Jay Allen Sanford 9:45 p.m., May 19
Wednesday 5:58 p.m.
“Yes, I can do 11:15. How much will it cost?” I blurt into my iphone with a shaky voice.
“ One hundred and twenty five dollars” the receptionist replies.
I agree and throw the phone on my futon. I head to the kitchen and pour beam on ice. I grab a piece of wheat bread and throw it to the dog. In excitement, his back legs slip on the ceramic tiles, and he falls to the floor. Not skipping a beat, he greedily devours his treat. I plop down on my lazy boy and watch Mad Men on Netflix. I go drink for drink with the ad men. The dog lays on my feet. I scratch his dry nose, but it does not disturb his slumber. I pause the dvd and head to the Turf club. It is packed for a Wednesday. I order MM on the rocks, and I am forced to sit at a table staring at the bar. I convince myself all the women in the bar are lesbians. I cheer to the last thirteen years and smile. Mary walks into the scenery. Two weeks ago, I went to the Turf for last call wasted after a party. She drove me to her place, which was two blocks away. After she introduced me to her neighbors, I woke up in my bed with no details in my head. I stare at her large ass in tight hot pants and laugh at myself. A stool opens up at the bar. Mary beats me to it. She is cold in the interaction, and it confirms my suspicions. Boredom hits me, and I can not face what is in my apartment, so I head to Hamilton’s.
I listen to Hawkwind’s Quark, Strangeness and Charm
during my venture. I saddle up to the bar and order pliny the elder. The bar is mostly guys, so my brain amuses me while careful to avoid thoughts of the appointment. Last call. I am herded outside and bum cigarettes. Going with the flow, I wander into south park with two random guys. We stop at a corner.
“What do you want to do?” Mr. Red Shirt inserts
“I don’t know, but I think this guy is a faggot” Mr. Black Shirt replies pointing at me. I smirk and put in my earplugs. I stare at Black Shirt smiling, then saunter home blasting Decemberist’s Crane’s Wife. I wake at 10:13 am. The dog’s eyes twinkle when I grab the leash, but after a crap and whiz, the dog stops walking. I lift the thirty pounder on my shoulder and trek back home. I throw the dog on the futon and playfully slap his belly and muzzle. He giggles. I hit my bed until 1:00pm and logically decide the day is f*cked, and I pour myself a beam and ginger. I finish watching Mad men, then watch True Blood and Breaking Bad in my lazy boy. The dog sleeps at my feet. Flies swirl around his Mighty Dog breakfast. I finish the bottle of beam. It is 9 p.m. and I decide to hit the hay.
I wake up at 2 a.m. to the dog throwing his front legs on my bed. I carefully grab his two front paws and slide him to my torso gently placing his muzzle on the pillow next to mine. We promptly fall asleep until 8 a.m. We yawn and stretch lazily. I start pinching his left ear which leads to a playful bite. We get out of bed and do a very short walk around the block. The dog is puckered out before we make it back to the apartment. I carry him the rest of the way home. After a jog and a shower, I start sending out work emails. From 10 a.m. to 11 a.m., I look at the clock every two minutes, but avoid looking at the dog. At 11 a.m., I grab the dog and jump in the car. I enter the receptionist area and announce I have a 11:15 appointment with a lump in my throat.
“Would you like to keep his ashes?” the nurse asks
My heart breaks.