Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [68]
I introduced them.
And my brother moved in, and he hugged Dennis.
I’d never seen anything like it. I was stunned. I could do nothing but stand there on the sidewalk next to the car and stare.
Then he got behind the wheel and started talking, nonstop, about the new hydraulic lifts he had installed in his garage.
This summer, Dennis and I bought a grill for the backyard of our house, and then we invited my brother, his wife, and son over for hamburgers.
But my brother just stared at his plate while the rest of us tucked into ours.
“Is something wrong, John?” Dennis asked.
“Well,” my brother began, slouching down in his seat and furrowing his eyebrows. “The thing about ground meat is that you have no idea how many cows are in a given pound. So the opportunity for contamination is great.”
Dennis said, “Oh, well. Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you don’t eat meat. Next time, we’ll . . .”
Without missing a beat my brother interrupted and said, brightly, “Oh no. I’ll still eat an animal. As long as it’s local and hammer-killed.”
Then my brother stood from the table and announced, “Oh, I got you a present.” He stepped outside and returned a moment later with what looked like a lawnmower engine. He set it on the floor and it immediately began to leak oil into the floorboards.
“Get that fucking thing out of here,” I said. “What is it?”
“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’ It’s a gas-operated pump. What did you think it was?”
As always with my brother, I hadn’t a clue. “But why?” I asked.
He looked at me as though I had just asked him to recite the first twelve lines of Macbeth.
“Why?” he said. “Because there may come a day when you need a gas-operated pump and now you’ll have one.”
Once again, my brother was unlikely and correct.
LIFE CYCLE OF THE NORTH AMERICAN OPOSSUM
B
ecause Bentley is a city dog, he’s accustomed to relieving himself on pavement. We’ve trained him to go in the gutter against the curb, and not on the sidewalk. So when we first started taking him to our weekend house in western Massachusetts, Bentley became constipated and confused.
“It’s okay, boy!” I would coach enthusiastically while I pointed at the ratty grass behind the house. “Go ahead!”
And Bentley would continue to stare at me, a pained expression on his face. When Bentley is troubled, his French Bulldog forehead crinkles together and his gigantic bat ears twitch.
“But watch,” I said as I crossed the backyard and stood next to the tree. “See?” I crouched down and pretended to take a dump. “Just like this.”
Bentley simply ran back up the stairs and barked for Dennis to let him inside. So I was forced to put his collar and leash on him, then take him for a walk along our asphalt driveway. And here, he was able to go.
Just like in New York, I slipped my hand into a little plastic bag, and I picked up the turd, then slipped the bag off my hand, inside out. So now I had a nice pouch of poo.
In Manhattan, I just toss this into the trash can on the corner, but what to do out here? I decided to place the baggie on the floor of the small, falling-down barn next to our house until Dennis and I could figure out a proper “system.” Even though it was a little gross to just lay this bag on the floor of the barn, how much trouble could it possibly cause?
It turned out, quite a bit.
The next morning, we walked Bentley on the driveway again, and once again, I had a plastic baggie to dispose of. I walked over to the barn, thinking I’d leave it right next to the other one. Later, I said to myself, we’d go to Home Depot and buy a container.
But the other bag was gone.
My first thought was, Impossible.
I was certain I’d placed the bag in here. It had been a big mental production to do so. But where was it?
Then I realized, of course. Dennis. Dennis probably saw the bag and was horrified by my sloppiness. He has probably solved our poo problem.
I walked inside. “So what’d you do with the shit?” I said, smiling. I was curious to see what he