Darn That Dream
by Manny Califaz The night Roxy left Max, I was coming off a double shift of scrubbing pots and pans, and I had the next day off. I smirked in anticipation at the eighteen pack of Budweiser I had left in the fridge. The bus rocked back and forth as it cruised down La Jolla Blvd. I sat at the very back of the bus, and felt the warmth of the engine coming up through my seat, and it soothed my tired legs. I watched the headlights pass by on the opposite lane. I throw my heavy head back against the back of the bus with a loud THUD. Shit. I guess cars weren’t made for dishwashers. I rest my eyes and wait for Pacific Beach.
The tourists have swarmed the streets of San Diego, and I watch them mingle with the Frat Fags and the Sororiety Strumpets, as the bus pulls away from the curb. I feel the sea in the air, and a soft breeze lets me smell the women from afar. The bars are full and I yearn for the quiet peacefulness of the winter months. I smell of onions, sweat, and metallic soap water tainted by Brillo pads. My white shirt is stained with grease and my pants reek of ass. I’ve worn them for five days now.
I wait patiently by the curb, looking for a gap between the line of people walking on the sidewalk across the street. I see the chance and scuttle across the street, quickly hanging a left into the lonely alley behind the main street. The sound of my running feet fill the alley and echo back at me from the entrance of the underground parking lot to the left of me. The walk to my small shanty of a house is quick, and as I head up the walk way, I see a faint light coming from the kitchen window. I fumble around with the doorknob until it gives, and I push the door open. I hear Miles Davis’ trumpet playing gently from the living room.
There’s a strong smell of beer coming from the kitchen and right away, I notice half of my Budweiers scattered across the linoleum floor. The cans have precise puncture marks on the sides and have been sucked dry. The living-dead cans still cold, fresh out of the cold box. I slam the refrigerator door shut and yell out loudly.
“Max!”
No answer. I walk into the living room and clap the lights on. CLAP CLAP.
Max lay on his back. His legs jutted out as far as they could, and he looked like road kill. His tongue hung from the right side of his mouth. A small puddle of drool had collected by his head, and was slowly soaking into his skull. He squinted from the light, but besides this, didn’t move at all. I lean against the wall crossing my arms, and stare at him with pure disgust. Finally, the tongue slithers back into his mouth, like a snake would to its hole in the ground; and he licks his chops once, twice, and I hear him mutter:
“She left me.”
I roll my eyes and reply, “She’ll be back.”
With one graceful motion he sits up, but quickly loses his balance and tumbles to the floor. He whimpers as he hits the ground. He lets of a soft chuckle, amused by his drunken self. He tries again and balances himself using the side of the sofa. He looks up at me. His eyes were swollen from crying.
“Not this time, Manny. I don’t think so. She’s left. She really left.”
I look out into the backyard. The month’s full moon lit up the patio. Sure enough. She wasn’t around. Max hung his head and swayed to the music.
“Listen. Max, buddy. Ease up pal. Forget her.” I walk over and put an arm around him.
The tears flow freely from his eyes now. He sniffles and grits his teeth, his breathing getting heavier by the second.
“WHY! WHY! Why did she leave me! I need her! Doesn’t she know this?” He screams into the carpet.
“Shhhh! Chill out there, bro.”
“No! I can’t. I can’t! I’m fucking frantic, man! What am I gonna do?”
The music stopped, and the ticking clock rang through the living room.
“Max. Come on, guy. I’m tired. I just worked another double shift. Give me a break, huh? You need some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.” I crossed my fingers hoping he’d agree. It wasn’t the first time Roxy had left. I’d seen this before. It could get ugly. Max would sit there all night sucking back beers, listening to the blues, and weeping like a baby.
“Tomorrow’s another day? Tomorrow’s another day! What kind of shitty advice is that?” He stood up and paced the floor.
I get up and walk back into the kitchen. I pull a beer from the fridge, pop it open, and take a nice swig.
“Hey. I warned you about that bitch didn’t I?” I ask.
Max finds a corner by the TV and sits.
“She’s not a bitch.” He says.
“She is too a bitch, Max. Don’t deny it.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake! Stop being a fucking wuss, you pussy whipped mother fucker.”
“I can’t help it. I love her, man!” He quietly sobs, trying to hold back the tears.
“Jesus! You’re a damn Pit Bull! A Crazy ass mean sonofabitch Pit Bull! Listen to yourself! Oh, I love her, man. What am I gonna do?”
“Hey, hey. I have feelings too, alright!”
“Feelings! Ha! I’ll give you something for your feelings!”
I fling my half empty beer can at him, nailing him between the eyes. He reels back, surprised. The beer drips off his nose, and a low rumble begins from his chest.
“Argghhh! Mutha-Fucka! Mutha-Fucka!”
He charges full speed and catches me by surprise, as I reached into the fridge for another beer. He bulldozes into my ribs and I launch into the late model Kenmore. My head crashing into the plastic shelves. I slowly exit the fridge, grabbing my soar head.
“Heh, heh! That was pretty good there, mutt. Pretty slick there, huh? Well, Can you top This!”
I lurch towards him and feel an egg break under my shoe. I slip, and swan dive into the counter head first. Before I could even hit the ground, Max had a hold of my pant leg, jerking his head furiously back and forth. I had counted five stars before I heard Max yelling through his clenched teeth.
“She’s not a Bitch! She’s not a...”
I caught him good with a swift punch to the eye. He yelped and ran under the kitchen table, but I was quick behind him, and I dove under the table also. I had him on his back in a death choke. I pounded his head again and again on the floor.
“She is a Bitch! She is a Bitch!” I yelled repeatedly into his face.
The blood from my nose dripped onto his snout, and when he opened his mouth in a vain attempt to breath, the blood sprinkled onto his tongue. His eyes were rolling back. He was weak. His legs twitched in a spastic fashion. I finally eased up when I was sure he wouldn’t attack me any more, and I rolled onto my side, hugging the poor fellow. He let out large gasps for air, clawing at the air. I stood up picking up a beer from the ground and went into the living room. I flung myself to the ground. My back to the wall. My legs sprawled out. I opened the beer and it spewed all over my face and the wall. The cold beer felt good on my bloodied face, and the blood mixed with the beer as I took a giant chug.
Five minutes later, Max limped out from the kitchen, his head hanging low. He stopped in the middle of the living room.
“We had a dream.” He told me.
“Wha...?”
“We had a dream. We were gonna be together forever. We were gonna have two litters of Pups. They were gonna be the finest around. We were gonna be together. We had a Dream, see?” His tongue hung sadly from his mouth.
“Max.” I said.
He looked up.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck it, man. Darn that dream.”
He stood there staring at the legs on the coffee table. He breathed easy, now. He had an Erie calm about him. I believe he went mad.
“Darn that dream.” I heard him whisper ever so lightly.
He turned and walked into the back yard. I sat there, sprawled out, beer in hand. He let out a long but low howl. He called out to Roxy, but the bitch never called back. I watched Max walk around the barbecue grill a couple of times. He finally settled for a spot and laid on the cool concrete. He set his head on his front paws and closed his eyes. Poor fellow. The right bitch will either make you or break you. This one had broke him. The laughter caught me by surprise, and I laughed so much my stomach hurt. I toasted to this comforting thought: In a world of so many broken dreams, mine were shatterproof, and they would wait for me a life time, as I laughed at the dog.
(This idea came to me after thinking about what a friend had said about dreading seeing all of his ex-girlfriends sitting at a table together; 