How To Disappear Completely Read online

  How To Disappear Completely

  David Bowick

  Published: 2009

  Tag(s): "David Bowick" fiction comedy contemporary "how to disapear completely"

  Chapter 1

  It’s amazing how fast you can run when there’s a fucking rottweiler chasing you. Few domesticated animals can instill such fear in someone as a rottweiler can. Why anyone would ever want to house such a monster is a mystery to me. They’re not lovable, they’re not cute and they’re not beautiful. They slobber on everything, shit everywhere, and could easily eat the face off a child. Lovely. Sign me up for one. Make that two, actually.

  But there I was, running like a mongoose chased by a lion on the dry plains of Namibia. I should probably also mention that the devil dog had only had three good legs, one eye, and a terrible bladder problem. He was spraying everywhere as he ran. His fourth gimp leg wasn’t functional–it didn’t have a knee joint and was a peg leg dragged along by the three good ones. I always imagined that the other legs had to be resentful of the one bad one. It just coasted along on the energy of the others, not contributing anything, like a child living at home with his parents after college. Yet somehow, by the will of some loving god, he could run. Fast. All I could think about as I ran was how I could first kill the damn thing and make it look like an accident. Run through traffic and hope he gets hit? Feasible, but also likely that I’d be struck by a car, which has never been on my to-do list. I’ve never even broken a toe. Call me adventurous.

  So I did what any respectable, scared 20-something male would do–I turned around, squared my position, looked around to see if there was anyone watching and I kicked the thing smack in the face. It was a spectacular performance. Any soccer player would have agreed that I was blessed in that moment with perfect technique–a divine gift delivered to the steel toe King David of my boot. My foot landed just under the jowls of the beast and raised him head first until he made a flip and landed right on his back. I wish that someone had caught it on video. I’d be an overnight star on YouTube. Who wouldn’t want to watch an averagely attractive guy kick a three legged, one eyed dog in the face as it urinates all over itself? The correct answer is no one.

  For a moment I started to feel sorry for him. He whimpered in a high-pitched whine and panted so heavily that I thought I pushed his ribs halfway into his throat. But then I saw it–still in his mouth, the reason for this whole ridiculousness, now covered in blood. In a moment of self-confidence after my victory, I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath and reached a hand in there. Wrapped around one of those nasty teeth was a ring. Not just any ring–the ring.

  Eight days, thirteen hours and ten minutes ago I asked my girl to marry me. The ring that I had carefully picked out for her was now wrapped like a lace bow around a beast’s tooth. Anyone would wonder why there was such expensive wrapping on a dirty, slobbery present.

  I rotated the ring back and forth trying to jog it loose, hoping that the bastard wouldn’t suddenly get a boost of energy and bite my hand off.

  I put the slime-and blood-covered six-thousand-dollar ring into my pocket and wondered what to do next. People had started to gather around and I had to have a story to get out of this in the clear. Time to turn on the old charm, I thought. Come on high school drama class, don’t fail me now. “Help! Please,” I shouted, “this dog was hit by a car. Please, anyone.”

  “Oh, dear,” a rotund older lady said, “can you carry him? My husband’s clinic is right down this way a few blocks.”

  It was time to kick it up a notch.

  “Thank you so much ma’am. He’s been following me for the last few minutes. I think he likes me, but the poor thing just couldn’t keep up.” Man, I am such a great liar! “Then he crossed the street with me at just the wrong time, and bam. His three good legs couldn’t get him across the street fast enough.”

  When I smiled just then, I’m pretty sure one of my pearly whites had a sheen glow briefly, like in those old Pepsi commercials. Enjoy a Pepsi. Ding!

  “Oh, the poor thing. Come on.”

  I picked up Satan though it took all my remaining energy. I was surprised by my own strength. It’s amazing what your body can do after you have triumphed over the Devil himself. His body was limp in my arms and it was difficult to get a good grip on him. After a couple of awkward poses together, we finally settled into a pace that worked for both of us and we stopped stepping on each others toes.

  The woman and I commiserated on our short walk to her husband’s office. I learned that her name was Darla (are you kidding me?) and her husband was Herbert. Herbert and Darla Tanis. What year is this and where am I again? They’d been married for 20 years and have many pets. No rottweilers, though, of course. If you pictured a 45-year-old nice fat woman, she fits that image to a ‘t’. Big eyes, short, stubby arms just long enough to wrap a huge hug around a large child or small man. Dark brown hair and a dated half dress/half muumuu graced her with surprising dignity, much like I’ve pictured Mother Goose to look. The only other stereotype that I’ve seen fit someone so perfectly was my Italian roommate in college. Every time he was offered food, he yelled, “L’appetito vien mangiando,” as any good Italian does apparently.

  We rounded the corner and the Tanis Animal Clinic was a few doors down from there. It was a handsome establishment in the middle of a somewhat dumpy street. I wondered how I had never noticed the clinic before. When we walked in the doors I was transported back to the 50s. I might as well have walked into a soda bar, with girls in beehive, and boys with pompadours. A young couple sipping from a milkshake from a glass with two straws, gazing at each other, wondering when and how they might get to lover’s lane for some hanky panky without their parents finding out.

  A thick, stately man paraded out from the back who I could only assume was the big man himself. He was balding and pretty short–just big enough for Darla to wrap her arms around, I thought chuckling silently and shaking my head. Herbert was one of the few men that looked right bald. Some bald men you see and think, eeeehhhhh, that’s unfortunate, and try your best not to stare. With Herbert, though, it worked. I bet that if he made the exclusive guest list to heaven, he’d still be bald (because, well, it’s Herbert Tanis–bald man extraordinaire) and God would parade him around as a trophy of the aging male.

  “Goodness!” he exclaimed, as a man of his time would be expected to say in that situation.

  “Oh Herby.” Ha. Herby. “I was bringing you your lunch and I came across these two. Is there anything you can do?”

  “He looks pretty bad, but let’s see what we can do. Bring him in here.”

  We followed the trophy through a short hallway lined with photos of happy clients and their mended pets. I took note of how many rottweilers I saw. Precisely zero. The room looked like a typical doctor’s office except that it was actually pretty comfortable. It didn’t feel like death or sickness, but rather like a blanket of fur that you might snuggle into for a while before realizing that it is, in fact, the carcass of a dead animal and you want it off you immediately.

  I laid Hades onto the metal table and he was still bleeding, panting and whimpering. For the first time, I started to feel sorry for the dog as he looked at me in pain. I put my hand into my pocket to finger the ring, making sure it was still there. Herbert took a few diagnostics and asked me questions about what happened, who’s dog it was and other background information that I utterly lied about with an air of honesty. I felt like a politician telling his people what they want to hear. Lying is ok when it’s good for the system, right?

  I told him in detail about how I didn’t know who’s dog it was and how sad it was the condition he was in, what with its three good legs, one eye and bladder inf
ection. Luckily he had peed all the liquid out of his body when I rapped him and there was none left to squirt around the sterile clinic, but the stench of the urine had stained his fur. He was wearing a tag that identified him, but I said that I didn’t know the owner or how he got so far away from home. I recounted my story as best I could. I was a true hero in this epic, stopping to help a poor animal out of my busy schedule because it’s what a good person should do. At one point Darla pushed her bottom lip out and pouted with an ‘aww’ thrown in there.

  “Well, this guy’s in pretty bad shape here,” Herb said. “His jaw is fractured and there’s a pulled muscle and some bruising in his neck and hind legs.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” asked Darla.

  “We should try and get ahold of the owner–a Ms. Allison Grayson.” He read from the tag. “I’m sure she’ll want to know where her dog is and that this kind man may very well have saved his life. There’s nothing we can really do for him except give him some pills for the pain and wait for him to heal by himself.” The doctor turned to go call the number on the dog’s tag.

  Interesting twist, I thought: Cold-blooded ninja warrior turned hero. It was a good plan if for no other reason than to make her feel sorry for me. Before the doctor made it out of the door I interrupted: “I’ll carry him to her house,” I said in a kind tone. “It’s not that far from here and it’s on my way anyways.”

  “What a kind man you are.” Darla whimpered.

  “You sure are, a true samaritan.” Echoed Herbert. “Please tell Ms. Grayson that this service is on the house because of your generosity and that if he ever gets sick again that our doors are always open.”

  “I will tell her and sing your praises,” I said with conviction.

  He finished cleaning up Satan and gave me a sample bottle of pain pills to give to Allison. Ms. Grayson was not a name I would ever think to call her again. Not after all this bullshit. Who knows though, for a second I thought that things could turn out differently after I bring her poor dog back home from his long, painful, and much deserved experience.

  Chapter 2

  I rang the doorbell and waited for a minute. The Antichrist was getting pretty heavy in my arms. I’m not made of much brawn and this 100-pound beast was getting the best of my strength. I felt like Christopher Robin holding Pooh bear up to get some honey, except there was no honey and this creature was not at all cuddly. I considered dropping him on the stoop as a final revenge, but my story would be blown if she opened the door at that moment. So I waited.

  I heard footsteps come closer and closer to the door, and then silence. With wooden floors it’s hard to hide your movements and someone outside can always tell when you come to the door but don’t answer. They can even hear you walk away and know you just don’t want to see them. If she decided not to open the door and to walk away it would be like watching her deliberately not answer her cell phone if I called from 20 yards away.

  I’m sure she could only see my mug and not her precious beast as she peeked through the eyehole to see who it was. She suddenly swung the door open in a huff as if she were about to scream and slap me across the face–but then she gasped. “Oh my God!” she yelled. “What the hell happened?” The yelling turned to sobs as she began to pet her dog. Well I couldn’t very well tell her the truth and I sure wasn’t going to tell her why he started to chase me to begin with, so I retold the story as Darla remembered it. Her version was rife with emotional torment, like a made for TV movie. Mine was CNN. Telling the story for the third time was much easier and the facts starting to feel like truth to me, and thus they would to everyone else.

  She invited me in and I laid Satan onto the sofa. Allison stroked his head as I recounted every false detail. She was eating up every word like fine soft cheese, savoring each bite. I was a true wordsmith pulling out words I didn’t know I knew and metaphors even Billy Collins would approve of. I told her all about Darla and Herbert who was the ‘true’ hero in this story. I had to fight myself not to wink and give a thumbs up as I said it. When I got to the part where I carried the dog home, she threw her arms around me and showered me in thank yous.

  Unsure of what to do next, I said I was in a hurry and just wanted to make sure she heard what happened. I gave her the pills, repeated the dosage info Herbert had told me, and stood up. I looked at the dog and couldn’t tell whether he was looking at me as an enemy or his saviour. Technically I was both, as most heroes are, but dogs don’t remember all that much anyways, right? If they could talk, then there might be some issues, but as far as science knows right now, they can’t and I was safe.

  She started to baby talk the devil dog as I opened the door to leave. God I hate baby-talking to animals, especially to fucking rottweilers. They’re animals not children. I’m not saying we shouldn’t be nice to animals, but don’t treat them like children. That’s just sad.

  On the walk home that afternoon, I couldn’t quite decide whether I felt exhilarated by my performances or depressed about everything that happened before the debacle.

  ?

  The morning before, I had woken up hopeful about myself with Allison. I had bought a ring that cost me six months worth of work and had planned the perfect proposal.

  A friend of mine’s dad owned a traveling carnival. I told him my elaborate plan and convinced him to keep the carnival open an extra night so that we could have our own private party. All he’d asked in return was that I try and convince his son Greg to get his life together. Knowing full well it would never work, I had agreed to try. Greg was one of those guys who didn’t really have any goals. He lived the life of a typical fraternity jock even though he was neither a jock nor in a fraternity.

  Later that day, when we got to the carnival, Allison had no idea that I had set everything up just for us. I guess she thought that it was just an unusually slow night because she didn’t seem to find it strange that we were the only ones there. Eventually, after wasting some money trying to win her god-awful stuffed animals that she’d throw away in a week or so, I got us onto the Ferris wheel and asked the lovely hostess to let us hang out at the top for a while. It’s amazing what a $20 bill will get you from a carnie. I could have gotten her to cluck like a chicken, but decided that wasn’t all that romantic. It’s too bad she wasn’t a violinist, a poet, or something else that would be useful on a romantic evening. As we sat there at the top of the wheel looking out over the Boston skyline across the Charles, I doused her with a bucket of words, in my best lover’s tone. I pulled out some “Remember when we… ” moments which girls always melt for. As she was dripping into a puddle, I pulled out the ring and said the words that every man loves to dread.

  Despite a slight hesitation, her answer started out perfect with an “Oh, Josh.” The ring had one of those lights inside the case that made it shimmer like a star and it really did look beautiful (six grand’s worth). Then came the worst words that can be said after a proposal. “Can we talk about this?”

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  “It’s just that I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  “You know I love you so much.”

  I briefly debated jumping off and wondered how long it would take until I finally hit the ground. Instead, I yelled down to the carnie to bring us down.

  “Josh.”

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  “Josh. Will you talk to me?”

  The only thing I could muster up to say was “I want a corn dog.”

  When we finally got off the wheel of shame (as I call them now), I marched over to the food vendor area. Unfortunately food was not part of the deal with the owner. Only the rides and a few of the games were open to us. Are you fucking kidding me? I just wanted a goddamn corn dog.

  We went back to her place because she wanted to talk, which really meant that she wanted to talk and wanted me to just sit there and not say anything, feigning interest in what she had to say. As we walked in, Sata
n glared at me and growled. Other than the fact that I hated him in return, I couldn’t figure out why he hated me so much. I had never hit him or anything. I had fed him when I was asked to and walked him a few times, though he just tried to escape my grasp the whole time, probably with the urge to eat some defenseless children. We scooted past him as he stared me down the whole way up the stairs to her bedroom. What was once a nest of young love now looked like a battlefield as we both strapped on our armor and got into position.

  After a war of ideas on how to get out of this horrible mess, I somehow fell asleep exhausted from battle. She probably kept talking at least 20 minutes after I dozed off. I had a dream that night where carnies were dancing in a circle around the ring chanting in an ancient carnie language the songs of their ancestors. It was oddly entertaining, though disturbing. I half expected Hannibal Lecter to come out and start eating their cold, clammy brains with a nice glass of Chianti before putting on a Bach record and air conducting along. All of a sudden, a rogue carnie drove one of the trucks top speed right into the middle of the campfire. The damage was devastating. I heard the screaming of the ones not killed on impact, but injured severely. The animals’ cages had all broken loose and all the lions, tigers, elephants, and other large animals started running around in no particular direction. Eventually the scene quieted down after the sound of the ambulances faded along the dirt road heading back to the city.

  When I woke up she had left for work early and left me a note saying that she was glad we talked and that she’d be home for lunch if I was still around. I made it a point to remember not be at lunch with her that afternoon. Besides, I had to go to work.

  ?

  I worked as Barista at the local Starbucks, churning out over-priced water and bean-based beverages for people who thought they were more important than they really were. Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk. I used to always just think to myself, “Just order the regular one fatty, it’s clearly not making a difference.” But then again, I needed the job so I just smiled and handed over the drinks hoping that they’d spill it all over themselves and burn some of that loose skin off. Whatever, you’ve all thought it before too, so don’t judge me. Some people just ask for it and I duly give it.