Pug Hill (6 page)

Evan doesn’t say anything. Evan just looks at me in much the same way as he looks at me when I’ve just ordered a white wine spritzer. I look down at the card in my hand.

“What’s that?” he asks. “It’s nothing,” I say, tossing the postcard back onto the stack of mail. “Do you want to go to Columbus Bakery and then we’ll play the rest of the day by ear? Let’s do that, that sounds like a good plan,” I suggest with what I hope is a tone of finality.

“And then do you want to go for a walk in the park before my squash game?” Evan, as you may have noticed, is not so great at dropping things.

I exhale heavily before answering back, “Why don’t we play that part
by ear?”

Right, dropping things; I might not be so good at that either.

After brunch at Columbus Bakery, Evan and I spent an hour walking around in the park before his squash game. Due to the fact that it had warmed up considerably, combined with the fact that I wore five thousand layers, it was not as cold as I was worrying it would be. During what had to be our millionth long, purposeful walk in the cold, I even briefly considered the possibility that I may envision things (public speaking excepted, of course) to be worse than they actually are. Later, when Evan headed over to the east side for his squash game, I waited until he was out of sight, and headed that way, too. Though I headed east for a very different reason: not to go to The Union Club, but to go to Pug Hill.

As I arrive at Pug Hill, there are actually five or six people here, their pugs all running around in a jumble. All the pugs are in blankets, coats, and sweaters, which sometimes makes it harder to tell who is who. Before I can really look at anything else, before I can pay any sort of attention to all the other wonderful pugs, I look over toward the pine tree. There, sitting on one hip, with his legs splayed jauntily out to the side, proudly showing off his rounded belly, is my favorite pug. Even though he’s in a bright green sweater, I recognize him. He’s a black pug. Black pugs, just so you know, are my favorite kind of pugs. Black pugs, if you ask me (and really, at this point, who else are you going to ask?) are the very best kind of pugs. When
I
get a pug, I often think, it’ll be a black one. This pug, my favorite, he’s also so much smaller than the other pugs; his name is Kermit. Kermit, as much as he reminds me of happiness, reminds me of my parents’ dog, Annabelle, whom, by the way, I also adore. Annabelle is a French bulldog, but secretly I think she might be a magical black-and-white spotted pug. Just like Annabelle, little Kermit, this little black pug that I adore, is very rough-and-tumble and always looking for an adventure, though he always manages to hold his own.

But right now, Kermit isn’t cruising with the other pugs, all of whom are running in circles around each other at the other end of the clearing. Right now, Kermit is just sitting peacefully, right by the pine tree, in this way that makes me think he’s waiting for me. I walk toward him.

“Hi, Kermit,” I say, leaning down to pet him. He tilts his head to one side, a bit of his pink tongue slipping out the other side. He looks up at me and fixes me in his mesmerizing gaze. I like to believe he’s smiling at me, just as I like to believe that sometimes he waits for me, right here by the pine tree. I tilt my head in the same direction as Kermit’s and smile back at him. Kermit snorts at me jubilantly, wiggles his curled piglet tail, and dashes off. And just like that, just as I always do when I see a pug, I feel calmer, better than I did before. I feel free.

I watch happily as Kermit’s tail bounds in the direction of his owner. I watch, still happily, but also a bit enviously as Kermit’s owner reaches down to clip a leash to Kermit’s harness. Kermit flattens his ears and coyly shrinks away from the leash, compacting himself into a much smaller pug than he already is. Kermit, you can tell, doesn’t want to leave. But even though Kermit’s owner, at present, is taking him away, it should be noted that Kermit’s owner is one of the cool owners, one of the owners who rarely yells after his pug, who respects that Pug Hill time is important in so many ways, and that pugs need lots of things and that those things do not always include its person braying after it all afternoon.

As a rule though, I try not to pay too much attention to the owners; I try not to go out of my way to figure out which person belongs to which pug. I feel like it cheapens the whole thing, at the least, and at the very most it completely diminishes the serenity. Pug Hill is about so much for me, but I try not to have it be about the people.

I do not, especially not here, want to draw attention to myself. There’s part of me that worries a bit that if I did, all the Pug Hill people would start to know me, and think of me as weird, or as a dog stalker, or a little bit sad. I worry sometimes that they’d start to think of me as some crazy pug-watching lady who lives under Bow Bridge. And then, as the years wore on, I’d become a crazy pug-watching lady who lives under Bow Bridge and has no teeth. You can see, I imagine, why it is best that Pug Hill be about the pugs, much more than about the people. I have enough trouble in all the other places of my life with people. I think it’s important that I don’t have it here.

I head to the bench, take a seat, do my best to forget about having no teeth, and just watch the pugs for a while. I watch them as they spin themselves around in circles, approach one another, jerk back cautiously, and reapproach. I watch them as they stop—almost midstride—to lie on their stomachs, legs out in front, legs out behind as if they are covering a hole in the ground. I listen to them snort, and make other strange but endearing noises for which I’m not sure there are words. And for what’s left of the afternoon, I stay on the bench and soak up just a little of their unconditional sweetness.

My whole life I’ve always felt better in the presence of dogs. And luckily for me, there have always been dogs, even before I was born. Before I was born there was Morgan. Morgan was not a pug, but a Saint Bernard. As I stare out at all the pugs here today, I remember Morgan.

Morgan spent a tremendous amount of her life running through our neighborhood and jumping in other people’s swimming pools. My father spent a tremendous amount of Morgan’s life tracking her down. But when Morgan was actually at home, I always felt like she looked out for me. When I was a baby and Darcy came into my room and picked me up out of my crib and dropped me on the floor, it was Morgan who barked to wake my parents, even before I had started crying. I always think she must have known what I was up against, being up against Darcy. And later, Morgan used to sit with me for hours on the yellow shag carpet in my room, letting me stick pieces of yarn up her nose.

When the sky starts to get dark, I take one last look out at the pugs, before I reluctantly start to head back to the west side. As I pass the playground that’s right there, right when you walk out of the park, I pause for a moment to look at the pewter metal plaque by its gate: THE DIANA ROSS PLAYGROUND. Suddenly, song lyrics pop into my head like so many sequin-clad Supremes: Set me free
why don’t you, babe? Get out my life why don’t you, babe?
I think I know why. As I cross Central Park West though, I wonder if I’ve even got it right, wonder,
Did Diana Ross even sing that?

When I get to Columbus Avenue, instead of heading to my apartment, I keep walking west, over to Broadway. I have decided to fight with the hysterical, asylum-bound people who like to shop at Fairway on Sunday evening. Fairway, in case you don’t know, is this Upper West Side market where they have just about everything edible you could ever think of, and also, you can get a good deal there. Because of that combination, it is the most crowded, frantic market in all of New York. Sometimes, even, I imagine Fairway to be the most frantic market, with the most unpleasant clientele, in all the world. Though I’m probably wrong about that. Being generally more interested in peace and quiet than I am interested in a good price on my produce, I don’t go to Fairway very often. Pretty much, I can’t handle Fairway, but after a while with the pugs, I think it will be easier.

And you might be wondering why I have decided to fight the hysterical, asylum-bound people at Fairway. It’s not actually because I think I’m about to become one of them. But rather because Evan is the type of guy who gets all excited if you have a plate of cheese and crackers out for him. Evan will be coming over later, and I’m still thinking how he said I never do anything nice for him. I’m thinking that maybe I have more to do with this bad place we’re in than I generally acknowledge, and I’m thinking that maybe all with Evan might not need to be lost.

And what better way to say, “I’d really like everything to work out,” than with a nice plate of crackers and cheese? Though, come to think of it, Evan won’t eat the carb-laden crackers. But still, there’ll be the cheese.

I can see the IM man bouncing out of the corner of my eye. I should never have turned it on. I should, most likely, not have IM at all. Or at the very least, I should angle my easel in a way so that it is behind my desk, and not off to the side of it, so that when the bouncing yellow man starts bouncing so insistently, so impatiently, I am unaware.

I swivel on my stool, grab my mouse, and click.

 

EVAN2020:
Are you mad?

 

I stare for a moment at the IM window, at all that empty white space in which to answer Evan. But I don’t want to talk to Evan right now. I don’t for that matter want to talk
about
Evan.

Suffice it to say, though the cheese was much appreciated, last night did not go well. I stare for a few moments more, and as I do so, it occurs to me that Evan is the only person who ever IM’s me. I quit out of IM without answering and turn back to my easel.

I work diligently through lunch, seldom taking my eyes off the Rothko, a vision, if you will, of concentration. I’ve been trying to match the exact shade of red that Rothko used. I’ve been mixing together different reds—vermillion and alizarin—on my palette, painting it over different shades of yellow and white in an effort to find a perfect match. Though I haven’t been able to match the exact color just yet, I’m slightly optimistic. I think, with a little more concentration, that I might be getting close.

At three, May announces with an air of mystery that she’s leaving for an important meeting and will not be back. As soon as she is out the door, I notice Sergei over there on the other side of the room, making a beeline for his desk. Sergei doesn’t work at his desk, since he’s the structural guy and has to lay his canvases out flat, and be near the heating table and such. I think how it might be nicer to have Sergei’s job, how it might be nicer to be always away from my desk, away from the computer and the lure of the IM. There’s something to be said, I think, for being “the structural guy,” something to be said for not spending as much time as I do staring at only surfaces.

It’s clear now that I’m out of my groove. So I do what I always try not to do, just as much as it is what I always want to do. I look across the room at Elliot.

He’s holding his paintbrush lightly against his chest. He takes a step back, oblivious to anything else around him, and stares, so intently, with all the focus in the world at the canvas in front of him. Oh, God, I think,
to be that canvas. Or at the very least, to be that paintbrush.

It’s not altogether my fault. The whole Elliot thing, it all really took me by surprise. In my defense, I was taken a little offguard. It’s not like my place of employment is one that is typically crawling with cute, hot, smart, hip, eligible men. Before Elliot Death (it’s pronounced Deeth, just so you know), with all his qualifications and accolades, arrived here three months ago, I’d never once been confronted by a cute and eligible coworker. It was just something I never thought would happen, ever. Until, of course, it did.

Most people apply to the Met, like I did, like Sergei did. Elliot was wooed here from the Brooklyn Museum, because he’s so good at what he does. Wooed by the Met, can you imagine? I couldn’t before I met Elliot. But then, as soon as I did, I realized instantly that such is the way of Elliot. Elliot Death is just that type of guy. He is the type of guy whose very focused and studious presence will make you forget everything else around you. He is the type of guy who makes you hear Natalie Merchant singing in your background, and makes you see
New York Times
wedding announcements in your future. Granted, they are wedding announcements that include the words, “The bride will be keeping her name,” but they are wedding announcements all the same.

But I digress. It’s kind of hard these days not to. So, anyway, Elliot arrived here, wooed, and I tried not to get all infatuated with him, knowing it was unprofessional at best to be infatuated with a coworker, but I did anyway. And then, perhaps not so coincidentally, once things recently started going to the bad place with Evan, I just fell that much harder. And it hasn’t worked out well for me.