Walking the Dog (32 page)

MAURICE

David was in a frenzy of pacing back and forth upstairs. He paced constantly, and I found the continuous movement comforting. We saluted in passing but barely talked. He had a highly published show of new works at MoMA and was drastically behind. He kept saying he couldn't get the textures he wanted for his backgrounds and it was destroying him. Nonetheless, he'd go out all night carrying on with young and old lovers and friends. He had a yearning for late nights at tiny, new Village and Soho restaurants that would only seat twelve or fifteen people. He adored exploring the architecture of the run-down, impoverished Lower East Side apartments of his very young lovers, and the minimalist, oriental, massive loft spaces of his choreographer and musician friends who'd made it in the art world. He went to do the samba at SOB's and went to see postmodern dance concerts and performance art after midnight in small, nameless theaters and site-specific living rooms and kitchens. He was avoiding his painting. He was destroying himself, because without his backgrounds he was nothing.

As for me, the chaos of a dog walking day usually ended by 10:00 or 10:30 p.m. I'd have a sandwich and walk the streets, or I'd go home and go to sleep. Elisheva was ingenious at building out business. She said this was her calling, along with producing
Broadway shows, falling in love, and having babies. She had built our practice to the point where we needed another walker, but I trusted no one. My health was better but it would never be prime, so I didn't mind hanging around David's at night to compensate for my twelve-to-fifteen hour days.

One night at 1:00 or 1:30 a.m., I was particularly edgy and I found myself pacing like David in between his canvases. He was gone for the night, as usual. I looked down on the paintings as if I were scaling a rock face outside Jackson Hole. I suddenly knew what he'd been searching for in his backgrounds and that, for some self-destructive reason, he was blind to it. I pulled out cans of paint and poured them on his half-done canvases and brushed in the colors and laid on the textures. I used up all the paint in the studio and finished the backgrounds for the two biggest canvases that had been torturing him. He'd simply wanted a thicker cover. He'd needed his own planetary surface. I drifted into a kind of chemical sleep on the floor next to a canvas. I breathed in the smell of paint. I was covered in the muted blues, grays, and reds he'd been searching for. I knew those were the colors of his planet. As it dried on me I became a reptile, with hard but flexible skin. I was pleased with my work.

“Get in here!” he screamed from his office. “I mean
now
,” he wailed.

I was sticky with paint and sick from taking too much of it in my lungs. My arthritis was stiff from all the activity the night before. I panicked, but I realized it was still dark. I hadn't missed any dog pick-ups. Then I remembered what I had done. I'd gone on a binge.

David was sitting in a revolving desk chair in a bathrobe he'd stolen from a luxury hotel in St. Barts (he had a collection
of stolen bathrobes). His large face was very severe, and he wore his glasses, which made him look old and powerful. I sat down on the floor in front of him.

“Sit in a fucking chair,” he said coldly.

I began to shiver. I was afraid of myself. That I had done something or would do something to blow apart my carefully structured routine. I seemed incapable of a settled life.

“You broke the boundaries, Essie. You broke the most sacrosanct, profound boundary. You invaded my painting. You painted
on
my canvases.”

“They were empty,” I said helplessly.

“Not really, and you know that. I was getting ready to commence work.”

“No you weren't,” I replied. “You were stuck. You were panicked. You were empty.” David stared at me with what he hoped was hatred.

“You trespassed on the most personal territory. It's as if your monstrous journey has taught you nothing. You used up all my materials. You're a sick, ungrateful bitch.”

I was shaking with fear.

“You still can't control your strange impulses. You don't know anything about giving back.”

“I was giving back,” I said. “Now you can start painting.”

David was silent for a long time.

“I should have you pack up your things and get out of here. I should commit you to Payne Whitney. My loft is transformed.”

“Yes, it is,” I tried. “I found it necessary to do so or you'd wreck your career.”

“It's absolutely none of your business,” he shook his head.

“I'm trying to learn about friendship, David.”

“But you weren't thinking of me when you slobbered on
these canvases. You were only thinking of you. It's too good. It's too deep. It's the work of passion and commitments. Your body is in that paint.”

“That was my way of thinking of you. I became you. I haven't painted anything worthwhile in years. I'm a dog walker.”

“Get out of here.” David was exhausted. “When you're done tonight start packing up. Why do I always love the psychos?”

I had my day ahead. I didn't want to be late for my 6:00 a.m. call. I showered with my clothes on since they were covered with paint. Then I changed and dashed out. As I left I could see David pacing unsteadily near a canvas. He had a paintbrush in each hand.

I went through my day with no major incidents. I had one dog, a mutt named Maurice, who was the size and shape of a French bulldog but with a hairy, long face—like a small, fat walrus. He had a bad habit of going after much bigger dogs on the street. He'd bare his teeth and jump toward the dog's neck, and usually a ruckus would ensue. The owner of the other dog would get offended and check his dog for bloody nicks. I'd get lectured, yelled at, and each walk was a minute war. Maurice's owners, Ellen and Clarence, were perfectly nice people who'd rescued him from Bideawee, where Ellen would make an annual contribution following a clear mammogram. One time she saw Maurice and he took her heart. She lugged him into a cab and introduced him to her husband, Clarence, and he too fell in love. But Maurice must've been badly abused because he'd go after Clarence for no reason. He'd bitten him twice out of the blue. And his behavior on the street caused them great distress. They'd had to pay vet bills for three other dogs. Otherwise, Maurice was obedient, loving, and playful. And his ugliness was so beautiful. Ellen and Clarence were heartbroken,
but the vet said it would be best to put him to sleep before he really hurt someone or killed a dog, so they hired me as a last resort.

I'd started working with Maurice back when I was still with Hubb. I had a reputation for cooling out difficult dogs, and of course Hubb laid him on me without any warning whatsoever. I got bitten repeatedly and had to pull his chunky body off enough big bruisers before I got the picture. Mr. Pugnacious was scared to death of anything bigger than him that was male. So I started out by keeping him in the office and having some heart-to-hearts. “Look,” I told Maurice, “they're gonna kill you and here's why.” I bit him really hard on the neck—not enough to draw blood—and he was so shocked he didn't retaliate. He backed off. I did this several times and then slapped myself lightly, saying, “Stop.” So I stopped myself and Maurice was relieved. I also found a large stuffed camel, and Maurice went insane when he saw him. I let him do what he wanted and he ripped the camel to shreds. The guy really could be a killer. The second camel I soaked in the hottest Tabasco sauce I could find. Maurice went after the camel and it burned his tongue so much he panted and whined and ran in circles and drank up three bowls of water. But this didn't stop him from going after the camel again because it was bigger than him. I told Clarence to wear old clothes around the house, to pour as much Tabasco sauce on himself as possible, and to carry a bottle in his pocket. Maurice became confused and withdrawn. But I bought him several balls, sticks, and bones made of really tough but chewable rawhide, and little by little I had Clarence feed him those toys from hand to mouth. I also kissed him all over and talked to him about what a good life he could have as I scratched his favorite spots.

Now, months later, the attacks were definitely taking place less and less, but he was still on dog probation so I took him as much as I could for training. I used a spiked chain collar, which stopped him. Phyllis would not have approved of this negative technique, but some dogs had been reared in pain and could only be reconditioned with another kind of pain. I understood that. I was rooting for the little walrus. I didn't want him killed. I was rooting for myself too. I didn't want to be homeless and have to resort to the trust fund of the shit person I'd abandoned years ago. I didn't want to ask Ester for money.

I knew I had to relocate my office, but I had other things to think about. This was what I called boot-camp day. There was a two-hour period when I was asked by the owners to simply walk their dogs with others, have them do their business, and bring them home. I looked like one of those Upper East Side walkers with arms full of leashes, leading bored, snooty dogs of all sizes who were spoiled and didn't get enough exercise. Many of them had T-shirts or coats despite the weather, and politically correct collars supposedly beaded by women in Kenya.

I couldn't stand the pack walking, and I felt useless and stupid. So I came up with a routine. We'd all walk, but we were a troop and we had formations. I taught the dogs, including Pomeranians and toy poodles, to start on the same foot and walk in unison. “Left, right, left,” I'd call out. I had them in formation from the smallest in the front to the Bernese mountain dogs in the back. They marched, and when I called out “Halt!” the whole gang screeched simultaneously to a stop whether we were at a crosswalk or not. They sat on “sit down, doggies,” and lay flat on “down ya go.” They ran when I yelled “hep, hep,” and they stayed in formation, no dog butting in front of the other.

This wasn't hard to do, and made the walk more interesting for me and certainly more athletic for them. I had plans for them to sit and drag their butts on the ground, hop on their back legs and then their front legs, and I wanted them to make concentric circles. All of this in good time. I never did any of the group stuff when people pointed at us or started to gather. I knew it looked insufferably cute and the dogs would know it, too, and I wasn't in the business of creating a dog show for birthday parties.

Later that night when I returned to David's loft, he was dashing from canvas to canvas with two or three brushes in each hand. He had five interns from the School of Visual Arts outlining figures from his sketches that were hanging from all the walls. He was wearing flip-flops and calling out demands in a happy drawl.

“Oh no, darling. I made that a curve. A simple curve. Like a contact lens, not a pregnant woman. Add red—no, brick—no, red. Darling, add 50 percent red 2.0 and brick 3.0, and I'll kill you later.”

He saw me and motioned that I go into his office, which was now covered with patches of color, sticky notes, pads, telephone numbers written on the walls, and piles of smaller paintings—exquisite paintings of cartoon characters and ultrarealistic people involved in activities that superficially had no relation to each other, but they all subliminally danced.

“Are you satisfied with yourself?” he asked in a snotty tone.

“I'll be packing up, but I haven't had time to find another space,” I replied.

“I was a guilt-ridden yenta this morning,” he said.

“You were right. It was criminal behavior. I can't stop myself. I have to confine myself to a small space and do my
job. I slipped. It scared me. What if I start lifting things from clients' homes?”

“No,” David said. His voice dipped low. He sounded like a favorite aunt. “You have been doing
so
well, Carleen Kepper Ester Rosenthal Jim Jones, whatever your name is. I was narrow and cruel. I was humiliated. You'd found what I'd been unable to produce. You took the risk a friend takes.”

“It wasn't my world to explore. I was like a squatter. I broke rules. I had a breakdown.”

“I don't think so,” David continued. “I think you were saving a dog from being put down. I was absolutely paralyzed and you knew it. You also knew the backgrounds I'd been screaming for inside. It was a gift. You were right. I see that now. It's just that you're so strange. Essie, one doesn't even know when your punches are coming. Help me finish the paintings. Otherwise I'll never make it. I promise not to give you credit.”

“I'll pack up. I'll get on that Craigslist thing you showed me.”

“Let's not do a 1940s ‘I'm going, you're staying, I'm going, you're staying' scam. Neither of us has the time—and, well, I have the drama, but it doesn't go with your absolute lack of affect. Stay until the business really gets off its feet and then maybe, who knows, maybe we'll open a spa for dogs. Walking, training, massage, yoga, drumming, aromatherapy . . . ”

“I hate that shit,” I said. “Dogs are animals. Can I go to sleep?”

“No. Help me finish these paintings. You know exactly what to do.”

I sighed. “If you hint that I helped you . . . ”

“Are you going to agree to keep your office here?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “I'm too scared not to.”

“Maybe you'll paint your own inner mind.”

“Maybe I'll do neurosurgery and botany.”

“The backgrounds were brilliant and perfect,” David gushed.

“You use hyperbole too much,” I said. “Or do all gay men do that?”

“The gods have not left you,” David grinned wider.

I lay down on my rug next to Elisheva's desk and didn't bother about pajamas that night. I took in several breaths to calm me and prepared for extreme forgery. The bright light seemed more like the flicker of a castle of candles, and the active interns, as they learned, mixed, and painted, were nothing more than shadow puppets. The room had an old smell of paint and turpentine, which agitated me. But soon the stink of the dogs prevailed from the rug and the blanket. It was like a bizarre, somewhat foul bakery. I breathed in its scent. My night was brick and red colored. I worked on David's paintings in half the time of anyone else. But I stayed out of the master's way when he'd step in and conjure his final touches. His greatness was still apparent. And so was mine.