Adam Canfield of the Slash (7 page)

“All right,” said Jennifer. “Fine. Then I expect you to make things right with Phoebe. The
Slash
needs her, and she thinks you hate her.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “I wonder why she thinks that,” he said.

“I wonder,” said Jennifer.

“How’d she do on the smile contest?” asked Adam.

“I don’t know how it’ll turn out,” Jennifer said. “But I do know this — she worked really, really hard.”

The waitress asked if there would be anything else and Jennifer said, “Just the check.”

“Wait,” said Adam. “An order of mashed potatoes to go.”

The waitress looked at him funny and Jennifer said, “You’re still hungry?”

Adam leaned toward Jennifer and whispered, “For Sammy. The cafeteria Spotlight Team stickability test.”

“Right,” said Jennifer, and turning to the waitress, she said, “Definitely mashed potatoes.”

“Definitely mashed potatoes it is,” said the waitress.

“You got to admit,” said Adam on the way out, “I’m thinking like a coeditor.”

“You left your helmet in the booth,” said Jennifer.

At the shelter, they locked their bikes out front, then raced up the handicapped ramp, which zigzagged twice and was more fun than stairs. The lobby featured a bronze statue of a boy and a girl hugging a dog with the words,
Man’s Best Friend.
Nearby was the reception desk. Adam told the woman they wanted to see Danny.

“He expecting you?” she asked.

“We’re friends,” said Adam.

“Then you’re a lucky boy,” said the receptionist. “When he’s up, Danny’s the best.” She paged him over the loudspeaker.

While they waited, Adam and Jennifer scanned the forms people filled out to adopt a pet. There were lots of personal questions.

They watched the shelter workers, dressed in dark green polo shirts, rushing through the lobby. Everyone seemed so busy. It looked like a fun place to work.

Pretty soon there was a commotion on the far side of the lobby. They could hear barking and howling from behind the wall, a door swung open, and a large, bald man was walking briskly toward them. “Is my vision deceiving me?” the man bellowed, cupping his hands around his eyes like binoculars. “Is that him in the flesh and blood? Adam Canfield, star of stage and screen, and my former good friend? The one who’s always too busy to visit, yet sends me e-mails by the thousands?”

Adam smiled shyly, but before he could think of anything to say, Danny swooped over, lifted Adam, and gave him a huge bear hug. Adam weighed all of eighty-five pounds and was barely visible wrapped inside of Danny’s hug. It felt good to Adam, like all the shyness was being squeezed out of him.

“How you doing, Danny,” Adam said after he was placed back on the ground.

“Boy, you’re getting big,” said Danny. “Pretty soon I’ll need a front-end loader to lift you. And who is this — don’t tell me, you got married since I last saw you. And what a beauty. You must have lied big-time to get her to marry the likes of you.”

“This is Jennifer,” said Adam.

“
The
Jennifer?” asked Danny. “True Gladiator Jennifer? At last we meet.” Danny bowed. “Jennifer, explain one thing,” he said. “Why on earth would you marry a guy who can’t get past Gladiator-in-Training?”

“Brains aren’t everything,” said Jennifer. “The boy has a good heart.”

“That he does,” said Danny. “I can see you are an astute observer of human nature, which will serve you well here at the Tremble animal shelter.” He motioned for them to follow and headed back through the far door, into an airy, high-ceilinged room full of chainlink cages holding row after row of dogs and cats. As Danny passed, one animal after another came to life, standing on hind legs, barking and meowing as if paying tribute to the master.

“It’s like they know you,” said Jennifer.

“They do,” said Danny. “And I know them. They all want to be fixed up with someone. They have good reason to suck up to me.”

Danny explained that Tremble was different from most shelters. Dogs and cats were not put to death. They stayed until a home was found for them. “That’s where I come in,” he said. “Top specialist in placing the hardest of the hard.”

He needed to do a few more placements before he could sit and talk. “I try to do twenty-five before break,” he said. “I don’t have to; it’s just a personal goal.” He said they could hang out in the cage room or follow him into the central adoption arena and watch him do matches.

Jennifer was making all kinds of
ooh
s and
aah
s and stopping at every cage, but Adam tugged her sleeve. “You’ve got to see Danny in action,” he said. “A wizard.”

Before Danny could get to his next placement, two coworkers in green shirts rushed up, nearly trampling Adam and Jennifer. “I need advice, Danny,” said the first. “I have a seventy-five-year-old woman who wants to adopt a six-week-old puppy. For a puppy, this is a mangy mutt, so it would be great to find a home. But I’m afraid I can’t do it. You know the rules.”

The rules said a puppy shouldn’t be matched with an old person, because in a few years the result could be a deceased old person and an orphaned dog right back at the shelter.

“Let me see the woman’s application,” said Danny. “A nonsmoker,” he murmured. “Had a dog for a long time that recently died. . . . Lots of activities and clubs. . . .” He looked up from the paper. “Uh-huh,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

“What?” said the coworker.

“Uh-huh,” said Danny.

“What?” said Adam and Jennifer.

“Bring me to meet this woman now!” bellowed Danny. She was in a far corner, on the floor, playing with the puppy. When the coworker introduced Danny, the woman jumped to her feet. As they talked, Danny dropped her application on the floor.

She bent right over and picked it up.

“Thanks so much,” said Danny. “Would you excuse us?”

He took the coworker aside and said, “Do it.”

“But the puppy rule?”

“Made to be broken in this case,” said Danny. “Old people are changing their habits — they don’t smoke; they join walking clubs; they live salt-free lives. Now, if this woman came in wheezing and spitting blood, it would be different. But, hey — she looks like she can run a four-minute mile. You see her scoop up that application?”

“One more,” said the second coworker. “I have a woman looking for a surprise birthday gift for her sister-in-law.”

“Stop,” said Danny. “Cannot do. We need to see this sister-in-law in person. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. There are a million kinds of sisters-in-law.”

A small, slight, middle-aged woman was waiting. Danny apologized for the delay, then took her application and read quickly. “I see you live alone,” he said. “No children or pets . . . Personal traits? Ah, you’re a ‘neatnik.’

“OK,” he said. “I know a perfect dog.” He disappeared into the cage room and, to Adam’s amazement, was back in a minute with a match, a miniature mixed breed no more than a foot long.

“Oh, he’s precious,” said the woman.

“And not a shedder,” said Danny.

“You read my mind,” said the woman.

“Always,” said Danny. “Let me go on. I’m not going to pretend that everything has been peaches and cream for our little friend here. His previous placement did not work. That family had a cat. The cat was as big as our little friend. That family had a couple of young kids. What do kids do best? Grow. A big cat. Two kids getting taller by the minute. What does that do to our little friend? Every morning he wakes up feeling smaller.” At this point Danny knelt down, rolled the dog on his back, and scratched his belly. The way that dog was panting and his eyes were shining made Adam wish someone would roll him over and scratch his belly.

“What a silly little precious,” said the woman.

“Exactly,” said Danny. “Let me go on. What happens when you make a little dog feel small? I’ve seen it a million times. He’s going to prove he’s not so small after all. He’s going to take all that pent-up resentment and exact his revenge.”

“Oh my,” said the woman. “What did he do?”

“Chewed up four hundred dollars worth of shoes,” said Danny.

“Oh my,” said the woman. “I can’t have that.”

“You won’t,” said Danny. “If — and this is the big if — you can make this little dog feel big. It’s not hard. Just takes imagination. You go to a toy store, buy a couple of — what are they — Teeny Babies?”

“I don’t know,” said the woman.

“Beanie Babies,” said Jennifer.

“A True Gladiator,” said Danny. “Exactly. You get a few stuffed cats, a couple little Beanie dogs, leave them around, and suddenly our friend feels large. Every morning he wakes up, he’s still bigger than they are. For all he knows, he’s a Great Dane. I notice from your form, you have a small backyard — just one more thing that’s going to make him feel big. He’ll find a corner —”

“There’s a juniper bush,” said the woman.

“Perfect,” said Danny. “To him, it’s going to look like a redwood. His redwood.”

“There’s a sunken terrace,” said the woman, “just a few steps down.”

“Perfect,” said Danny. “To our little friend it’s the Grand Canyon National Park, and he’s head ranger.”

“Perfect,” said the woman.

“Perfect,” said Danny.

“Perfect,” said Jennifer. Adam was pleased. Jennifer really got Danny.

Danny led them to the employee canteen, a good-size windowless room with food and beverage machines, plus a bunch of tables and colorful plastic chairs. At many tables, men and women in their green shirts sat alone, eating a sack lunch and reading.

“That last adoption,” said Danny. “Great one for me mentally.” He bought himself an iced tea and peanut butter crackers. Adam and Jennifer didn’t want anything. “We just ate,” said Adam.

“That’s what’s great about kids,” said Danny. “You think you’re only supposed to eat when you’re hungry.”

“We went to the Pancake House,” said Adam.

Danny looked at Jennifer and said, “So you’ve seen Mr. Manners in action. He still eating pancakes with his hands?”

“Wait,” said Adam. “Not fair. Who taught me that? Who said, ‘It’s the only way to guarantee a blueberry in every bite’? And that is a quote.”

“All right,” said Danny. “I didn’t say it was bad. Just unconventional. It really is great seeing you, kid. You look terrific. They still keeping you busy?”

“To the max,” said Adam. “Actually, that’s not true. I’ve got twenty minutes free on Friday afternoons.”

“Been out skipping lately?” asked Danny. “We got to go for a big skip. This is the time to do it. I love the river in fall.” When Adam was younger, a few times a year, he and Danny would spend an hour or two by the river skipping rocks and talking.

Adam shook his head. “No time,” he said.

“I don’t know how you guys do it,” said Danny. “I wasn’t as busy in college as you are in middle school. It is amazing the way they have speeded up the world for you guys. They giving the SATs in pre-K yet?”

“Soon,” said Adam. “The smartest kids in our school take it quote-unquote ‘just for fun’ in seventh grade.”

“Sounds like great fun,” said Danny. “You know, I didn’t play basketball on a team until seventh grade. I just hung at the courts and shot hoops. When did you start club basketball, second grade?” Adam nodded and so did Jennifer.

“And the weirdest thing,” continued Danny, “is I don’t think you’re going to be any better or any smarter than we were. You’re just working harder sooner.”

“Tell Jennifer your theory,” said Adam.

Danny gave him a blank look. “My theory? Which one?” he asked. “There are a million, none worth a cent.”

“About history going back and forth,” said Adam.

“Oh.” Danny nodded. “Not my theory. Hegel’s. German philosopher. In every historical period, people behave a certain way, and in the next period, people react to that and behave differently. For every action, there’s a reaction. So right now we’re in what I call the Free Market Era of Competition to the Max. Parents and teachers and businesspeople and politicians are so worried that you kids are going to fall behind the kids in the next suburb, they’re adding more stuff for you to do so they can convince themselves they’re being tougher than ever and you’re doing better than ever. And in the next town, they’re adding on even more stuff to stay ahead of you. And by the time you guys get to college, you will be so overprogrammed, so drained and pooped and starved for oxygen, it will be just like the 1970s — you’ll throw up your hands and scream, ‘Enough!’”

Adam and Jennifer were quiet. They were trying to envision a slower future. It didn’t seem possible and Adam gave up. He couldn’t envision dinner, let alone how the world would look when he was in college.

“Was life better back then?” asked Jennifer.

Danny shrugged. “Every time has its good and bad,” he said. “I think maybe it was a little less cut-throat; people might have been a little nicer to each other, more people stopping to smell the roses.”

“That’s nice,” said Jennifer. “What’s bad about that?”

Danny got quiet. “Some of the drug stuff,” he said. “A lot of good people got deep into drugs in the ’70s and never made it back.”

Adam felt uncomfortable that the conversation was turning so serious, and Danny must have sensed it, because he leaned over and tried to bite Adam’s nose. “Hey, you know who I am?” said Danny. “Mr. Number-One Expert on Nothing. I look back at photos from the ’70s — the bell-bottoms, the flower shirts. We looked like idiots.”

“Hair was pretty weird, too,” said Adam, perking up. “You ever see old film clips of NBA players in their Afro puffs? And the white guys with sideburns to their shoulders? I can’t believe how tiny the basketball shorts used to be.”

“Someday,” said Danny, “you won’t believe how long and baggy they are now.”

Danny ate a cracker and swigged his iced tea.

“We need information,” said Adam. They told Danny about the article they were working on for the
Slash,
about the old woman who died and left the school money. They explained they didn’t know much about her and figured Danny might since she’d left money to the animal shelter, too.

“Her name was Miss Bloch, Miss Minnie Bloch,” said Adam. “Mrs. Marris told us she was a big animal lover. Figured you had to know her.”