The Dog and The Days and The Afternoons

Dog Day 1, Wednesday—coming back from vacation is never an easy thing to do. Those lazy days can get you caught in a stupor of relaxation and before you know it, you’ve told the world to chill out. Bills will take care of themselves. Rent—what do you mean “rent”? It’s nice to come back and still have a day off to prepare for jumping back into the tank. Wednesday was my day to take it easy. I watched some television, read a lot, and went out on my bike for lunch and a trip to the park. I decided to go to up to the small park next to Interstate 5 exit and wedged in the top corner of San Diego’s Little Italy. I was listening to my reading of Philip Roth’s American Pastoral as recorded by the amazing actor Ron Silver when a woman caught my attention through the barred fence

Woman: Excuse me…? Excuse me!?
Me: Yes?
Woman: Did you lose a dog?
Me: No.
Woman: Have you seen a dog—specifically, an orange chow?
Me: Not in the last five minutes.
Woman: I think this woman lost it and now it’s out by the highway…
Me: The highway!
Woman: Yeah…she was running the opposite direction. I shouted, but…
Me: Jesus…I’m sorry…
Woman: Yeah…if you see her…tell her the dog is by the highway.

I snapped into Batman mode. No, I wasn’t going to let a dog be run over if I could help it. I sped over on my bike and saw the dog through the chain link, timid and testing the waters of black asphalt containing highly dangerous motorized fish. I whistled to it and it ran. Locking up my bike, I went past the “No Pedestrians Beyond This Point” warning, along the exit’s shoulder, and into some thorny scrub brush. The dog was nowhere. I ventured further passed what looked like a homeless person’s dwelling of rags and dirty blankets until I saw the orange puff with a long, neon-green leash hanging from its neck. I was able to get it to retreat back towards the exit, but not before darting in front of a car and quickly back stepping. Jesus, this dog was going to get itself killed. I barely could reach it, seeing the leash in sight, when it took off for the city. Hoped on my bike and picked my direction. From Date Street, I rode down to Beecher turned right, and spotted the dog immediately. I knew I could either try walking up to it or staying on my bike, both options being limited. If I got off the bike, I risked it getting away from me; if I stayed on, I’d be an intimidating figure chasing it. I chose the latter and the chase began—down Ketter, over to Front, heading South, the dog always in quick pursuit, but me hot on it’s heels. After shouting at various pedestrians “hey, could you step on that dog’s leash before—never mind…” and all of them looking dumbfounded even if I got their attention half a block up. Damn, this dog could run. Passed Broadway, down to G and back over to First Ave, it went all the way down to the light rail track, once again giving me a heart attack, but turning on the jogger path instead. I’ll follow him ‘til I’ve run him ragged I thought. Each time I got within inches, centimeters even, I couldn’t quite get him. Then we came to J Street and the chow, who’s plotting of course I was beginning to anticipate, took the wrong side of the street and trapped itself on the pavilion of a restaurant, surrounded by another barred fence. Two of the guys working there were caught by surprise yet didn’t hesitate to help me one bit. I got him. I can get him back to his owner. I did something good today. Not quite. Right before I got right up to the dog he turned, squeezing himself through the bars as if his torso was made of putty, and took off running up Sixth Avenue. “Damnit,” I yelled in my sweaty and worn down Jack Bauer voice. “I’ll watch your bike while you chase him,” said one of the dudes. “No, I can’t keep up with him on foot.” I picked up my bike and headed off in the direction I’d say him going, towards Petco Park. My pursuit was about to come to an end, however, as I’d lost the dog once again. Instincts didn’t hold up this time and while I spoke with a security guard who’d seen the dog run through the park and up towards the direction of my apartment, that was the last I’d see of the dog again.

I went home to rest, to regroup, to get some water, and take it all in. I’d been chasing the dog for two hours—TWO HOURS! How did that happen? Darting into oncoming traffic, burning my legs to the point where they could have been renewable energy, and wanting so badly to be a Boy Scout for the day…god, I completely lost track of the time. At 4:30, I went back out only to find the sun calling it quits. I ran into a lady walking a dog that had been burned in a fire and a Wisconsin girl for Green Peace, both interesting, both fun, and both unable to help me in my search. By 6:00 I shook my head as I pedaled home in defeat. I have no idea, but saving that dog meant everything to me. Crushed, I drowned my sorrows in beer and sushi. Sigh…

Dog Day 2, Thursday—my job, at times, can be frustrating, but I’ll never ever say that it’s boring or doesn’t leave the day unfilled with surprises. I had to go over to our apartments to oversee the exchanging of furniture. Long story short, the theater rents most of their furniture, they want to buy the furniture—new furniture, and replace the old stuff. Bit by bit, piece by piece. Yesterday was trading out dressers for a smaller set of drawers. The higher-ups insisted we be there to supervise in order to ensure our talents’ items are not messed with. All fine and dandy, now the curveball: the movers say they have nightstands and headboards the match the new drawers, should they put them in? One call to general management and we are green lit. All I have to do is remove the contents of the nightstand and holyshitwhatthefuckisallthispotdoinghere? Alongwiththosedimebagsofliquid? Andwhatthehellisthatbottlefullof—“LoveSpray”? Oh god, now the movers are looking at me. One of them asked if this was my apartment—no! No, it’s not. Normally, I have no problem with drugs. You wanna do them, be my guest. Want me to be your guest? Thank you, but god, not while I’m at work. And two strangers are watching me struggle to hide eight big ounces of sticky green under the sink. I call my boss. She calls her boss. We’re waiting. The movers have stopped and we are just waiting to proceed.

Finally, I get the call:
GM: We didn’t order nightstands so we have no business with them.
Me: Okay.
GM: We needed a heads-up on stuff like this and we didn’t get it.
Me: Right.
GM: We clear?
Me: Yes. Except…what about the contents of the nightstand?
GM: Put it back.
Me: Okay.
GM: I realize this puts you in a compromising position, but put it back before he gets home.
Me: I’ll try.
GM: Good. And we won’t bring it up again.

I told the movers about replacing the nightstand. They barely flinched as they started to undo the majority of the work they had just completed. Problem was that they took the original nightstands down to their truck so now they needed to bring them back up. Fine, let’s just do it so—“Hi! We got out of rehearsal early!” Oh shit. This guy is out early. He has a car. He’ll be here any minute! Nope, wait…he’s here right now. The man, let’s call him Res, walks in and I can barely make eye contact with him. Everyone back at the office said this was to be kept on the down low, very hush-hush. Is it a big deal? I don’t know! But now he knows as we walks into the bedroom! “I didn’t know they’d be changing…everything…” Res said. I reassured him that all of his items were under the sink, safe and sound. He smiled and gave a little embarrassed laugh. “Thanks…” he rolled his eyes, both of us afraid to acknowledge the other. Wait…so maybe it’s not a big deal…or is it…? I don’t know. But after dealing with this for two hours I’m surprised I didn’t smoke up the whole bag just to calm my nerves down.

Dog Day 3, Friday (today)—after all the excitement of Dog Day 2 I drove up to Los Angeles to meet my father for dinner and stay the night with him while he was on a business trip. When I moved to San Diego I drove through L.A. on the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend, the day where no one was coming or going and ran into no traffic whatsoever. Now, I was going into one of my seven rings of hell (the other being long afternoons of department shopping). I met up with my dad after his game and we proceeded to have a lovely dinner at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey. As always, I love seeing my dad, but encounters with him are accompanied by a fifty/fifty split of conversation: lots of laughing followed by very sobering and sometimes saddening discussions. Last night we talked about jobs, opportunities, stupid people, television and movies, and finally about what it’s like getting old. It’s disturbing as he told me that a family friend had been diagnosed with ALS and not given much of a chance. He wrote an article in Newsweek, the same one with our amazing President-elect on the cover, documenting his mental battle with the disease by going to a fantasy baseball camp. (read the article here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/166832)

It was hard as my father reminded me that the whole reason he knew Michael was because of me and because of the Jewish families in Utah. When my parents first moved to Salt Lake, my godparents, Ed and Gene Eisen, got four families together from the synagogue and they quickly became close friends: my family, the Waxes, the Goldsmiths, and the Lassers. The friendship, however beautiful and warming, however deep and unique, was short-lived. The Waxes moved to San Diego. The Goldsmiths divorced. Then the Lassers divorced. Michael started having brain aneurysms. Jeff Lasser killed himself. And just this year Mr. Wax fractured his skull and my father had a stint placed in his heart. Of all of the men from the four families, of four friends united by their families into one another, my father was actually doing the best. Now, Michael Goldsmith…diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease…just isn’t right. We went to bed that night recalling our past trips, the four corners road-adventure of 1999 and other camping adventures. It made me so sad to recall them and at the same time so happy to have lived them and still have my father around to recall them with me.

But it’s hard to know that I’ll never get to have the same relationship with my dad as I did when I was a kid—carefree. Now we both have worries and we both commiserate. It’s still father and son talking, but now it’s man-to-man, not adult-to-child. And it will simply continue onward: like an affliction with no ailment; like a situation without solution, like a dog that cannot be caught.