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Dogwalker: Stories

Stories

Arthur Bradford

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Beschreibung

Tender and satiric, hilarious and humane, Dogwalker plunks readers down in a land of misfits and the circumstantially strange-where one young man buys drugs from a dealer who locks his customers in a closet, while another lands a cat-faced circus freak for a roommate, and yet another must choose between his pregnant wife and the ten-pound slug he's convinced will bring him a fortune. And throughout these stories moves a divinely inspired collection of dogs: three-legged, no-legged, dogs that sing, that talk, and that give birth to humans. Brilliant, perplexing, and moving, this is a daring debut that strolls along society's fringes and unearths strange beauty among its misfits

"Funny and huge-hearted. . . . Reminds us how much smarter the back of the brain is than the front." -Esquire

"The most outlandish and energetic writer I can think of." -David Sedaris

"[Bradford's] desire to talk about the heart in a way that's not navel-gazing, but rather earnest and real, burns through. Dogwalker soars. . . ." -San Francisco Chronicle

"Anyone who's ever wondered at the weirdness of the world will be grateful for these offerings." -Entertainment Weekly

"Bradford conjures weird modern-Gothic worlds that obey the carnival logic of dreams. His stories are stealthily tender and strangely moving." -Bookforum

Arthur Bradford's fiction has appeared in
McSweeney's, Esquire, and
The O. Henry Awards. He is also the creator and director of
How's Your News?, a traveling news show produced by the denizens of Camp Jabberwocky, the oldest camp for adults with disabilities in the country.

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 176
Erscheinungsdatum 01.08.2002
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-375-72669-9
Reihe Vintage Contemporaries
Verlag Penguin Random House
Maße (L/B/H) 20,9/13,2/1,4 cm
Gewicht 194 g
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    part 1
    room for rent

    The disability payments were being cut down since, according to their doctor, I was getting better. I had been without work for months and needed money so I decided to share my place and split the cost. My place was small. They called it a "studio apartment," which meant it had only one room. The kitchen was set off in the corner and my little bed sat over against the opposite wall. It was a cozy arrangement.

    My first roommate was a guy named Thurber. He breathed very heavily through his nose and when he spoke the words came out in high-pitched squeaks. Thurber moved quickly with jerks and twists like spasms and for a while I thought he was diseased. He had dark circles under his eyes. Before he moved in I had placed two small green plants on the windowsill but once Thurber saw those he pitched them out the window. "Damn plants!" he yelled after them. Later on I brought in a larger banana plant and he screamed at me, "Get that fucking plant out of here!"

    Thurber had answered my ad for roommate-wanted by showing up at my door with his bags. I am a somewhat meek person and I let him stay even though I was suspicious of his shifty appearance. Thurber said he was a good cook and would prepare fine meals for me. I said, great, I like good food as much as the next guy. As it turned out Thurber hardly ever cooked and when he did he made a chaotic mess which sat there for days until I cleaned it up myself. Thurber's taste in food was always too hot for my palate and his dishes usually looked nothing like whatever he said they were supposed to be. "This is Lemon Chicken," he once said. But the food in question looked more like baked beans, or maybe some kind of Sloppy Joe.

    Thurber snored loudly, too, and this was finally why he had to leave. "Thurber," I said, "you snore like a pig and I can't sleep. Perhaps you should find somewhere else to go."

    "I don't snore," replied Thurber, but he left the next afternoon. As he packed up his stuff he casually slipped several pieces of my clothing into his bag. He also took a brand-new toothbrush of mine and a large lamp. I was standing right there watching him.

    My next roommate was a woman named Cynthia who claimed to have some children whom she kept at her sister's house. I never saw them. Cynthia read three or four magazines a day and it wasn't until a few weeks of living with her that I learned about her hooking business. When I was gone she would take men into our place and give them head for ten to twenty dollars apiece. According to her she never had real sex with them and I'm inclined to believe this because I have been in whorehouses before and they have a certain electricity to them. It's in the air. I never felt this electric feeling when I walked into my home. A man who lived next door told me about all the male visitors and so that night I said to Cynthia, "What's going on here?"

    She said, "Oh, I just give them blow jobs for money."

    After Cynthia, Clyde moved in and he stayed for only three days. He had a large duffel bag full of clothes but he never changed outfits once since I knew him. He liked his blue jeans and T-shirt, I guess. Two guys with toothpicks in their mouths showed up on Clyde's third day and they stood in the doorway staring at Clyde for quite some time before one said, "Let's go, Clyde."

    Jimmy moved in next and he was a real card. He told jokes to me all the time and some of them were very funny. I remember one in particular about a rabbit working in a gas station which had me laughing off and on for hours.

    "You should be a comedian Jimmy," I once said.

    "That's what they all say," he said.

    As far as I could tell, Jimmy helped out a man who took bets on college sporting events. I'm not nosy and I don't pry into the lives of other people. Jimmy had simply told me that he was "in sports management."

    I appreciated Jimmy's sense of humor a l