For Drake

I’m ready to run to the grocery store when I realize I don’t have my keys.  I should have known that I didn’t have them, because I didn’t even lock the door to my little red and white bungalow, because a late night of Jim Beam and Coke has caused me to oversleep and plagued me with temporary amnesia.  My heads pounds.  I grab the spare keys hanging from the hook next to the fridge.  I slam the back door, head to my car; the air dries my mouth, reminds me that I need  water, or maybe it’s just my nerves reacting to the presence of Bruno, the half-lab, half-pit bull my ex-wife and I got three years ago.  Ugly little wretch.  His gaze lazers me down the drive to my car—the Chevy Lumina I call “The Chick Magnet.”  I scowl, which in his mind is a command to charge—although for this behemoth it’s like a chained gorilla hobbling sideways although instead of ooo-ooooh, ah-ah reverberating, it’s a Cujo Ggggggghhhhhhhrrr….

I fire up the Magnet.  He gets to the drive as I roll past him.  He stares from a safe distance as I check traffic, put it in drive.  “Too bad, fatty!  Maybe next time.”

On the way to the store, my head pounds from Jim Beam.  I manage a home insurance company, but that’s not why I drink.  It’s because of the divorce, which sucks, but at least she took Bruno.  The rest was split 50/50, which is a good deal I hear.  She didn’t even move too far away—two blocks.  It was easy for her to find a new house as a real-estate agent.  In fact, it worked out just fine (she even told me the spare key is along the side fence in the Marigold pot), except for the fact that she shows up unannounced with Bruno foaming on the cushioned seats.  Like yesterday when I was getting ready for a 7:30 date.  Told me that she had a bunch of bags of fertilizer for me.  I told her I wasn’t taking any of her crap.  She popped the hatch.

“It’s in the back.”

I crammed into the hatch, pried out bags of poop, slung them to the street.  Bruno barked and barreled over the seats.  I pulled the last bag out and he pounced on the plastic.  “Get back,” I snapped.   

Wiggles and wags.  I sighed and flung the last bag on the ground, slammed the door.  “Later, Bruno.” 

The date was a bust.  Home by eight.  I got their late because I couldn’t find my keys and lost track of time before I decided to take the back-up set; she didn’t buy it.  I broke into a bottle of Jim Beam and I was in bed by ten. 

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This morning, I stumble to the front door and peer out to the porch.  Probably one of the neighbors stepped in the crap on the street.  It’s Bruno, tail wagging.

I squint, walk out to the yard, arms flailing, “Get out of here.”  He darts, dashes over emerald lawns.

When I get back inside I get dressed, spread the fertilizer on my yard.  After a shower, I’m off to the grocery store.  That’s when I realize where my keys are.  The trunk of her car.  They had to have fallen out while I was flinging fertilizer.   She’s working today—weekend open houses.  I burn off the Jim Beam by walking two blocks.  When I get there, she’s gone.  Bruno is bellowing in the back yard.  The street is empty.  I walk to the side fence.  Flowers and shrubs block the gaping four-foot hole in the side of the boards from Bruno’s abuse.  I shake my head, reach into the marigold pot. 

I search the kitchen, living room, dining room.  No keys.  I wander down the hall, peer into the bathroom, its other door open to an adjoining bedroom.  Nothing.  I look down the hallway to her bedroom.  I try to convince myself to be good, but I can’t.  I take another step.  That’s when I hear the glass shattering.  The back window has been hit with a sledge hammer.  My heart catches in my throat.  I steady my hands and listen.  Snarls, growls.  He’s still in the kitchen.  I run into the hall, slip into the bedroom.  He runs past and realizes I’m not in her room.  I’m in the adjoining bathroom when he manages to bash the spare bedroom door open.  I take advantage of it and get to the kitchen, heading for the back door by the time he realizes it.  I turn the latch.  Outside.  I sprint across the lawn towards the fence.  He’s outside now, guttural growl louder, closer.  I scrape my leg as I climb.  I have my left foot over and I feel the fence wobble.  Bruno tries to ram it down.  I hop off.  He snarls and I head to the front of the house and catch my breath.  The scrape bleeds.

The barks are back.  I look up.  Bruno has bolted around the side of the house.  My mind flashes to the marigolds, the hole in the fence.  I stagger backwards. Bruno bounds across the yard. 

I run, the kind of running where whimpers waft in the air, chest heaves, lungs lock up.  He’s still forty feet away.  I run.  Twenty feet now.  I turn again and trip into the emerald pile of fescue two houses down.  I turtle, curl into a ball, cover my head cringing, panting, waiting…but nothing.  I hear his hot breath by my side, he whines, soft squeaks with muzzle closed.  He stammers, paces.  I open my eyes.  Bruno stares at me, brindle pit-bull body, strong, tall.  His tail wags.  He wants to pant, but can’t.  I look at his barred, clamped teeth.  He pants again and drops the set of keys at my feet.   

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Scott Beard has both a B.A. in Creative Writing and an M.A. in Curriculum and Instruction from Wichita State University. He currently has three books published in his children’s series The Adventures of Rufus the Wal-Pup, and has recently published a collection of short fiction entitled An Honest Appraisal, both of which are available on CreateSpace and Amazon. His writing has also appeared in The Report and LEVITATE magazine. He enjoys fishing, hiking, camping, reading, writing, traveling, and painting.

Photo: Christopher Ayme