and at least she wasn’t asking for a baby, so I said, “fine, we’ll keep it, just as long as I don’t have to deal with it.”

It was raining the first time I had to take it out. It poked its mangy little nose around for ten minutes before it found a good spot to go. It urinated on some flowers, but it was raining and no one was outside to care. We, the dog and I, went back in the building. The little fat boy was there playing with his yoyo.

“Is that your dog mister?”

I don’t like dogs, and I don’t like little fat boys.

“Yes.”

I pushed the elevator button.

“Can I pet it?”

“Just until the elevator comes.”

“Will he bite?.”

“He won’t bite.” I thought he wouldn’t. I wanted him to bite the little fat boy.

“That’s too bad. What a dumb dog if he won’t bite,” the boy said going to playing with a yoyo. I assume the boy didn’t realize how boring yoyos really are.

The dog had free range of the apartment and a pair of her shoes was his first victim.

“Bad dog!” she screamed, “Bad Dog! Very Bad dog!”

“I think it needs a name.”

“What?”

“If you are going to yell at him, he needs a name.”

“Did you see what he did to my shoes?”

“It’s your dog, I think its only fair for him to chew your shoes.”

“That’s not the point. He is very bad dog.”

“I don’t think he can understand what you are saying,” I said.

“That doesn’t matter! It makes me feel better!”

“Can we give him a name please?” I said.

“Oh just give the damn thing a name.”

“Frank,” I chose.

“Frank? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Its a name like any other.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Frank, you are a very bad dog. Don’t eat mommy’s shoes. Bad dog!” she said pointing her finger.

I have to wonder why parents and pet owners talk in the same high pitched voice towards their babies and their pets.

“Don’t be so harsh,” I said.

“You need to be strict or he’ll do it again.”

“He’ll do it again anyway,” I said.

“No he won’t, not if he learned his lesson.”

He did it again two days later. Only this time it was my tennis shoes. Since they were my tennis shoes, or maybe just because she knew I was right, she didn’t yell as much. Poor Frank.

I awoke Saturday morning to an empty apartment. I note on the table explained she had taken Frank for a walk. I made myself some eggs. They were good; scrambled up with a little cheese. I forgot my Wonder bread in the toaster oven and it came out black on one side. The two pieces I had burned were the last two, so I ate it burnt. She came in from her walk with Frank.

“Did you know Herb died?”

“Herb?”

“Herb, you know, the old man from next door.”

“Oh, how do you know?”

“They were taking away his body when I came home.”

“What did he die of?” I asked finishing my eggs.

“I don’t know.”

“Poor Herb. We’re out of bread.”

“Put it on the list next to the phone. I’m going to the market on Tuesday. Should we send flowers?”

“Why?”

“For Herb’s son, or whatever family he has.”

“I suppose.”

A week passed and we kept getting Herb’s copy of The New York Times. We took Frank to the park on the last Saturday of May. It was very warm, so we sat in the shade and let Frank run around at our feet.

“He looks happy,” she said.

“I suppose.”

“You think he isn’t?”

“I actually haven’t thought about it.”

“I think he is happy.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Frank was tugging at the leash and trying to chase down a pigeon cooing in front of us.

“Do you think he would be happier in New Jersey?”

“I wouldn’t be happier in New Jersey.”

“I don’t mean Jersey City, I mean the suburbs.”

“Why would Frank care if we lived in the suburbs?”

Frank began to yap at the pigeon.

“He would have more room to run around.”

“He has plenty of room to run around.”

“Don’t you think he would be happy in one of the suburbs?”

“I wouldn’t be happy in the suburbs. We aren’t moving to the suburbs.”

Frank’s leash broke and he was suddenly after the pigeon. But since pigeons can fly, Frank didn’t have a chance. And since Frank is faster than both of us, he got away. Frank was free in the park.

“See,” she said, “He wasn’t happy.”

“That’s not why he ran away. He ran after the pigeon. You saw it.”

I could tell she was upset about Frank running away.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said, but it wasn’t very sincere. I decided to take her out to dinner. We went to Mario’s: Fine Italian Dinning.

Mario’s was only a few blocks from the apartment. We held hands as we walked which we rarely did even before moving in together and finding that strange comfort level that means you don’t have to hold hands anymore. I don’t know why we were holding hands on this evening either. I think it was because Frank was gone.

After dinner we strolled a few blocks to gawk at people, but none of them were exceptionally interesting so we went home. It was warmer than we thought because she had a band of sweat around her forehead and my shirt was dank. There was a blast of cool air when we opened the door to the building. And then there he was. The little fat boy was holding the leash, but it was Frank at the end of it.

“I found your dog,” the little fat boy beamed, “he even bit me,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you,” I said.

Lena brightened and suddenly there was a smile. She let go of my hand and dropped to her knees.

“Here Frank, here boy,” she called.

The little fat boy let go of the leash and frank waddled over to her.

“Good boy, good boy, frank,” she said.

I just smiled.

“Thanks, kid,” I said to the little fat boy.

We went to our apartment with Frank. The suburbs? Is that where this was going? I didn’t want to think about it, so I went to bed.