A collaborative effort in creative writing.
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A collaborative effort in creative writing. |
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March 2001 Collaboration Viv of First Person Particular Saturday NightIt wasn't much of a Saturday night. No dancing. Just dogs.First there was the gray dog on the sidewalk down on Mandeby just past the subway station and that probably started the whole thing off. Big dog, smooth and gray, except where the car had hit. Not too long ago, from the look of it. It might have lifted its tail once when I stepped over it, but if it wasn't dead, it would be soon. I could see Benny wasn't himself when he came in. Mostly, Benny lights up like a firefly on Saturday night. Usually it's me he shines it on. Not always. I wore that dress he said he liked. The one with the spaghetti straps and the flippy skirt. He talked to me for a long time when we came in, even told me I was looking fine but then he started going on about the dog he had when he was a kid. Blue Velvet, that was the dog. Killed by a car, and gray like the one outside. Thing is, all the time he was talking and I was waiting for him to get back to telling me more about how I looked, he was keeping track of something over my shoulder. When I turned and saw Jenna watching and listening with those big sad eyes of hers, black lashes all babydolled up against her pale face, I figured it out quick enough. You don't have to hit me over the head with things like that. He kept on talking to me but the whole thing was entirely meaningless. I didn't want to hear about that dog in the first place. What kind of a name is Blue Velvet for a boy's dog anyway? Once I figured out that Benny was on the trail of something that wasn't me, I thought I might see if that new guy in the mechanic shirt was looking like Mr. Right for Saturday Night. But he was gone. I went out for a smoke and there he was, standing over that dog. Must have been heading for the subway, home. I flicked my smoke out into the street and turned to go back inside where it was warm when I heard the shot. He was staring down at the dog, holding the gun, and then he took off running. Suddenly I had everyone around me in the bar doorway, wondering and looking and talking all at once. Benny and Jenna pushed past, ran to see. They stood there, holding hands, looking down at the dog, and then they hugged. When they let go, they walked on toward the station. Jenna turned just before they went inside and saw me watching, gave me a little wave. I waved back and went inside. It isn't that I mind so much. I'm not the sort that has to go home with someone every Saturday night. Not like some. I hope Jenna follows my example, even though for someone who isn't much more than a kid she can look like a showy piece of you-know-what and never mind she's my little sister. Benny never noticed her before around my house, so why she was suddenly his glass-slipper princess, I can't rightly say. She used to call him "Hairpiece" on account of how his hair never moved much but I got him to stop putting that greasy gel in it and eat better and now his hair almost looks natural these days. Hope she appreciates it. But I would have at least liked to dance, some. I was going to ask Benny, if he'd ever have stopped telling Jenna that dog story, but after he was done, she'd told him about Skeeter, our terrier that was shot by a bow-hunter or a kid, the arrowhead buried in his flank for days before we figured out what was going on under all that hair. Who wants to talk about dogs on a Saturday night? Saturday is for dancing. Except we probably couldn't have danced anyway because someone kept playing the same song on the jukebox over and over. Blue Velvet, like Benny's dog. Not dancing, music, either. Sad kind of music with no real beat. It must have been somebody's favorite song, to play it over and over like that. Over and over, and nothing to show for it. No dancing, and no Benny, and I couldn't even go home because they were there. So I walked over to Ben's. He's got a mouth like a sewer, but at least I didn't have to wake up and see Benny and Jenna playing house of a Sunday morning. I gave that dead dog a kick when I went by. Some Saturday night. |