TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 51

[Tobie Shapiro]

November 6, 200000006


Dear Lovelies,

	I have this sinking feeling this morning. 
I don't know where it comes from.  Some of my 
moods come in waves, and I don't know what to do 
with them.  They take over me and pull me around 
by the ankle, then deposit me someplace else, far 
far from where I started out, and they leave. 
Then another mood takes over.  I write it off to 
the pressures of the era.  What else?  Brain 
chemistry is an odd thing.  Maybe a piece of 
chocolate?  Or a good fat pill?  Gotta save my 
life, don't I?

	And now this.


 
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How My Dog Saved My Life

	Our dog, Griffith, was a sweetheart.  Not 
on the bright side, as dogs go, but of a gentle, 
eager disposition.  Bedlington Terriers may not 
have the famed Terrier smarts, but they have the 
enthusiasm.  When Dweller or I came home after an 
absence, Griffith would spin in circles, jump up 
on the couch, jump down on the floor, jump up on 
the couch, jump down on the floor, in circles, 
with ecstatic leaps of unbridled joy.  And we'd 
have to calm him down so that we could live with 
him.  He was useless as a guard dog, not prone to 
barking at dark intentioned strangers, not in the 
least bit protective of us or our possessions. 
He would have held a flashlight for a burglar. 
But he did manage to save my life once.

	It was during the time that Dweller and I 
needed extra money to make ends meet while he was 
working on his master's thesis:  The Single 
Channel Hypothesis in the Human Operator.  Big 
stuff, essentially about how human beings can 
only pay attention to one thing at a time, and 
when we seem to be taking care of several 
different things at once, it is really a series 
of lightning quick switches from one task to 
another to another.  We needed more monthly 
income to finance us, and I resolutely went out 
to find myself a job.  My first priority was that 
I didn't want to work for my parents at 
LABINDUSTRIES.  I wanted (how you say it?) a 
"real" job.  I poured over the help wanted ads in 
the Chronicle, first, looking for who needed a 
talented cellist, writer, artist graphologist, or 
clever young woman, then, not finding anything 
like that, looking for whatever required no 
experience.   And I couldn't find anything.

I was getting desperate when I came across a 
sleazy little ad for dancers.  What caught my eye 
was, "Topless not necessary".  The pay was 
tremendous, $400 a week, which was big money in 
those days.  And all I'd have to do would be 
dance around on a stage for a couple hours a 
night?  I was a musician.  I had a good sense of 
rhythm, and all my arms and legs worked.  I 
enjoyed dancing.  Why not give it a try?  Of 
course, this was a chunk of delusion too big to 
swallow, too big to spear on a fork, too big, 
evidently, even to see in one sweep of the eyes. 
It didn't occur to me that being a musician and 
having a good sense of rhythm had nothing  to do 
with what made a good night club dancer.  The 
patrons could care less if you bumped and ground 
in time to the music (which would have been 
another problem for me.  I wouldn't have approved 
of the music).  What the patrons cared about was 
how much was showing and how the dancer showed it 
off.  Would I have been able to dance in front of 
total strangers?  No.  I could barely dance in 
front of myself.  Would I have been able to 
appear in the traditional native costume of the 
night club dancer?  No.  I would have hidden in 
the corner with a blanket thrown over me.

	But I didn't think of that.  I thought of 
the $400 I'd be bringing in each week, and I 
thought of the allure of not working for my 
parents.  So I followed the instructions in the 
ad and called the number to set up an interview. 
I don't remember if I even told Dweller about it. 
It's inconceivable that he wouldn't have voted 
against this venture.  I WAS aware that I was 
delving into enemy territory, that I might meet 
an unsavory character or two.  So I brought 
Griffith with me for protection.  Fat lot of 
protection he'd provide, but the interviewer 
didn't have to know that.  I put Griffith on a 
thick leash to emphasize his fierceness, and I 
drove to the headquarters which was the upper 
flat of a Berkeley Victorian.  The whole place 
was for show, and a show of bad taste, too. 
There were thick white rugs, and white furniture, 
a couch, a few overstuffed chairs, some swag 
lamps, and a big imitation wood desk.  There was 
a low down coffee table made of glass in front of 
the couch.  There were no magazines or books on 
the table.  It seemed that there was a phone on 
every surface, which lent an air of importance 
and officiality to the outfit.  Behind the desk, 
sat a middle aged man with either windswept hair, 
or a rug on his head.  He had an open shirt, a 
hairy chest and a gold medallion hanging down on 
a chain.  He welcomed me in, and motioned for me 
to sit on the couch.  I did so.

	"Sit, Rex."  "Rex" didn't know sit.  He 
knew plotz, but that wouldn't work here.  I was 
handed a clipboard with a form to fill out.  It 
asked for the usual: name, address, serial 
number, age, but then went on to physical 
statistics.  Measurements, colour hair, colour 
eyes, height, weight.  Then there was the 
"experience" part.  I was honest; I wrote in, 
"None, but I can dance.  I'm a musician."  When 
I'd filled out the form, I handed it back to the 
man.  He didn't even glance at it.  He put it 
down on the desk.

	"Okay," he said, "Take off your clothes."

	I was stunned.  "But the ad said, 'Topless not necessary'."

	"I don't care what the ad said, " he 
growled, "I said,  'take off your clothes'".

	"No."

	"If you can't take off your clothes in 
front of me, how are you going to take off your 
clothes in front of a room full of people while 
you're dancing?"

	"The ad said, 'Topless not necessary'!"

	"Take off your clothes!" he shouted at 
me.  And there was something in his shouting 
which alerted me to the fact that this man was 
not just talking business.  He was threatening me.

	"Why don't you just take off your pants!" 
I said back, not a good choice of words, because 
it seemed that he was more than willing to do so. 
He came out from behind the desk, undoing his 
belt, with a mean smile on his face.  It was 
obviously time to go.  To go immediately.  I 
tugged at Griffith, and he stood up, but he 
looked scared, hesitantly shifting his weight 
from front paw to front paw.  By this time, the 
creepy man had reached me and was about to grab 
me when I felt a tug on Griffith's leash.  I 
tried to run off, but Griffith stopped me.   He 
wouldn't budge. When I looked down at him, he was 
poised and taking a crap on the man's wing tipped 
shoe.  (So, all those little holes are for 
something.)  I looked up, the man looked down, we 
looked up at each other.  His face turned red 
with anger.  He lurched forward, and I was forced 
to drag poor Griffith, in mid dump, over the 
white carpet and down the stairs to the front 
door.  You know what happens when you drag a dog 
away while he is dumping?  You get a dotted line, 
a directional signal, ten little turds spread out 
across the white rug and down the stairs.

	The man hurled a phone at me which 
crashed down the stairs and hammered a little 
dent in the wall.

	"Good dog!" I praised him.  "Good dog!"  And we ran out the front door.

 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net