For Winston

George Martin, a banker, was sitting in his living room in a well-to-do suburb of Boston reading a local story in the newspaper headlined "Barking Dog Saves Family of Five." But this is not the the story of George Martin. Or of banks. Nor is it the story of a dog who saved five lives.
However, this is indeed, a story of a dog.
A brown dog.
A brown dog with rather large brown eyes.
Who did not live in Boston.

The brown dog was sitting on the floor, facing the front door. He was staring straight ahead. He had been sitting there for over an hour. The brown dog was just waiting.
And thinking, too, for brown dog really wanted to smell something new. And the newest thing the brown dog knew of was the fat, gray cat that had been living in his house for close to a month now. But the fat, gray cat hated the brown dog. Or so the fat, gray cat let on. She would arch her blobbed back, her hair straight as arrows; thick as a well-kept lawn. She would open her mouth and her sharp teeth would spit. Every time the brown dog came near her. Which was not too often, but the fat, gray cat had to sometimes use the washroom. A lady can only hold herself for so long.
The fat, gray cat would also see the brown dog every night. When she walked by him on her way to eat her supper. While the brown dog was slept.
The brown dog never ate the cat's food.
So, the big, fat gray cat would also see the brown dog every night, when she would curl up next to him for a after-dinner snooze.
However, it was not nighttime now. And cats are fickle creatures, besides.
It was just after eleven in the morning, so the big, fat gray cat was hiding. Behind the bed, where the brown dog could barely fit his nose under, in the first bedroom down the hallway.
The brown dog was bored, this being his fifth hour of being alone.
Every window in his house were covered with dark hangings. Half an inch of light glimmered from the front door windows; spilling a fat beam of star dust across the floor; beautiful and blocking the ugly.
The brown dog felt hidden in the cool dampness of the city and he could hear the loud cars and the many voices; so grainy and muted in his ears, he wondered if the sound came from his head.
The brown dog had barely seen anyone in days.
He wished he could smell some grass. He had not smelt grass in a very long time. He liked to pee on it best.
The brown dog was tired of smelling his house and even the cat could not have brightened his spirits, anyhow. He hunkered himself down onto the floor and placed his face into his paws. Then the brown dog whined and rolled, so the inch of light, coming from the door, could cover him. He found he liked it best when it covered his ears. The warmth made him dozy, and he thought to take a nap.
It was the very best thing he could do here.

And then it was around one in the afternoon, when the keys jangled into the lock and the brown dog perked his ear, opened both his eyes.
To the thick brown door swinging open and a burst of light, so white, so bright. It blinded the brown dog and he could not see. He scrambled to his feet anyway and slipped on the floor. The brown dog fell, flat to his belly and was scrambling up for the second time, when he began to see shadow.
But the brown dog already knew it was Mom and Dad and he knew that he knew the smell of the other person with them. Someone who had not been over in awhile. And then the brown dog saw all three of them, as the big brown door was closing, and it was the woman with the crazy hair with Mom and Dad. This made the brown dog excited. He lost his footing, as he rushed towards her, trying to run and trying to jump all at once.
He fell. Three times. There was something almost new to smell in his house!
"Sit," yelled Dad.
"Sit," yelled Mom.
Okay, but I want to jump, thought the brown dog. And run.
"Sit," yelled Dad.
"SIT or I will not PET you," said the woman with the crazy hair.
And then she said it again.
And again.
And again.
And so the brown dog sat.
"GOOD BOY to SIT, now I will PET you," said the woman with the crazy hair.
And she did.
In fact, Good Boy remembered he really liked the woman with the crazy hair because she would always pet him.
Good Boy followed the three people a moment later, into the sitting room, with the green couches and the small television. Everyone lit a cigarette and that is when Good Boy noticed Mom.
She looked skinnier and grayer. She did not talk, curled into a tight ball, cramped into the arm of the couch.
Nobody talked.
Good Boy walked over to Mom to get her attention, sniffed at her leg, nudged her hand with his nose, but Dad pointed his finger and yelled, “Go!”
Then lady with the crazy hair snapped her fingers.
She said, “Come here, Good Boy.”

Punks-The Tuesday After Saturday

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
Minnie never slept anymore, so Minnie was high a lot.
It was 6:30 in the morning and she could hear her father awake, moving in the upstairs, from room to room. She could hear the drag of her mother's feet following him. And she could hear her mother crying, whimpering.
But everybody knew it was going to happen this time.
This time, her father had not changed his mind. This time he had not given in.
Minnie could feel the hate wrench in her stomach, could feel that same hate in her eyes and across her mouth, as she took the last toke off the joint. She did not care anything for her father.
Minnie tried to care for her mother.
She heard the sudden thump and patter of Teddy and his seven year old feet upstairs. Minnie tossed the roach into her ashtray, lit, and got up off her bed; quickly, to cross her basement bedroom floor. She climbed the stairs, into the kitchen, where her parents now were.
"...fucking mess. Everything. You. You are a fucking mess," her father's voice full of disgust.
And when Minnie entered the kitchen, she saw her mother's face, so ugly. So at the end of its world.
And Teddy appeared in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes, in his red Power Rangers pajamas. "Mommy? Mommy? Minnie?" his voice soggy; he was not awake. He could not remember that today was the day.
"Teddy, go back to your room. Go back to your room, Teddy," Minnie said, to him.
Minnie’s father turned to look at her, then over to his son sitting in the kitchen doorway.
"No, no, Teddy, stay right here" he urged. "Take a good look at what women are and draw your own conclusions."
"Shut the fuck up, Daddy," Minnie said, to his back, and he turned towards her, again.
And Minnie watch her mother slide to the floor, in front of the refrigerator. Minnie watched her mother cover her ears and her face, and hide herself in lap.
"No, no, no," the woman cried, into herself. Within herself. For herself.
Minnie’s had his shoes already on and he was looked at his daughter.
"Remember when you were only just a whore?" he said, to her.
And when he laughed, Minnie spit it his face. The spit was thick, the pasties starting to come on, inside Minnie's mouth. It landed and hung from his eye and then plopped on to his cheek, a slow ooze, sliding.
And Minnie smiled her best smile at her father.
And when he slapped her across the face, all she did was laugh back at him. Minnie had kept her footing.
"Daddy’s little girl...Daddy's little girl...Daddy's little girl," she chanted into his eyes. She chanted until he turned. She chanted until he walked out the back door of the house, picking up the two suitcases that had been sitting there, waiting, since the last night. He did not care enough to slam the door. Instead Minnie’s father left it hanging, left it to figure itself out.
And when the door finally found its place, Minnie's mother let out the sound.
Of nothing.

Eight Years Old

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Tommy was sitting outside. On the front lawn and under the maple tree. It was raining; had been raining all day. Drizzle and five-minute breaks of fat and fast and rolling rain. Tommy's legs were in shorts, knees gripped to earth. He was wearing his jacket. And the maple tree was old and thick and full.
Tommy could hear Momma from the house sometimes. The windows were open and there were no curtains hung up yet. Momma was still unpacking.
Momma was swearing.
"Fucking piece of shit," she would say, and Tommy would repeat it back, whispered into his chest.
Tommy had not spoken to Momma all day.
Nor had he spoken to Aunt Lynn the two times she had already been over.
Nor had Tommy ate breakfast that morning.
And Tommy had not went into the new house for lunch.
Because he did not care if it was pizza. Or who had paid for the stinking shit.
In fact, the only person Tommy had spoken to all day was the friendly delivery boy, bearing the pizza.
When the friendly delivery boy stepped out of his car and said, Hey, buddy. I like rain, too, Tommy had snarled at him, Fuck off.
The best part of Tommy's day was giving the finger to the little blonde-haired girl who rode back and forth, on her bicycle. All day long. In the rain.
Tommy thought she was stupid.
Tommy hated everything.