Unleashed (3 page)

"OK."

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T
wo days after my vow to fix my life, I was sitting on Charlene Miller's overstuffed white couch with black-and-white photographs of flowers (suggestive flowers) above my head. Charlene Miller was the neighbor of Nona's friend Julia who was selling her dog-walking route. She was the type of woman you might see on the subway wearing a white suit—the kind of woman who made you question how she managed to stay so clean in such a dirty place. "This is a really nice area," I said. Charlene smiled at me with big, clean, straight teeth.

"It's Manhattan's little secret." Charlene sounded as if she had expressed this opinion before.

"I can see that," I volleyed back.

"I remember the first time I walked around here; I wondered how it could be so quiet, especially with the highway right there." Charlene said, referring to the East River Drive which runs right next to, and slightly below, East End Avenue.

"I wondered the same thing," I said with enthusiasm. We smiled at each other and our shared ignorance about how a street next to a highway was so darn quiet.

"I'm trying to sell the route because I've got so many other things going on right now. Also, I might be getting out of town. I'm not sure yet," Charlene said. "It's really easy. You just feed and exercise the dogs. I only have three clients but the money's good." She smiled at me and pushed her auburn hair behind her adorably petite ears.

"Like how good?" I smiled trying to sound casual, not hungry.

She smiled. "I charge $40 an hour."

"Really? So that's..." I started to do the math when she finished it for me.

"$1,200 a week." She laughed at the look on my face.

"What kind of compensation are you looking for?" I asked.

"Well, you could either buy the route off me up front or give me a percentage of the profits for the first year."

"I don't have the capital to buy it up front but I think we could work out a payment plan that would make us both happy." I hoped I sounded responsible rather than broke.

"All right, that's fine. Everything here looks good," she gestured to my résumé and references on her coffee table. "I have a few other people I need to see, so would it be OK if I got back to you by the end of the week?"

"Oh, of course. I understand." She stood up and I followed. Charlene put her hand out and we shook. Her grip was strong. "Thank you for your time," I said.

Outside, the street was indeed quiet. East End Avenue runs between 79th and 93rd streets right next to and slightly above East River Drive, a four-lane highway that lets New Yorkers speed all the way from Battery Park City to the Triborough Bridge. I wandered up the avenue towards Carl Schurz Park which, in parts, is cantilevered over the highway. The FDR, in turn, is suspended above the East River. Makes you wonder what we are standing on.

Crossing East End Avenue, I walked into Carl Schurz Park. Big paving stones, neatly lined- up trees, and perfectly trimmed grass gave the place an air of formality appropriate for the only resident of the park—the mayor of New York. Kurt Jessup lived in Gracie Mansion, a homestead built with a view of the river before there even was a city called New York, let alone a mayor to run it. The historic house is hidden in a corner of the park surrounded by its own gardens and very high fences.

I wasn't sure how I had performed during the interview. The fact that we both admired the relative silence of the neighborhood was good. But why would she give me the route instead of someone who could buy it off her? Did I even want it, I thought, as I looked over the dog run in the park.

A large shepherd was barking insistently at a cocker spaniel who'd stolen his ball and run under a bench, behind the protective calves of his owner. The shepherd's master, a guy in sweatpants and a windbreaker, was clearly annoyed at the cocker spaniel's owner, a man who was hidden behind the
New York Times
. The shepherd kept barking, and the cocker spaniel gnawed on the ball, pretending the shepherd wasn't barking.

I wandered past the dog runs (there was one for large dogs and one for littles ones) to the esplanade that runs above the river. People sat on benches facing the rushing water, the sun glinting off its silver surface. Warehouses hugged the opposite bank. Downriver, the three Con Edison smokestacks painted red, white, and gray stood tall and alone, shaping the Queen's skyline.

I walked upriver, toward Hell's Gate, where the Harlem River meets the water from the Long Island Sound in a swirling, dangerous mess of tides and currents. A stone with a plaque atop memorializes 80 Revolutionary War soldiers who drowned there in 1780. Prisoners aboard the H.M.S. Hussar, they were shackled in her hold when she struck Pot Rock and slipped beneath the freezing, unforgiving waters of Hell's Gate. "They died for a nation they never saw born," reads the inscription.

I watched a train glide across Hell's Gate Bridge; a beautiful arch with bowstring trusses stretched over the treacherous water. In front of Hell's Gate Bridge, traffic moved slowly, in stops and starts, across the Triborough Bridge, a workman-like structure that connects Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx.

My phone rang as I admired the urban landscape. "Hi, it's Charlene. Listen, I just thought about it and you can have the route."

"Oh, OK."

"Why don't you come back up, and we'll work out the details?"

Charlene was waiting at the door, looking paler than before. "I've got to get out of town for business, so the only type of payment I need right now from you is to take care of my cat, Oscar, until I get back." She walked through the living room into her kitchen. Oscar sat on the granite countertop, cleaning his face. He was a big tabby with white paws and a weight problem.

"Sure," I said.

Charlene walked over to her computer and grabbed pages out of her printer tray. "Here's a list of the clients and their dogs' info." I reached out to take them, but Charlene turned away and pushed the papers into a manila envelope. "The keys..." Her eyes wandered around the kitchen. "Where are the keys?" Charlene pushed past me and ran her hand over the empty granite counter. "I thought I...Oscar?" the cat meowed, and she gently moved him over to reveal a ring of keys. Charlene dropped them into the envelope with the papers and passed the whole thing off to me.

"We can deal with all the details when I get back, or I'll call you. Oh, and I'll leave a set of my keys at the front desk for you. You should come and see Oscar about every three days." The doorbell rang. She froze. The tension rippling off her was palpable. Charlene moved back into the living room slowly. I saw her hesitate, then, taking a deep breath, she checked the peephole. Her body relaxed and she opened the door.

"Hello, Carlos," Charlene said to a man in a custodial uniform standing in the hall. "Don't worry about it for now. I'm going on vacation and will call when I get back. Thanks for coming, though." He nodded and turned to leave as Charlene closed the door. She smiled at me, her lips tight and a mist of sweat at her hairline. "All right, so you have everything you need," she said, looking around the apartment.

"I guess," I said holding the envelope in my hand.

"Okay," she started moving me toward the door, "and I'll be in touch in a couple of days." She opened the door and I stepped through. "Thanks. Bye," Charlene said quickly and then closed the door. I heard the deadbolt click into place as I walked away.

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T
hat night I brought Blue over to James's place for dinner. Hugh answered the door. He is a big guy with a wide face, gapped teeth and an easy smile. His hair looks like his mother cut it by putting a bowl on his head. It works for him.

We hugged our hellos in the doorway. Blue put his snout between us and emitted a deep warble. Hugh pulled back, laughing. "Oh, my God, he's amazing." Blue stepped in front of me. Hugh laughed again and motioned for us to come in.

Boxes, some half-full, others overflowing, dotted James's one-bedroom garden-level apartment. Aurora, his cat, lay curled in a box on a pile of sweaters. She poked her head up when we came in, her yellow eyes bobbing at the edge of the cardboard and multicolored ears at attention. Blue walked toward the box. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," I warned him as he approached Aurora snout first.

Aurora sat up and hissed, drool spitting and splattering out of her. Blinded by the saliva, Blue stumbled back, but not before she had a chance to swipe out and lash him across the nose. He whimpered and scampered back to my side. The scratch beaded with drops of blood. Kneading at the sweaters below her, Aurora moaned and settled back into the box.

"What a lovely creature," Hugh said as he headed for the kitchen to work on whatever was making the wonderful smell floating through the apartment. I walked back to the yard, where James waited with a pitcher of passion fruit margaritas. "Holy shit," he said when he saw Blue. "You weren't kidding when you said you got a dog. That thing is huge." Blue sat on James's foot and James laughed. "I like him." He filled a glass for me. The margarita was an opaque orange-red that glimmered in the soft candlelight.

"So, I acquired a business today." I sipped the margarita, a perfect mix of fresh juice and jaw-clenching tequila.

"Acquired a business, eh?" James poured Hugh a drink, then passed it through the kitchen window.

"A dog-walking business." James turned back to me, surprised.

"What?"

I laughed. "I am telling you that this morning I went to the Upper East Side—Yorkville to be exact—and acquired myself a dog-walking business. But I think there's something weird about it." Hugh appeared in the window.

"What are you talking about? You got a what-walking business?"

"Dog-walking."

"What do you know about walking dogs?" James asked, "Or for that matter about business?"

"Well, I walk Blue." James stared at me. "And it's not really a business."

"Wait, wait. You have to start this story at the beginning because you are talking nonsense," James said. Hugh nodded.

"Wait a minute. Let's discuss it over the 'who's for'." Hugh disappeared into the kitchen. "Who's for" is what my family has always called hors d'oeuvres, as in "who's for some hors d'oeuvres?" According to my grandmother, it is an established expression, but I don't know anyone else who uses it.

Munching on Gruyère cheese puffs and mushrooms stuffed with duck sausage, I explained about Charlene's drastic change, her quick decision, and the sweat on her hairline.

"Do you see what I mean by weird?" I asked them.

"The whole thing is weird," James said, then finished off the last of his drink. "I don't think you should do it. You know that means cleaning up dog shit all day."

"But," I argued, "it's good money and I don't have to deal with people, which we all know I'm not so good at."

"You're fine with people," James waved off my suggestion with a half-eaten mushroom cap. Hugh gave him a look.

"I've got an envelope that tells me what to do."

"An envelope?" James raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, an envelope that has all the information and keys I need." I pulled it out of my bag. "So I start tomorrow."

"You can't argue with that." Hugh admitted, refilling James's glass.

I
f Joanne Sanders passed me on the street, she would not recognize me as the person who ate seven of her cheddar-flavored Goldfish. Ms. Sanders wouldn't know that her Pomeranian, Snowball, welcomed me into their home by showing me exactly where she liked to pee under the kitchen table. Joanne Sanders would not know that I worked for her because Joanne Sanders had never met me.

Snowball, a ten-pound white puff ball with dark, almond-shaped eyes, was crated in a black cage with a leopard-print cover when I walked into apartment G5 on my first day as a dog-walker. Snowball looked like the recently imprisoned queen of a very small, safe jungle. Her subjects, in the shape of stuffed lions, tigers, and elephants littered the living room carpet.

Joanne Sanders, a broad woman in her forties, posed with friends, family, and Snowball in photographs displayed on the mantel of the fake fireplace. She had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs teased high above her brow. I could picture her behind ten inches of bulletproof glass sneering at me with gloss-encased lips for filling out my deposit slip incorrectly.

I fed Snowball half a cup of kibble and a spoonful of wet food as my envelope of information directed. She ate it quickly while making funny little squeaking noises. Once she had licked her bowl to a bright sheen, we headed out for my first walk as a dog-walker.

I steered us off East End Avenue and onto the esplanade that runs along the river. The water reflected the sun in bright silver glints. I smelled oil and brine. We reached Carl Schurz Park and turned into the run for small dogs. The gate leading into the run reached only to my knees, as did the rest of the fence designed to keep small dogs in and big ones out. A sign on the gate read, "Dogs over 25 pounds not permitted." Ten dogs under 25 pounds, and one who was probably a little over, played together in the pen. Their owners, in groups of three or four, sat on worn wooden benches and talked about dogs. Snowball ran to join a poodle growling at a puppy. They intimidated it behind its owner's calves. Then the poodle, a miniature gray curly thing with long ears, mounted Snowball. I turned to the river and watched a giant barge inch by.

"Hi." A woman wearing a fanny pack, pleated khaki shorts that started at her belly button and ended at her knees, black socks (pulled up), and clogs stood above me.

"Hi." I said back, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the sun.

"You're new." She wasn't asking a question.

"That's right."

"Taking over Charlene's route."

"Right again."

She sat next to me. "How long have you been walking dogs?"

"Not long."

"I didn't think so." I spotted two women on a bench on the other side of the run watching us. "You see, usually, when a dog you're responsible for is being a bully..." She raised her eyebrows at me, and I realized I was being lectured. "...You should intervene." I sat in silence, looking at her as she looked at me.