Common Dogs by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It was a balmy Thursday evening in east Charlotte. The four-day, 10.5-hour-a-day, late May workweek was now over. It was time to go looking for a new vignette.

Monique (my Filipina wife, aka Agent 32) and I (Parkaar, aka Agent 33) decided to eat dinner at Portofino, an Italian restaurant in a strip mall on Eastway Drive. The food was delicious as usual. And the service was superb. However, nothing of psecret-psociety grade seemed to be going on. Though, the joker-waiter gave us an odd smile as we passed him on the way out. Should I have asked him a few questions?

The next stop was The Peculiar Rabbit for an after-dinner drink. It was just 2.2 miles away in the heart of Plasma-Wigwood (slang for Plaza-Midwood).

After nursing a beer on the first level for 11 minutes, a table opened up on the rooftop terrace. The 30-something, blonde, tattooed hostess led us up the two flights of wooden stairs. Once seated I surveyed the scene. There was the usual grand view of the ever-budding Charlotte skyline. I noticed that a first date was in progress behind Monique’s chair. To my right, a business discussion chattered along. And along the western railing, patrons were already taking their obligatory pre-sunset photos.

We then took some photos, too. Then we watched the sun drop just north of the tallest buildings. Solar touchdown would have appeared to have been around 13th Street from our vantage point.

“Do you remember, Monique, the December sun setting to the left of the Duke Energy Building?”

“Yes, I do. It was way south of where it is now.”

“Yeah, winter solstice is way down the scale,” I said as I pointed.

“And the summer solstice is way up there,” Monique added as she pointed with her nose. “June 21st will be the furthest the sunset will go up North Tryon Street.”

“June 20th this year, Agent 32.” Agent 32? Record mode. 

“I’ll take your word for it, 33.” She knows that the microphone is hot.

Our conversation died in the heavy, humid, hazy air. Though, others went buzzing on around us. However, nothing short-story-worthy was detected.

We paid our bill and walked out to Gordon Street in the near-darkness.

“Hey, want to check in at Common Market, Monique? Maybe Blake or Agent 23 is there.”

“Sure! Why not? We’re on no schedule, and I can tell that you’re still looking for short-story material.”

“Indeed I am, Agent 32. Our readers demand and deserve better than what we have relayed thus far. We can take this alley to save steps.”

“To save steps and condense the procedure, 33?”

“Exactly, Agent 32. But, watch your high heels on this randomly dispersed gravel.” He’s already talking for the recorder and his next short story.

“I’ll be fine, Agent 33, putting my pair of narrowly hewn gavels to the widely strewn gravels.” She’s already playing her words.

Soon we were passing through the Common Market’s front patio scene: an assortment of about three dozen hipsters. We entered the old, round-arch-roofed, brick building and bought a couple of microbrews. We alighted on some stools at the bar in the back of the grocery store/deli/lounge.

Within eight minutes, an older, very light-skinned African American gentleman had taken the stool to my right. He was in a very gregarious way. I made sure that the digital audio recorder was still on. Good. Still a green light.

“So, how are you two doing tonight?” he suddenly asked.

“We’re doing fine,” I replied. “My name is Mike.” Let’s just pass on the Parkaar nonsense.

“I’m Tony, and tonight is my sixty-second birthday!”

“Merry mirthday!” [sic] I exclaimed.

“Happy birthday, Tony,” Agent 32 added. “I’m Monique.”

“A pleasure. I’ve come a long way. I made it from Earle Village [a low-income, low-rise residential project] to a PhD. Remember Earle Village?”

“I do,” I replied. “It was in First Ward.”

“It certainly was,” Tony said. “The family did quite well from the sale of our house on East 7th Street. I held out longer and made another $220,000 off my small house on 8th Street.”

“Wow! Nicely done, sir. I guess you’ll be buying the next round.” I chuckled.

“Certainly, if there’s still time,” he said. “Say, how old are you, Mike?”

“Fifty-two in another moon,” I answered.

“Well, you only look 47,” Tony said. “And your Asian lady- friend looks to be 30. Am I close?”

“I’m his wife, and I’m 36,” Monique said. “Thanks for the compliment, Tony. I’m from the Philippines. I’ve only been in America for about five years. We met on Facebook.”

Tony looked at me. “Ah, you were quietly waiting by the overseas cradle, you sly dog. But, hey, I have a younger overseas wife, too. I share your method, partner.”

He then showed us photos of his wife and three adult children. They were all very photogenic. 

“A nice-looking family,” Monique said.

“Thank you so much,” Tony replied.

“Where is your wife from?” I asked.

“She is from Puerto Rico. Did you know that the island is bankrupt?”

“I heard something to that effect on the news recently,” I said. He seems like a news freak.

“Billions of dollars in debt,” he said. “Just crazy. Astounding fiscal mismanagement. So, tell me, what are you two doing in here? Mike, you seem to be on the high end of the age demographic for Common Dogs.” If I am, what about him?

“Common Dogs?” Monique asked with a surprised look. Woof!

“Oh, I overheard a 20-something call it that outside,” Tony replied. So, he notes what he overhears, too.

I took another gulp of my dark porter. “Well, Tony, to be perfectly honest, we’re just hanging out waiting for a short story to show up, and I think you are it, man.”

“Ah, a short-story writer,” Tony said. “I wrote a long story for academia on passive-aggressive transgressive modalities.” Huh? / What?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Passive-aggressive transgressive modalities?” What in the world are they talking about?

“Yes, a scholarly analysis. My thesis paper. Very boring stuff, really. I’m sure that all 101 hardback copies are already collecting dust on faculty office bookshelves. But, enough of me, what’s your hot topic? Let me guess: sex.”

“Well, there is plenty of that in my novel [Gold, a summer story] and in one of my novellas. [Mysterieau of San Francisco] But, I noticed that when I write short stories about real-life suicides, I get a lot of downloads. This loon was able to write a whole novel? I wonder how coherent it is. Maybe it’s just a fuck-book. [sic]

“Hey, I’m not taking the gas pipe or the bullet tonight,” he said as he began to chortle. How about the pills? Why did I think such a thought? I’ll pay for that one down the line.

“Glad to hear it,” Monique said. “Tomorrow always has a surprise for us.” I wish that tomorrow would surprise me with a winning $7,000 scratch-off ticket.

“Have you written a tale about the young lady who died from a heroin overdose in her car in a Walmart parking lot?” Tony then asked me.

“No, I haven’t, Tony. But, I think I heard something about her in the news. Out in California, right?”

“Yes, in Salinas,” he said. “Her body wasn’t discovered for three months due to her car having dark-tinted windows and a windshield sunscreen. She was pretty and from an affluent coastal area. [Marina, CA] You would think that she had a bright future ahead. But, one never knows, I guess.”

“Yeah, Tony, no one ever knows what occupies one’s mind.” I wonder what occupies his.

Monique had quickly done a Google search on her smartphone, and had found the news articles about who Tony was talking about. “Her name was Lauren Moss, and she was only 22 years old and quite cute. Apparently she left a suicide note with her family.” I wonder what it said.

“So, she and her car were missing for nearly three months,” I stated. “It’s very odd that no one noticed her car in the same spot in a wide-open, high-traffic, parking lot.”

“Hidden in plain sight,” Tony stated.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I concurred.

“Tony, what is your job?” Monique then asked.

“I teach a little world history at the local colleges,” he casually answered.

I sensed an opening for an easy joke. “A little world history? Isn’t there now a whole lot of world history?” I guffawed heartily, feeling the effect of the beers.

“He’s a joker, isn’t he?” Tony asked Monique.

“Well, sometimes, he is,” Monique answered.

I scratched my missed-shave beard stubble. “I’m just a low-number card, Tony. I wish I were a genuine joker.”

“I went from being a deuce to a king,” Tony then said. “I don’t like to brag, but you know what Earle Village was like, Mike.”

“Yes, I do, Tony. I certainly do. Quite an achievement. Good on you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Tony repeated. He scratched his right ear and then downed the last of his lager beer. “Well, I’ve got a party to go to. It’s been nice chatting with you fine folks. It really has. Let me give you my number.” He then handed me a business card.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Listen, listen. We have socials from time to time. You know, casual get-togethers. Don’t worry; everyone is cool. They are all good people. Many interracial couples like us. I really do hope you’ll join us sometime.”

“Sure,” Monique said.

And then he was gone.