11. Emerson
ELEVEN
EMERSON
It may be a gorgeous summer day outside with the birds chirping and the sun shining, but for the sake of my career, I’m inside.
I spend the day hunched over my computer at the tiny table in my tiny apartment, working on my next article.
Connecting the dots between baroque and modern pop music could be the catalyst for my temporary colleagues at the University of New York to bestow a coveted tenure position.
Maybe renting an apartment on the sixth floor without central air was not my best decision.
I toil through the sweatiness. I have the fan going at full blast, and I’m working my way through.
I’m also compiling notes for my next class.
Oddly enough, I’m eager for it. Bryce’s tips were a little ridiculous, but maybe there’s a kernel of truth in them.
I’m comparing harmonic structures, melodies, and themes across baroque music, pulling at sources, using every inch of brain power to figure out how it influences modern pop music.
There’s a reason why so many people are moved by the music Bryce adores, and this paper will lay it all out.
If I can wow Sheena and the department, this could be my chance.
I shouldn’t be so nervous, but I am.
Of course, it doesn’t help that Bobo keeps staring at me.
“Buddy.” I turn to him. “Bryce will be home very soon, and then he can take you out.”
Bobo raises his head as if he thinks I’m saying something worthwhile. But then, once he realizes I’m not budging from my seat, he shrugs and plants his head back on the sofa.
I keep typing away notes for my next class, but I have to stand up and stretch. I’m filled with nervous energy, and I don’t know why. I walk to the front door. Bobo jumps off the couch and walks up right next to me, hopeful.
My phone lights up with a text from Bryce: Running a little late. This audition is taking forever. The director is talking to everyone who comes in. Be home soon!
“Bryce will be home soon,” I tell Bobo. I hold up the text message, and he stares at the phone confused. “Sorry, buddy. We’re not going outside. We can walk inside the apartment.”
That does not satisfy him. He’s a big dog, and even he can clearly see it’s a beautiful day outside the giant window. I don’t blame him.
As I walk back to my computer, I imagine that I’m in my classroom, and I’m, dare I say, sashaying down the rows to my podium. I’m waving to my students as if I’m Oprah making an entrance onto my talk show.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Emerson Grant, and welcome to class. Are you ready to learn?” I say. “Did you know Handel composed the entire ‘Messiah’ in only twenty-four days? That’s just over three weeks. Hallelujah indeed!”
A wave of confidence and joy overtakes me. Here comes my groove. Maybe I needed someone to simply show me the way. Explain things in a new way. Among his other positive qualities, turns out Bryce is also a fantastic teacher .
I turn to Bobo. “We won’t tell Bryce about this. He already has a big enough head.”
Bobo sighs.
“That was a joke. His head is perfectly proportioned. I just mean he’ll never let me live it down, knowing that I used his tips.” I catch myself in the moment. “You’re a dog. Why am I explaining this to you?”
I push my glasses up, sit back in my chair, and try to do some more work, but the words start fading together.
The sunshine is so strong it even blasts through the curtains, forming a glare on my screen.
Bobo gets up and starts doing a trot toward the front door.
He jogs forward and backward, forward and backward.
It reminds me of the pee-pee dances I used to do when I was small and I’ve seen little kids do.
“Bobo, do you have to pee?” He does a little hop. I don’t know if he understands me, or maybe he’s just so hopeful that he can get outside.
“Your dad will be home soon.” I point at my computer. “I’m still just working through this research paper. I really have got to focus on it, but he’ll be home soon.”
Bobo’s pee-pee dance picks up the tempo, his nails click-clacking on the floor near the front door. I look at my screen. I’m so close to almost being done with this paper. I’m so close to a breakthrough, but the trotting of his feet is inescapable.
I shut my laptop.
“Okay, buddy, time for a walk.”
Bobo literally leaps in the air. He’s so excited I think he’s going to jump on top of me and start licking my face, but instead, he races past me and grabs the leash from a crevice in the couch. He brings it up to me in his teeth.
Smart dog.
I click the leash to his harness, and as soon as I open the door, we barrel down the steps .
I’m on a roller coaster, going down, down, down the steps toward the street.
I hold on to the banister, digging in my fingers and nails, and try to go at a steady pace.
But Bobo is a dog with a full bladder and no patience.
We race on the steps, passing an older lady with one of those fold-up shopping carts.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Hi, Bobo.” She smiles at the dog. There’s nothing but glee and desperation on Bobo’s face.
I try to pull back, but he keeps leaping forward pulling me down, down, down the stairs.
“Bobo, we can’t break through the door. Gotta stop.”
Don’t be so sure, his confident galloping tells me.
Just when I think we’re going to crash through the wall of glass that makes up the Bigby’s front entrance, the postman opens the door to deliver the mail.
Bobo soars past him, yanking me along. We leap over the threshold and over the stoop, smashing through the air.
My feet leave the ground, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, I believe dog and man were born to fly.
We land on the sidewalk. I bend over to catch my breath, opting not to dwell on how close to death I came while barreling down the steep staircase.
It really is a beautiful afternoon, one of those days where the sky is a perfect shade of blue.
There’s not a cloud in the sky and almost no humidity.
It’s like one of those dreamy days that you get at the start of spring, and you think it’s gonna be like that for the next six months, and then you realize, oh, wait, summer’s usually hellacious.
Bobo darts to the first tree he can find and lifts his leg. I don’t even know if this is legal, if dogs are allowed to go here, but there’s no way I’m stopping him. His tongue hangs out in pure bliss, and his eyes roll back with relief as he empties his bladder.
And damn, that is a lot of urine. We could solve California’s prolonged drought with what’s hitting the tree .
Bobo soaks the mound of dirt and starts going on the sidewalk. I avoid eye contact with passersby. This is New York, though. People are used to public urination, right?
“Okay, you’ve relieved yourself. You must feel much better,” I tell Bobo. “Let’s get back inside.”
Bobo ignores me, pulling me down the street.
“Fine. We can go a few blocks so you can stretch your legs,” I say, yearning to feel somewhat in charge of this situation. “My legs could use some movement, too.”
Bobo walks fast then abruptly stops to sniff every other tree and trashcan. He makes a sharp right, and suddenly he is a man on a mission. He walks with determined steps, taking us somewhere only he knows about. He pulls against his leash, and I struggle to keep up.
Tons of people are out. We weave through them. There are shop owners out with displays. It’s a bustling city day. I wish my hometown had more outdoor walkability besides shopping malls.
Bobo stops at a small restaurant, and I glance up at the bright red and white canopy— That’s a Spicy Meatball . The aroma of savory meat is incredible. My stomach immediately rumbles.
“Bobo, we’re not eating.”
He ignores me completely. Is he more a cute kid or bratty teenager?
A man with a very big mustache and even bigger cheeks bounds from the store. If Chef Boyardee were a real person, I imagine he’d share a striking resemblance to this guy.
“Bobo!” he exclaims. He squats down and rubs Bobo’s face. Bobo immediately melts into his touch, his tail wagging wildly.
“Who are you? You are not Mr. Bryce,” the man says in a thick Italian accent.
“I’m Emerson. I’m his … I’m Bryce’s … I’m walking Bobo for him. ”
“Ah, I see. Well, we have a wonderful meatball for Bobo today.”
The man goes back into the store and comes back out a minute later with two small meatballs on a little paper plate.
He puts them down on the ground. They smell like absolute heaven.
Bobo immediately gobbles them up. The sounds of his loud chewing resonate along the sidewalk.
My stomach growls. I have never been so jealous of a dog.
“Bobo loves my meatballs,” the man says.
“I can see that.”
“Would you like to try one? Best meatballs in Manhattan.”
“Sure.” I resist the urge to stick my tongue out and bob my head up and down like Bobo.
The man brings one to me on a toothpick. I eat it, and it is more delicious than I dreamed. I don’t think I’ve ever had a meatball this delicious. I can feel the craft and the quality of ingredients, the tanginess of the tomato sauce.
“We love Bobo here. And Mr. Bryce,” the man says.
“He helped us out so much. Business was rough a while back. We thought we were going to close. Bryce got the Metropolitan Opera to hire us to cater an event. Imagine, little me at the opera! Someone there loved our meatballs so much, they wrote about us in the New York Sentinel . Imagine, little me in the newspaper! Business has been wonderful ever since. Without Mr. Bryce, we wouldn’t be here. ”
“Wow,” I say, stunned into silence. “That’s incredible.”
“He’s a very good man.”
“Yeah. He’s … he’s really the best.” I think about how he took the time to help me with improving my lectures, something he didn’t have to do.
“I tell him free meatballs for life, but he insists on paying. Bobo never has to pay, though.” The man rubs Bobo’s head again. Bobo’s tongue falls out of his mouth in ecstasy .
“Ciao, Bobo!” The man waves us goodbye.
Bobo, sensing that his time of controlling the leash is over, turns and starts walking back to the apartment. With his full belly, he moves slower, letting me lead.
“We had a nice walk. We should get back. I have to finish my paper. Bryce will be home soon.” I inhale the balmy breeze. Birds chirp in the tree above us. I can still taste the delectable meatball on my lips.
We come to an intersection. Bobo tries to step into the crosswalk, but I stop him.
“Actually, buddy, I saw a park a few blocks from here.” Bobo raises his eyebrows. “Might as well enjoy this gorgeous day.”
Bobo glances up at me, and I swear there’s a smile on his mouth as the sun hits his face. With a nod, we walk toward the park, the promise of a peaceful afternoon ahead.