Nick

         The only reason I ever even met Nick was because my car broke down.           
         Nick was the dog that had somehow become the only consistency in my life, months before I'd ever met him.

         He wasn't my dog, his name probably wasn't Nick, and he might not even be a he.

         Still, we were connected.  Somehow.

                                                            -
         You have to understand, nothing else but Nick was dependable or came close to being a regular aspect of daily life.

         The first day I moved into my little shithole apartment a year and a half ago, I took a break from unpacking box after box of second-hand books, video tapes, and junk I should have thrown out and couldn't remember why I hadn't.  Surrounded by disorganized piles and half-empty boxes, I didn't really feel like I was taking a break just because I had stopped yanking stuff out of boxes, so I went for a drive.

         I didn't know where the hell I was going or even where there was to go.  The town was as new to me as the hole-in-the-wall apartment.  So I just drove.  You know, see the town, maybe find someplace to eat.

         As soon as I rounded the first corner, I saw him lumbering up the steps of the porch on this blue and yellow Hansel and Gretel looking house.  He was massive, a big, gray Irish Wolfhound, menacing in a way, but at the same time, he looked cuddly.  A weird combination, kinda like a bearskin rug.

         Halfway up the steps, he turned his head, eyes partially covered with long, gray hair that hung off his brow, seemingly noticing me only seconds after I had noticed him.  In response, I did the dumbest thing.  I waved to a dog, all casual, like when you wave at a stranger just because they waved at you first.  I instantly felt retarded for having done that.

         But he seemed to respond.  His mouth fell into one of those panting dog-smiles and he turned to fully face me.  His head turned to follow me as I drive past.

         So I waved again.

         Hello.  Goodbye.

         After the second wave, this gray giant turned back on his way up the porch steps.  I watched in the rearview mirror as he circled and not so much laid, but plopped down on the porch in a slow controlled fall.

         Every day since then, at least once a day, we exchange this greeting.

         Every time, his eyes follow me.

         Every time, he flashes his dog-smile.

                                                                -

         I can't remember just how long ago I mentally started calling the dog Nick.  And I don't think I ever really chose that name, it just kind of occurred to me.

         It was just day after day, driving past his porch, trading our greetings, one day I heard myself say as I waved, "Hey, Nick."

         And as he cracked that smile, I imagined him thinking, Hey, Paul.

         So I started everyday with the only thing I knew for sure my day held.

         "Hey, Nick."

         Hey, Paul.

         I never knew what job I'd be doing, how much I'd be making, how I would be fired this time, what time I'd be coming home.

         But I knew Nick would be there, either in the small front yard of his Hanzel and Gretel house, just behind the fake-iron fencing, or plopped down on his beat-to-hell area rug that served as the doormat on his porch, waiting to say "Hi."

         I work for this temp agency that finds me a million different part-time jobs at a million different factories, so I never know what product I will be making that day or what button on which conveyer belt I'll be mashing or what screw I'll be driving into which board.

         Sometimes, all I have to do is just sit there watching an automated assembly line in case one of the machines screws up.  Then I'm supposed to tell someone or something.

         My grandpa worked the same job for 45 years and he always told me, "Whatever you do, be a man of many hats."  I am also a man of many safety glasses.

         The worst part of this whole gig is the agency gets a percentage of my check, kind of a finders fee type of deal.  But there's a good reason for that.

         I never last more than a day or two at any of the jobs where even a minute amount of talent or skill is necessary.

         At the button mashing jobs, I get canned after a week or so.  Even at the jobs I have to baby-sit machines that never forget their duties, at least not while I've been there, they find creative ways to let me go within a couple of weeks.

         We're going to have to start running on skeleton crews, so we're letting all temps go.

         The higher-ups are asking for us to start cutting the corners (see trimming the fat, downsizing, streamlining, etc.).

         We're no longer using the agency.

         We're filling your position with a full-timer.

         And so on.

         I'd probably hug the first foreman that just simply said, "Hey, you're fired."  Like it's better news because they use buzzwords and fifty-cent words.  Like I give a fuck anyway.

         So, whenever I was let go/downsized/replaced, I'd head back to the agency, let them know, "they don't need me anymore."  Usually, I'd have a new place to work within a day or two, sometimes even by the next day.

         I guess that's why I don't mind the chunk they take out of my pay.  It's kind of worth it since they provide endless jobs for me to lose. 

         Regardless of whether or not I'd made it through the entire shift that day or not, Nick was there on my way home.

         "Hey, Nick."

         Hey, Paul.

                                                              -

         Saying hello to Nick is so much easier than saying hello to anybody else.  It never has anything else tacked onto it.  Most people don't stop at a simple hello.  They want to tag on a loan request or a lecture, especially my dad.  Saying hello to him is always followed by, "So, you get a real job yet?"  Last time he asked, I told him I'd had 37 real jobs so far this year.  I'd never learned not to be a smart ass with Dad.  I'm always going to get an ass-chewing anyway.  Might as well entertain myself.

         "Damn it, Paul!"  He barked into the phone loud enough to make me wince.  "I'm serious!"

         Yeah, it's necessary to tell me that you, of all people, are being serious, Dad.

         This was followed by 20 minutes of his stories of sacrifice and hard labor, intended to inspire guilt or the desire to settle down and start a family, maybe the desire to find my career or some shit.

         After all this, like always, Dad asked, "How come you don't call more often?"

         Like always, I blame my ever-changing work schedule.

         If I told him the truth, it would only result in more guilt-tripping, this time complete with faux- sobbing.  I tried it once.

         At least Dad didn't ask for money when I talked to him.  He just reminded me over and over of why I never have much.

                                                        -

         Nick was there when I left to meet my girlfriend for dinner three weeks ago.  He was still there four hours later, when I had finally given up on waiting for her to show and also given up on her being my girlfriend.

         He was there when I left for an interview for one of those real jobs I was always being told to get two months ago.  He was still there two hours later when I returned, still an employee of Labormakers Temp Agency.

         He  was out there to greet me as I left to pick up my brother and take him to check into rehab.  Still there three days later when I left to pick him up when he signed himself out.

         Man's best friend.

                                                            -
         Last Thursday, I left the apartment to put on the hat of window maker at Randolph Windows.  I would be putting sealant between two panes of glass to make them into one window.  Sounded like it involved considerable skill, so I was expecting to be back home early that same afternoon.

         That day, it took considerable time to get my car to turn over, but hell, it always takes considerable time.  I knew something was wrong, though when I looked into the rearview mirror and saw black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe when the Mustang finally did turn over.  Well, something new was wrong anyway.  It had been years since the Mighty Mustang had been the terror of the roads it had once been.  Despite this warning sign from my car, I decided to try driving to work anyway. 

         As I sputtered around the corner, I saw Nick up on his porch, giant head down in his food bowl. 

         And, of course, I gave my wave and my "Hey, Nick" as soon as he raised his snout out of the bowl.  He, of course, gave me the panting smile.

         His eyes followed me as I passed by and he waited for the second wave until he returned to his meal.

         About six blocks past Nick's house, the car really began to struggle.  I suppose if I wasn't being put out by the car's difficulties, the sounds of the Mustang might have been humorous, like the old jalopies bouncing down the road in Bugs Bunny cartoons.  It was so noisy, I couldn't even come close to guessing where the source of the Mustang's main problem may lie.  There was sputtering, clunking, ticking, even a weird high-pitched whistle coming from somewhere.

         Worst of all, stepping on the gas petal had the opposite effect it was intended to have, slowing down the engine and causing the car to wretch forward.

         Finally, the Mustang refused to go any further.  The engine gave one last loud sputter before dying out.

         After trying to get the engine going again for several minutes, I decided to just push the piece of shit a half a block up into the parking lot of the little strip mall.  The one with all the little specialty shops so product specific, I wondered how any of them stay in business without being a front for the mob or some money laundering operation.  Shoe repair, ceramic lamps, vacuums, area rugs, picture frames, and some place called "Mariah's Dreams" that I could never figure out what they specialized in, but wasn't curious enough to go in and find out for sure.

         I pushed my car along by the inside of the doorframe, reaching inside to steer it into the parking lot entrance.  With all the engine trouble and all the times I'd run out of gas because of the busted gas gauge, I had become fairly skilled at this process.  As I did this, I wondered how much money that I didn't have this was going to cost me.  I would later find out it was a fairly inexpensive problem with the vacuum pump or something like that.

         After I had guided the car into an empty parking spot in front of The Big Picture with the hopes that each manager or shopkeeper or whatever would mistake the car for one belonging to an employee or customer of one of the other shops, I supposed I should go ahead and walk the rest of the way to Randolph Windows.  It was only about a mile and a half, maybe two, to the industrial park from where I was and I needed the cash the day's work would provide.  I was willing to risk my car being towed while I was working.

         Sure enough, the job did require a significant amount of skill, so, as I figured, I didn't last the entire shift.

         They had me lining up 2 panes of glass, perfectly aligned on this metal spacer, then shooting just the right amount of this hot, black goop that makes a sealed window once it dries.  To shoot the goop into the windows, I had this gun on the end of a hose connected to a huge vat of the goop somewhere in the building.  The foreman told me he would show me where the vat of goop was and how to change it the first time I emptied one, but I wasn't a Randolph Windows employee long enough for that to happen.

         I recognized that look the foreman was giving me.  I'd been on the other end of that glare enough to know it was the I've-Had-Just-About-Enough-Of-Your-Fuck-Ups look that shortly preceded the end of my employment.  I had already begun to anticipate what made up reason I'd be given this time.

         I had begun to imagine the foreman telling me it wasn't my fault I was horrible at this job.  After all, it was a skilled labor I'd received no training in, but unfortunately, the were no other positions presently available in a less technical capacity. 

         Instead, he gave me some speech about cost efficiency and how I'd cost the company this many dollars by ruining windows and that many man-hours would be wasted on correcting my errors.  "It just isn't financially sound for us to keep you on."

         However, I was right about there being no other positions available.  At least that's what I was told.

         It's hard not to laugh when these foremen act like they are giving me news that will shake the foundations of my life or some shit when they fire me.

         I hadn't even made it to my lunch break of my first day.

         Before starting the walk home, I'd used the employee phone in the break room to call a garage about my car.  They wanted 50 bucks just for the towing, but I knew from past experience I probably wouldn't be able to find anyone cheaper.  Before agreeing, I mentally ran through some financial decisions.  Right before telling them to go ahead, I thought, Fuck it, the electric company will wait until I'm two months behind before shutting me off.

         I had told the guy to meet me at the strip mall so I could show him which car was mine and give him the keys and shit.  Since it would take me about 20 minutes to make the walk back to the mall, I'd figured they'd be waiting on me when I got there.  Instead, I ended up sitting there in my car for probably around two hours.

         I sat there watching people go in and out of these specialty shops, thinking about how I'd never spend a dime on some shit that accented some other piece of shit that I had bought to balance out a room and about how only people who could count on most of the shit in their life to be the same day after day, the important shit anyway, careers, family, friends, the words that only made me think of shit I'd seen on television, could drop 80 bones on designer covers for their cell phones.

         I'd always had this disdain for these type of button-down yuppies who only bought shit with people's signatures on it or shit that had been imported, like a jar of mustard could possibly be that much better because it was ground from the seeds of plants found only in....wherever.

         There was no secret as to why I couldn't stand these types of wasteful people.  They thrived where I struggled.  Jealousy.

         But as I sat there losing track of how long I'd been waiting for the tow truck guy, I realized why these people spent more on lawn decorations and nonfunctional living room furniture than I made in a year.  They need that shit.

         Yeah, it's still frivolous junk that doesn't make any real impact in anybody's life, but they needed it in a different way than needing a roof over their heads.

         They need the small slice of change these things bring.

         I mean, this guy I saw carrying what I think was a lamp, but more resembled a DNA helix wakes up everyday still an accountant or whatever, still with a wife laying next to him and three kids in their own separate and elaborately decorated rooms, still with the reliable car that was the winner of four safety awards sitting in the garage. 

         And 10 years from now, all that is still there when he wakes up.  There's minor changes like the kids are now teenagers with their own safe, reliable cars, but that shit happens so gradually, it doesn't seem like change.

         But these people can fool themselves with these purchases, make themselves think it's a brand new day.

         Sure, I'm still the same guy with the same job, family, car, etc., but now I'm the guy with all this and this amazing new conversation piece designed by so-and-so.

         This isn't a reason to hate anyone.  This is a reason to feel sorry for these people.

         Their lives are the reasons people refer to their jobs as "the grind."

         I've never worn the hat of corporate anything before and I don't think that shit will happen anytime soon, but I imagine every conversation being just like the speeches I get  when I get fired.  All full of catch phrases and buzzwords that don't really mean anything.  Working next to all these people for however many years and never really knowing them.  Same conversations on what seems like the same day for months or years.

         These wastes of money are the only thing keeping these people from being zombies or robots.  These purchases are proof that they are still alive, still humans with choices and with ever-changing lives.

         That shit would suck.
 
         And that shit's the American Dream.

                                                                -
         I suddenly realized that someone had been knocking on my window as I was lost in thought about these people and their spending, probably a couple of times.  I was really spacing out.  The tow truck guy probably thought I was stoned.

         A lot of people probably think I'm stoned a lot of the time.

         I stepped out of the Mustang, still imaging what other kind of weird shit that guy with the DNA lamp had in his living room when I realized the tow truck guy had spoken to me, maybe asked me a question.

         Realizing he was waiting for a response kind of snapped me back into the here and now.  "Huh?"  I asked.

         "You Paul?"  The guy asked again, looking at me like he was expecting some explanation of my frame of mind.  When I didn't offer one, he took it upon himself to ask, "Hey, you alright, man?"

         "yeah, I was just...." I almost started explaining my yuppie/zombie/robot theory to this guy without thinking.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  Just kinda pissed, ya know?  This piece of shit and all."

         The tow truck guy seemed to accept this explanation because he didn't say anything else until after the car was all hooked up to his truck and he asked me "Ya want a lift somewhere?"

         I really didn't.  Walking's fine when you've got nowhere to go and no specific time to be there.  Plus, the tow truck guy's b.o. was strong enough when we were in the wide open outdoors.  I didn't feel like being cooped up with that smell.  "S'okay," I said without turning to face him, "I'm just a few blocks up."  Before he could start with the I-insist-it's-no-problem speech, I changed the subject.  "I'll call the garage about the price and all."

         I probably wasn't more than a half a block away from the strip mall before I'd already stopped worrying about the even tighter squeeze today put on my finances.  Getting all freaked out over this would just be like worrying about getting an infection from the needle giving you a lethal injection.

         My thoughts drifted towards Nick and how I had an ever-growing list of things Nick was there through.  A few blocks more and Nick would be there the day I started and stopped being a window maker.

         Nick would be there on yet another day the Mustang gave out on me.

         Nick would be there the day I stopped hating shopping addicted yuppies and started pitying them.

         I could see his house from about three blocks down, but from the angle I was approaching form, I couldn't see where Nick was hanging out yet.  I crossed to the opposite side of the street to get a better angle, but I still couldn't see him.

         That's when I realized I'd never met Nick face-to-face.  I'd always driven past his house, so I had never stopped to pet him or anything.  I kinda got excited thinking about doing just that.

         I was only about a block and a half away from Nick's Hansel and Gretel house, so I crossed back to his side of the street again.

         Just as I came up on the beginning of the fence marking Nick's property line, I saw him laying on his porch, his head resting on his front paws and his snout hanging out over the top step.

         I felt all nervous and awkward, looking for the best way to greet Nick , the same way I used to get all nervous and self-conscious when meeting a girlfriend's parents or the first couple of times I had to report to new foremen for my temp job.

         I decided to go with the old standby.

         "Hey, Nick."  His head shot up off his paws at my greeting.  I never stopped to think he'd never heard me address him by that name.  Once again, I was feeling kind of dumb for just busting out with a conversation directed towards a dog.

         But, once again, Nick acted like he understood.

         There was that panting smile again as Nick hoisted himself up off the porch with considerable effort.  My mind coughed up some info about big dogs like this being prone to hip problems.  I'd probably seen it on some Discovery Channel show or something.

         Once he was up, Nick lumbered down the steps and looked to be on his way to meet me at the gate at the end of the small piece of sidewalk leading from his porch.  He took huge strides, covering several feet with each step, so he was at the gate a good ten or twenty seconds before I got to it.

         When I got there, Nick was sitting, his head held high above the top of the small gate, all noble looking and shit, like he belonged next to some king's throne sitting like that.

         I held out my right hand for him to sniff, the universal person-to-dog greeting.  His nose ran up the outside edge of my hand, dwelled on each finger for a second or two, then brushed it's wetness across the back of my hand.

         I seemed to check out okay.  Nick's mouth fell back open into the panting smile as he completed his test.

         With that done, I reached out to pet Nick just above his brow on the flat crown of his head.

         But just as my fingers brushed his fur, Nick tensed up.  His head lifted and thrust forward so quickly, the movement was almost unperceivable.

         He bit down hard on my hand and gave his head two or three hard shakes from side to side.  A brief but vicious growl sounded deep in Nick's throat.

         A high pitched scream escaped my own lips, but it sounded like it was coming from someone else close by.  Only the sting in my throat made me sure it was me that was screaming.

         With one last hard shake of his massive head, Nick thrust my own hand back at me and I stumbled back a couple of steps from the gate.  Nick began to bark this horrible bark, so loud and deep I could feel it trembling in my chest.  It was deafening.

         I lifted my right hand up in front of my face, pulling it up with my left hand squeezing tight around the wrist, as if I would be able to hold back the pain from shooting up my arm.

         The meaty part of my hand, just at the base of my thumb, looked like it had been caught in a bike chain, the skin torn away in several places, bunched up and pale where it gathered at the edges of the tears.  Thick, dark blood steadily flowed out of the tears and fell onto my left hand, onto my clothes, and onto the ground.

         I walked away in a daze, still clamping my left hand around my wrist, watching the blood fall, but not thinking about where it was landing and still feeling the bass of Nick's bark shake in my chest. 

         I wasn't thinking about what might have caused Nick's assault.

         I wasn't thinking about what I was going to do about my hand.

         I wasn't thinking at all.  I just walked.

                                                          -
         Two days after I met Nick, I was heading out to work.  I would be wearing the hat of a Shank's fertilizer employee.  It was a simple button-mashing job this time.

         I'd gotten the Mustang back the day before.  Total bill, $87.50.  Definitely could have been worse, but I had to get back to work, despite my hand, to make ends meet because of it.  I get insurance through my agency, so the 7 stitches I'd gotten after I'd ended up walking to the ER and the Tylenol 3 prescription was paid for, but I didn't get paid days off.

         The car turned over and started up right away, but I saw that black billow of smoke again.  Great, I thought, How long's it gonna be before that turns into another bill from the garage?

         Despite the cloud of smoke, the Mustang seemed to be doing fine, rounding that first corner without sputtering or struggling.

         Just like always, there Nick was.

         I guess I wasn't really mad at him or anything.  I'd been the one to cross that line.  I couldn't hold this against him.

         So I raised my right hand to offer the daily greeting, but was thrown for a second.  The sight of my gauze-bandaged hand in front of my face made a ghost of the Bactine sting from when the ER nurse was cleaning me up run up the back of my hand.

         I shook off the memory of my hospital visit and my eyes shifted back to Nick, whose panting smile was a little bit harder to read into today.  Then again, I guess it always was.

         "Hey, Nick."

         Hey, Paul.