5. Brendan
Brendan
Puck stole my left shoe on Thursday evening, which I considered a reasonable metaphor for how the week was going. I found it twenty minutes later. How he got it into the space behind the washer will forever be a mystery.
Shoe retrieved, I sat on the kitchen floor, scratched his mischievous, knobby head, and decided that I was going back to Barbacks on Saturday.
It was a good bar. Peter had recommended it. The whiskey was good.
These were the reasons.
Puck realized I was lacing up the recovered shoe and began fidgeting.
“We need to talk about boundaries.”
He dook’d and skittered away.
I looked toward Gerald from the floor. He was three rooms away and therefore not visible, but I looked in his direction anyway.
“Don’t,” I said.
Gerald said nothing, because Gerald was a succulent and had already made his position clear by existing quietly on the windowsill without stealing anything from anyone, which was a pointed contrast to my furry housemate.
On Friday, Puck stole the right shoe.
I found it in the bathroom.
I didn’t ask questions.
Saturday arrived without asking whether I was ready.
That was rude.
By 7 p.m., I was seated in the same booth I’d sat in the first time I visited Barbacks. I wore the same dark henley, which was clean and the correct choice and had nothing to do with anything else, certainly not the compliment a certain dancer may have given it the first time I was there.
Jacks set a whiskey in front of me without being asked.
“You came back,” he said.
“It’s a good bar,” I said.
“Yep.” He nodded once and moved off.
I sat with my tumbler of amber goodness and watched the room filling around me.
I was on my second whiskey when the music shifted and Adrian stepped onto the bar.
I looked at my glass.
Then at the bar.
Then at my glass again.
All right, I thought. There it is. There he is.
Adrian moved like someone who had chosen dance as his love language years earlier and had never once looked back.
Most go-go performers I’d seen writhed and wiggled with little rhyme or reason.
Adrian flowed with the music, his body married to the beat and harmonies.
His movements were hypnotic, like watching water gliding across pebbles and then down in a torrent until the waterfall filled the pool below.
Beautiful didn’t come close to describing it.
Maybe, just maybe, the second whiskey was thinking for me.
I would never admit that, though.
As Adrian’s dance continued, the room reorganized itself around his performance the way rooms did when someone was doing the exact thing they were built for.
I watched—my attention complete—because that was just how I watched things that interested me.
Whether or not I was ready to admit it, Adrian interested me very much.
Four minutes into the set, Jacks appeared at my elbow.
“Message for you, Brendan.”
I startled at his voice, sure, but more from him remembering my name. “Sorry? What?”
Jacks looked like a man who had been handed a task he hadn’t applied for. “I have a message from Adrian. He says, and I’m quoting, ‘Tell the vet my dog is going to be fine and that he likes his name.’”
I couldn’t hold back a snort.
Jacks cocked his head, which reminded me of Mofongo minus the elephant ears, which made me snort again.
I glanced toward the bar, where Adrian was very much not looking at me, which meant he very much was.
“Tell him I appreciate the update,” I said. “Purely from a medical standpoint, of course.”
Jacks’s brow knitted for a beat, then he wound his way through the crowd, back across the bar, and delivered the message during a turn in Adrian’s set. The sexy dancer leaned down and bared far more of his ass to the crowd than he likely intended. They roared at the display.
Before the music resumed, Jacks returned to my booth.
“He says, ‘Tell the vet that Mofongo learned to sit on command this week and is thriving.’”
“Tell him that’s excellent progress for eight weeks, especially since he’s only had the dog a few days. Oh, and tell him I call BS.”
Jacks grinned. “BS. Got it. I can definitely call BS on Adrian.”
He went.
A moment later, he came back.
“He says, ‘Tell the vet that Mofongo has also learned to open the kitchen cabinet and steal bread, which is either very smart or very Puerto Rican. He hasn’t decided.’”
I thought about Puck behind the washing machine with my shoe and chuckled.
“Tell him, ‘Puck’s been stealing things since I brought him home, and we’ve never resolved it. Welcome to the club.’”
Jacks went.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared.
What surprised me most about this ridiculous teenage note-passing exercise was how unbothered Jacks seemed each time he returned. He had the energy of an Australian Shepherd who’d been given a job and was simply happy to do it.
“He says, ‘Tell the vet that Puck, Gerald, and Mofongo should meet. They have things to discuss, probably a heist to plan.’”
“Tell him that Puck doesn’t discuss things. Puck schemes and steals and hides the evidence. Gerald contemplates. They are not remotely the same, and I won’t have them compared.”
“You want me to say all that?” Jacks blinked massive, owlish eyes at me. “Gerald’s a plant, right?”
“Succulent, to be precise.”
“You want me to explain the difference between a ferret and a succulent to Adrian? While he’s performing?”
“Word for word,” I said pleasantly, raising my tumbler in salute.
I watched as my message was delivered. From the bar, Adrian’s face did something I filed under genuine delight before I could stop myself.
Jacks came back looking like a man calculating how far back his wrong turn had been.
“He says, ‘Tell the vet that Puck and Mofongo are basically the same animal, and the vet knows it.’”
The grin wouldn’t leave my lips. “Tell him that Puck has never stolen bread. He steals socks and shoes and once my car keys, which is a completely different value system. Mofongo is eight weeks old and innocent. Puck is a career criminal. The comparison is offensive to both of them.”
“He’s going to want me to come back again after that,” Jacks said, resignation threading his usually buoyant tone.
“Probably.”
Jacks sighed at the ceiling, then turned and wove his way through the crowd.
Adrian laughed at something during that delivery. His head tilted back as he did so. The room caught it and warmed without knowing why.
Then Jacks returned with a third whiskey and a basket of something battered and fried.
“He says, ‘Tell the vet that stealing shoes is definitely worse than stealing bread because at least bread is consumable and its theft has a logical endpoint. Reference Jean Valjean, a bread thief who became a hero. A wanton shoe thief operates without purpose or mercy. These are also reflections on their respective owners.’”
I considered this, then I allowed a moment of awe at Jacks’s memory. I was fairly certain he was reciting our messages, word for word, without notes or a second hearing. It was truly impressive, especially for a golden retriever. They weren’t always the smartest breed.
Adrian also had a fair point about the shoes. The part about the owners was a stretch, but I wasn’t going to say that through Jacks.
“Tell him I’ll raise the logical endpoint argument with Puck at our next house meeting. And tell him his hypothesis about the owners is circumstantial at best, and I’d like to see the supporting data.”
Jacks opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Then vanished into the crowd.