Three Stories

DOCUMENTS

I got a job delivering documents. The documents usually needed to arrive fast, within an hour or two of picking them up. One day I had to deliver documents all the way across town. There was another deadline I was juggling too, though I can’t remember what it was. But I was stressed. I sped through a wealthy neighborhood. Springtime, flowers, birds. I was listening to the radio because I have to when I’m driving. Otherwise I feel so lonely. I tried to overtake a slow car by passing it in the oncoming lane. Another car appeared around the bend. I sped up instead of slowing down. The butterflies were out, the children. The oncoming car honked, slammed on its brakes.

I checked my phone at the red light. I read an email about the other deadline. What on earth was it? I remember my stomach dropping. Meanwhile I had about nine minutes left to deliver the documents. The person in the car I had overtaken was shouting and yelling behind me. He might have gotten out of his car. He was calling me crazy. I pretended not to notice. The unknown deadline, it was so much more important.

PLANTS

Two hanging plants on your girlfriend’s mailbox, the railing of her covered porch. Twine ribbons. Cute. I didn’t do deliveries anymore. I just worked the shop. I tried the ribbons. One week my mother came to visit, and she brought her new boyfriend along. Dan.

Dan’s a guy who likes to talk. He leaned over the shop counter. I mirrored him. His forearm was meaty like a slab of marble. We talked about it all. Wines, youth, the campaign trail, the afterlife, the stock market, my mother’s quirks, her toy Doberman. My mom was looking at the houseplants. 

A customer came in, a young woman. Then I talked about other things. The colors of the pots with their boho names: soil, clay, sunshine, river, mica, fern. Buy a dracaena, get a spider plant. Design philosophies from feng shui to new minimalism. White walls, wood floors, brown brick. And green plants. Whatever she wanted. A care pamphlet, bamboo paper, no plastics, no refunds. Goodbye.

It was me and mom and Dan again. They were standing side by side. They had the same expression on their faces. What was it? Pride? One of them was going to say something. Are those colors real? Did you make up those deals? How much do those pots cost to make, really? What do you think would look good in the laundry room? Do you think there’s enough light in there? How about a discount?

DOGS

Packages on doorsteps, curtains drawn or open, beer bottles placed in lawns, wood fences with gaps so wide dogs can stick their whole heads through. A Goldendoodle does. He barks at the dog I’m walking. Very fast, woof woof. We move along. It takes two hands and all my strength to drag him to the next house. He is a Weimaraner. 

Our walks are always a romp. The dog has separation anxiety. He starts our walks excited to try to sniff out his owner, then, a few minutes out, he figures she’s probably at home and tries to bolt back toward the house. His owner is at work. I usually take him as far as I can in one direction before he tries to run home, like a wind-up toy. 

We pass a dead robin in the grass. We pass a few more dogs. A few more houses.

We pass a house painter. He’s shaking his butt to some electronic track and the ladder is even swaying a little a little. He’s singing along with the sample. A gospel singer.

“Hey, nice track,” I call up to him. 

He keeps on swinging and swaying.

“You better watch out or you’ll fall!” I say.

Nothing. So far away. The money is great. The owner thinks I have a special talent, that I have a special bond with the dog. The dog is muscular, slender, panting. His orange eyes look like an owl’s. I know by stopping like this I’ve given him too much time to think.

Yoink. Time to go.