The story of Zeke and Farley is a happy one. There is a skinny brown dog named Zeke. And there is a pudgy gray rat named Farley. They enjoy playing cards, but Farley cheats. Zeke doesn’t even know how to play. They live in the space between Papa Dino’s Pizzeria and Mosley’s Soul Food. Tom and Moses, the owners, don’t get along very often, but every night at separate times, they gift Zeke and Farley with that day’s garbage. Zeke and Farley then enjoy the finest cuisine that the dumpster has to offer. Even though it’s not quite their speed, fancy soul-spaghetti dinners make them happy. There’s a reason they’re in an alleyway; can you imagine what the world would say to their love? Farley enjoys 80s rock music, gambling, and living the high life. Zeke doesn’t talk much, but he probably enjoys something like that as well.
They tell me about you, your son and daughter. They tell me stories where you are not the hero, are not the villain. You become someone in-between, a pale shade of a person I should know. Somewhere in these stories, I construct a man. Like Frankenstein, I pull together parts of a person, always waiting for the last bit that will electrify you, bring you to life. For the first twenty years of my life, I meet you again and again in photos, in stories. When I am twenty, the person I have made learns to speak. I commune with the dead–you– in Prudential calls and retirement funds. You left me, your eleven-month-old granddaughter with all the money from the insurance company, and even though I never knew you, not like you knew me, I cry when I get the call, just three weeks after my twentieth birthday and five weeks after the day you died, but maybe it’s because Daddy called me crying at work when he got the letter saying that James Franzone Senior’s account was in my name. I didn’t (don’t) know what to say. How does anyone know what to say when their father is crying? The Prudential Customer Service line tells me that they are so sorry for my grandfather’s death, and I tell them that it’s alright, that he died nearly twenty years ago, and then when they put me on hold I cry again. What for? For you. For lost opportunities. For untold stories, for unknown voices. If I imagine your voice, can you imagine you know mine? It takes thirty-three minutes for me to finally get through to someone that can help. They’ve asked for my social security number four times, and I’ve given it to them each time, XXX-XX-XXXX. There’s a part of me that thinks by accessing this fund, I’ll give a part of you back to my dad, your son. I am my father, he is his father, you are your father, and on and on. Am I a piece of you already? There’s a part of me that thinks this fund is lightening, that by opening it, the pieces-parts body I’ve made will spring to life, that I’ll finally know who you are. (Then again, maybe I know everything I need to know. Because you died nine days before my first birthday, and somewhere in those weeks before you held a baby– your only son’s only baby– and you decided that she would know she was loved, in whatever way you could).
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Farley has lived in this alleyway his entire life. He was born in it, raised in it, and stayed in it after Mom, Dad, and all his siblings journeyed off and went their separate ways. They don’t call much anymore, but they’ll be back eventually. When you have that many kids, it’s hard to send a letter to each of them every week. One day; Farley is sure of it. Zeke only moved in recently–last summer, actually. That day, the sky glowed a silent orange and smoke filled the clouds. Unfortunately, when stuff like that happens here, the sirens don’t come. The vagrant dog found shelter between Tom’s and Moses’. Farley wasn’t quick to welcome the orphan, but he eventually warmed up to the company. Zeke used to live pretty lavishly, so Farley showed him how to eat just as well as he used to. Zeke had the audacity to teach Farley some manners. Farley was offended, but it made him realize that maybe he’s more than just a pudgy street rat. Zeke misses his old home, but it’s not so bad being stuck between Hell and high water. It used to be pretty lonely. There’s only so much that happens in an alleyway and only so little that happens in a mansion. The company helps. And sometimes the people of the city like to put on shows for little Zeke and Farley–romances, which Farley isn’t a fan of, but Zeke can really dig into a good one. The people gather in the streets–large clumps of them with their sticks and lights. They put on explosive firework shows and demonstrations that paint the atmosphere in extravagant shades. Then the city joins them in dance with their own sticks and special effects. It’s an abstract art, but being able to enjoy garbage together under the lights while watching the exhibition is something they will never take for granted. All those people are like little zoo animals giving their life and soul to the stage, all for it to not have mattered in the morning. And they live. And they know it’s rare for a duo to live so easily. And even though it’s not much, it’s enough for the love.
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