Chump Change (15 page)

When the last Snickers was gone, I slid back behind the wheel keeping his head on my lap. The candy wrapper was next to his nose.

I watched him as I drove. He’d quit licking.

When I reached the Malibu Pier liquor store I could tell that they were busy too. I had to drive to the end of the lot to find a space.

I tried, but was unable to leave the car. Afraid to move Rocco’s head from my leg. He was emitting a noise that sounded like dry strangling and stroking his body seemed to be the only thing that would comfort him. I kept it up.

A long time passed. Five minutes. People came and went from the store carrying brown paper bags and liquor boxes. Some of the bags were wide and thick for beer, some tall for whiskey and wine.

Two guys came out with small single bags, pint size. The brown paper was twisted at the top. Short dogs. Small wine bottles. My drink.

They got in a flashy 4-wheel pick-up two spaces down. It had big tires and a roll bar and spotlights on the roof. I watched through the window of the car between us, as the guy behind the wheel folded the paper down around the neck of his shortie, then unscrewed the cap and took a hit. It made me shake and my stomach cramp in pain.

The truck backed out and left the lot.

People that I’d seen going in were now coming out. I could wait no more. I had parked too close to the car on my left, so I lifted Rocco’s head and maneuvered myself out from under him, sliding across the seat to the passenger side. I did it as gently as I could, but I noticed that it changed his breathing to short gasps. They scared me. As I listened, they seemed to be further and further apart.

I was trapped. Unable to get out or even slide back behind the wheel. His breathing was so faint, I knew he was on the verge of death. As delicately as possible, I hiked his head back up on my leg and waited.

More time passed. I smoked cigarettes and stroked his head. He was still breathing.

To keep my mind off myself, I took the idea I’d started outside the vet’s office from the glove compartment and tried concentrating on making it into a poem.

The lines fell in effortlessly. A poem about L.A. Here’s what I wrote:

The long palms work their way
down Bundy Drive
Swaying in the warm December wind
A chorus line of skinny hookers
nodding willfully
at the on-coming traffic
Blowing kisses at Santa Monica Boulevard

Their crooked heels, unwashed arms,
and the heavy odor of the street
now hold no promises, no pleasures,
L.A.’s innocence is gone forever

I saw it once though
caught a glimpse
even said hi
waving out the back window of my parents’ Plymouth
But it had already been bought and sold
and was much too much in a hurry
to stop
and say goodbye

When I was done I read it over a few times. It wasn’t a bad poem. Then I thought about Jonathan Dante. It was for him that I’d written it. I promised myself that I’d write more and they’d be for him too.

When I reached down to pat the old dog on my lap, I realized that he was gone. Quietly, as I wrote, he had stopped breathing.

I sat in the car for a long time holding Rocco in my arms. Weeping. When I finally quit my shaking was better.

In a few hours it would be midnight and I would have gone a full day on my own without a drink. And one day could mean two. If I stayed off the booze, I knew I’d be able to write again.

I started the Dart and headed north up the Coast Highway. There was a blueness to the ocean I had never noticed before.

Chump Change
was first published in France by Pavillons under the title
Les Anges N’ont Rien Dans les Poches.

First U.K. edition of this book was published in 1999 by Rebel Inc., an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

First U.S. edition of this book was published in 1998 by Sun Dog Press.

P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

CHUMP CHANGE.
Copyright © 1998 by Dan Fante.

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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2009 ISBN: 978-0-061-95929-5

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