Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

Hill.”
    “Why’d you go there?”
    “I don’t know. Dumb idea.”
    “Do you wanna come here?”
    “You’re at home?”
    “Yeah. Ben’s at the dog park. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”
    That was something of a relief. Ben was a lovely guy, but what she had to say would be hard enough to share with one person.

Chapter 2
The Politics of the Park
    T he dog park was a fenced-in parcel of packed sand next to the Eureka Valley Recreation Center on Collingwood Street. When Ben reached the gate, Roman was already straining on his leash in anticipation of the free-for-all awaiting him. There were at least a dozen dogs today, among them two of Roman’s favorites: a frisky ridgeback named Brokeback and a Portuguese water dog who, except for a smudge of white on his chest, was almost Roman’s double. Ben often had to explain to strangers that Roman wasn’t a Portie but a black Labradoodle, one of a growing number of poodle hybrids (golden doodles, schnoodles, even Saint Berdoodles) to be found around the Castro these days. But he hated it when people called them “designer dogs.” He liked to think of Roman as a mutt—a term the president-elect had recently used to describe himself.
    Ben found something reassuring in the anonymous fellowship of the dog park. Most of the people who brought their dogs here didn’t know each other on the outside, yet he had seen them hug each other when someone left for vacation. Their offhanded intimacy defied boundaries of race, gender, age, sexual orientation, and—every now and then—mental health. And even the serious crazies somehow seemed less so when immersed in the loving lunacy of dogs. It was a temporary cure for everything.
    Ben sat down on a bench that would not have looked out of place in a formal English garden. There were half a dozen of these along the perimeter fence, the result of a beautification effort led by Sister Chastity Boner, a dog-loving member of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Winter had been a long time coming this year—not to mention the rain—so he settled against the bench and gorged on the remains of autumn. There was a bolster of fog already rolling over Twin Peaks, but it had yet to smother the sun. The abstract mural on the south wall of the rec center was still ablaze with color, and the frolicking dogs were still casting long shadows on the sand.
    A heavyset old man in a navy blue parka sat down next to Ben on the bench. “Roman’s had a haircut,” he said.
    Ben nodded sheepishly. “We let him get too rasta. The groomer had to take him down a lot more than usual.”
    “Looks good,” said the old man. “Very sporty.”
    “Thanks, Cliff.” He knew the guy’s name because Cliff was often here with his dog, a shivery little piebald terrier named Blossom, who, for some peculiar reason, fascinated Roman more than most of the other dogs in the park. “I think he’s a little embarrassed about the haircut,” Ben added. “He’d rather be shaggy.”
    “Aw, look. He’s forgiven you already.”
    Roman had his nose wedged in Blossom’s butt.
    “That’s what I like about ’em,” said Cliff. “They get on with things and don’t hold a grudge. They don’t dwell on the past.”
    “No, I know. He ate my Sonicare this morning and hasn’t given it a second thought.”
    “Your what?”
    “My electric toothbrush.”
    The old man smiled, exposing a row of teeth that could have used a toothbrush some time ago. “Our unit had a dog in ’Nam. Little brown mutt the mamasan brought to our hooch one day. Plannin’ on eatin’ it, I guess. Sweet little guy. We made him our mascot for a coupla months, until they transferred us.”
    “What do you think happened to him?”
    “I know what happened to him. Chief petty officer shot him.”
    “Shit.”
    “Had to. We couldn’t take him with us. He woulda starved. Or got eaten.”
    Ben sighed. “I guess so.”
    “Did you notice our latest addition?” Cliff asked.
    Ben followed the old man’s wobbly finger to a glossy red fire hydrant sitting squarely in the middle of the sandy plain. “What’s it doing there?”
    Cliff shrugged. “For the dogs to pee on, I guess.”
    “It’s a joke then.”
    “Maybe, but it’s a real fire hydrant. Bolted right into the ground. It was here when I came in this morning.”
    “It’s fucking dangerous,” said a woman who’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. She was roughly Ben’s age—certainly no older than forty—with