Dangling Liability
" so, wait... you're asking me to what exactly?"
"Feed it, walk it, make sure it doesn't die in the process; all else other than that, I could care less where it does its business, although I'm pretty sure you'd prefer he do that outside.
"Constance, I don't have time for that." I looked down at her brand new puppy sitting contently at her heels, "Besides, I can't guarantee that little runt will survive, even if it's just a week."
Constance gave him that look of you are full of shit and I know it and I'm fully aware that this look I'm giving you is one of the two things in the entire world that make you feel guilty so you will do as I ask or I won't stop, "Oh please! Like the ever important Mr. Hobbes has anything more important to do than sit back and clatter away at his little keyboard or conduct his 'cultural research'; which we both know amounts to little more than surfing the net for hours on end." Her lips purse a bit as she allows the corner of her eyes to soften. "Please, help me out here. I don't trust anyone enough to take care of him while I'm gone."
Damn it, she pulled the trust card. "One week. That's it. Anymore than that and I may debate adding canine to my menu."
"Aw, come on, Lu; it's just a little puppy. How bad can it be?"
"It breathes air, don't it? That's already two strikes against it. All I'm saying is this little shit-machine better mind its step while it's a guest in my house. I catch a hint of urine stench and he goes in the blender."
"You'd have to clean the stench of your own urine, liquor, and rotting food first before you could notice. To be honest I just hope Sartre doesn't catch anything incurable while he's here."
"Sartre?! That's his name?" Are you kidding me? Now I'm sure he can't stay."
Her brow furrowed, "What's wrong with Sartre? It's a classy name."
"First of all, it's not a classy name: it's pretentious. Second of all, that's an American Bulldog." I glared as the dog stooped over to the edge of the bushes and relieved himself. "Puppy or not, I highly doubt a dog like that will ever grow into a name like Sartre."
"Even if it affords you the ability to make bad jokes about how full of shit they both are?" Constance giggled at her own cleverness. Damn if she didn't know how to hit all my buttons, though I'm pretty sure she had no idea how cute I think she is when she laughs.
"Ha fucking ha." I smiled, "Fine, the little bastard can stay."
Her face lit up like a bulb as she jumped up to give me a hug. "Thanks, Lu!" Damn it, damn it, damn it. As much as I can appreciate a hug from one of the only people I can actually tolerate (or can tolerate me; personally I've found little difference), there is no describing the mess of conflicting should's and should not's playing pinball with my brain, stomach, and balls every time she touches me.
About 10 years back, we had both started working for the New City National within a month of each other. I had just graduated with my hand-me-down degree in Anthropology, yet as my slight of rebellion I also managed to escape college with another degree in Journalism. I could have sworn my parents took that as well as one takes a bat to the side of the knee; my parents looked at any form of media and mass communication, especially the news, as a vile affront to everything good about mankind, or what little there was. They felt that, in news, criticism and virtue were washed out to trite, circumstantial amounts that maintained, nay, encouraged the greedy status-quo.
I couldn't argue with them, they were right. But that didn't mean I had to play the "media game". I could give people the truth, show conviction, and hold others accountable... or at least i thought until the editor showed up at my desk one day with an ultimatum after my expose on the dope scandal within the local police precinct, "Knock it off, or I'll feed you to the cops. It's not like this city is going to miss a second rate writer whose articles are constantly buried pages deep."
Enter Constance Parthenos. I'm not quite sure to whether she actually liked what I had to say, or she felt that I was being treated unfairly, but I found out the next day that she had gone to the boss in my defense. At this point I think we had shared no more than three short conversations, and my luck with women has always been, let's say, less [far less] than satisfactory. So imagine my surprise when I walk in to work one day to discover that her reward for standing up for me was our partnership, which also included my standing probation. If I fell, so did she.
"If you have to tell the truth, make people laugh; or they'll kill you" She said to me as we began pushing our desks together.
"Oscar Wilde. Unfortunately, I'm not much of a comedian." I remember I couldn't stop staring at her. Not that I had the experience to be rating such things, but I decided that she had the above average placement of just about every physical part of her body, which was only solidly accentuated by the fact that she was already quoting Wilde to me. As the conversation continued I found myself enraptured by her smile and equally smiling eyes, despite instructions from my nether-regions to check out the rest of the package. If it wouldn't have looked weird for me to violently punch my crotch to silence its incessant demands, I would have done so. Of course I did manage to catch of couple peeks at that, what could only be described as, fine photojournalistic ass.
With her help I found that comedy ended up being littel more than verbage, timing, and sick little analogies that summon grimacing visuals in the readers mind. Although I never tried my hand at stand-up, I did find that my articles were climbing the pages of the paper. Anytime I ran into snags with the editor, she was always there to do that magical hair twirl thing that always seemed to wipe any cognitive thought from that, or any, man's head.
Our partnership lasted until about 5 years ago. Constance had accepted a job offer to shoot for the Global, and I was left to once again, fend for myself. After the editor refused to print my article on the up and coming mayor to be, Alexander Lummox; there was no fight, no falling out, I just simple left (and "accidently" left a live can of tear gas I acquired on site next to the buildings furnace.) Again, Constance came to my rescue by landing me a weekly online column, for the Global's website, entitled the Misanthroplitan.
I've found that the column is very popluar with the growing number of malcontents, but mainly from the international market. Regardless, the new job afforded me, not only a pay raise, but the ability to work from home [aka away from the putrid stench of society]. Constance; who still remains firmly fixed in friend-territory, despite many fumbled snogging attempts (one of which ended with me chipping a tooth on a cabinate handle) has become my sole contact to the outside world that doesn't project from a flat screen. But with her recent promotion, she's been assigned to photograph a treaty signing half way across the world... hence the dog sitting. So are we all caught up now? Good let's continue....: