Augie awoke the next morning, feeling refreshed. Yes, he should feel shitty and hungover, but something about today just sang. He rolled out of bed, ignoring his cellphone, which he was sure held missed calls from his father or someone else he didn’t want to talk to.
He dressed himself from the pile of clean clothes at the foot of the bed-- call him a slob, but Augie Emerson always wears clean clothes. He practically skipped through his apartment, past the pile of dirty dshes, past the T.V. set with a crack down the left side of it, past the fluffy puppy sleeping on the sofa and left his his apartment, not bothering to lock it behind him. Hold on. Past the what, now? Augie did a double take, busting back into his tiny (and admittedly filthy) flat. And there it was again, a small being, Rottweiler by the looks of it, curled in the corner of the sofa. He crept forward, not really sure how to react. The only experience he’d ever had with a rottie was a bad one-- finding it curled up at the foot of the stairs in hose he broke into, namely.
He sat gingerly next to the dog and trembled the sofa ever so slightly. The dog’s eyes opened with a snap. It would be comical, really, if he wasn’t so terrified. And before he knew it, the beast was on him, growling and snapping and clawing and....panting and licking and yapping. It was really quite big, bigger now, even with its baby face, than his so-called-mother’s miniature pincher is full grown.
“Alright, alright,” he said, now unsure of the manic happiness he’d woken up with. But when he looked at the thing, it WAS sort of difficult not to smile a little. Or at least twitch his lip....until he noticed the dog lifting his leg, right over Augie’s stack of vintage rolling stone magazine.
“OY! DOG? WHAT THE FUCK--”
He scooped the little body up, surprised at how heafty it was and began runing around the house searching for something he could tie the thing up with. He settled for an old pair of stockings that the last girl he laid had left under his armchair and tied it securely around the puppies’ neck. He then continued out the door, his old gusto back in him.
“Alright, chico, let’s go,” he muttered, bursting into the stairwell and beginning to take the steps three at a time. The dog scampered hurriedly beside him, pulling on the nylon of the pantie hoes. He laughed out loud, the thumping, scratching, and noise echoing off the walls.
A waffle is what he needs. Yes, a nice fluffy waffle.
The air was a balmy 60 or so degrees, and as Augie trotted down the short distance to the corner, he saw a bit of a disquiet. He walked up closer, aware of the puppy trailing noisily at his heels, stopping to sniff every last thing they passed.
“C’mon, Chico, c’mon....” he mumbled to himself. He sauntered up to the bus driver, who was leaning against the side of the bus smoking a cigarette.
“What’s going on here?” Augie asked curiously. This was his biggest weakness-- he can’t resist chaos or commotion of any sort. He has to be right in the middle of it.
“Bus stalled,” the driver grunted, exhaling smoke. The sight made Augie crave nicotine, although he was trying to kick the habit. He fumbled around in his pocket before finding a loose Marlboro Red, a little torn, but smoke-able.
“Have a light?”
The bus driver shifted with the air of something asked to perform a great inconvenience and withdrew a tarnished silver zippo. As he leaned forward to light Augie’s cigarette, he did a double take.
“Hey, you was the one trying to get on my bus with that dog!”
He looked down at the Rottweiler who was sniffing at the bus’ tire enthusiastically.
“Was I?” Augie asked vaguely. He really had no recollection of how the dog ended up in his apartment. Last thing he could muster up was stumbling around in front of St. Magdalene's convent after being creeped out by that blind man.
“Yeah! I came through once round 9 and you was arguin’ with some nun. Next time, on the last stop you had pissy here.”
Augie looked down and saw the dog peeing on a nearby patch of mangy grass. He puffed on his cigarette thinking of that, and feeling himself relax as the nicotine entered his system. He’d been smoking since he was 15, and he was sure his lungs would deteriorate before he had his first child. But it was so easy to go back to, just like so many other things that will undo a guy like him.
After smoking it to a short, he stubbed out his smoke and continued onto the Casa de Waffles, still puzzling over the appearance of his canine friend. He reached the shoddy eatery and tied him securely to a decrepit stop sign next to a waitress on her smoke break. He turned, ignoring his urge to bum another cig only to see her kneeling next to his dog, cigarette dangerously close to his velvety soft ear.
“Awwwww, he’s so cuteeee,” she said in a nasally voice. “What’s his name?”
“Chico,” he replied without thinking. He left her to fawn over the puppy which he wasn’t sure was even rightfully his. He sat at a booth near the window and waited for another stringy haired waitress to appear.
“What can I get for ya, hun?”
“Waffle and coffee.”
“Waffles are free when you buy a coffee before 7:15, sweetie,” she said.
He looked down at his watch. 7:14 AM. Today is going to be a good day.
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