Gloria Mundi

R. I. P. (SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI) Here lies (on the asphalt) the formerly well-rounded form of a box turtle who once lived in a slowly mobile geodesic dome of plain, but pretty solid, geometry.

Now he exists (that is, remains exist) in one plane only, a flat Mercator projection of his former hemispherical self: three dimensions down to design.

My jogger ’ s stride

crosses (blesses) all his carapace meridians in one homeward bound.

(May we both) Rest in peace.

Pamela Lee

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41 BJ Gary Lawrence

So I’ ve been sleeping on the couch, pissing and washing up down at the Clark Station on Auburn the last few days ‘ cause the john ’ s in her part of the apartment. She ’ s been holed up there ever since I dropped the dog off in the country last Tuesday. Three days now. Hell, the way she yelled and swore that night when she saw how the dog ’d torn up her new shoes, I thought, That’ s it. Enough. I can do something about this. I’ m fixing this problem at least. That’ s what I get for thinking, my old man would’ ve said.

It’ s not like it was the worst thing in the world, dropping a dog off in the country. Not like nobody ever did that before. Some farmer ’ll take care of him, surely. Probably some fat old farm wife in a red-and-white checkerboard apron with a plastic red-andwhite checkered table cloth over a chrome-and-Formica table will feed him table scraps. Til he chews up her shoes.

I could’ ve taken BJ out somewhere and done worse. A lot worse. But I didn ’t.

So when I got home late that night after dropping him off, even though I have to get up early for work, what’d she say when I walk in? Thanks for doing that for me? Thanks for solving that problem?

Shit, no. Instead she says, “Where ’ s the dog?”

Took me ten seconds. “Whatd’ ya mean, where ’ s the dog?” I stood straighter. “I took care of it. ” Then she looks at me like I strangled a goddamn chicken in front of her. Stomps off to the bedroom. Slams the door. The one between me and the bathroom.

Finally she yells, “Don ’t you come back here without my dog!”

I worked that first day, drove by the spot I’d dumped him after work—but it gets dark early here in December so I couldn ’t see anything. Worked late pouring concrete, couldn ’t get back the second day. Told my boss I had to go to the dentist today, the third day–just so ’ s I could look for the dumb dog in the daylight. I don ’t have much hope. I mean, if you were a dog, would you stay out here? I mean, shit man, you got dropped off out here on this road.

I’ m on my fifth cigarette now—my last. It’ s already dark. Temperature ’ s dropping below zero. Wind chill is rough. Typical. Should I call him again? I open the door to rub the butt out on the

gravel. The dome light comes on. Shines bright in the dark. Makes me think of the porch light at the apartment. Of coming home empty-handed again. Twice so far. Now a third time? That tinny voice in my head says it again: She thinks more of some damn dog than she does of you.

Then I hear a rustle. Snow crunching. Behind me. BJ? I can ’t see out because of the dome light, but I pull the door shut, squint. There. There he is. Big tawny mix, long white belly, tongue hanging out, tail going in circles like a frigging copter like he does, squirms and shakes his whole body whenever he sees you. I fling the door open, take a couple steps out. He jumps through the exhaust cloud at me, rolls me over, stands on my chest and licks my face, barks right in my ear so hard it rings. Twice.

“Go for a ride?” I squeak out. I can ’t breathe; he ’ s on my chest.

One bound, he ’ s in the car.

I get up. Brush myself off. Can ’t stop smiling. I’ll be damned. I climb in, step on the clutch, shift the car into first. Sit with my foot on the clutch a whole minute, feeling the engine rumble under my insulated boot, listening to the Camino idling. Then I drive back toward town to get BJ a steak for dinner with the last of my gas money for the week.

After that, I’ m not sure where the hell we ’ re going.

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