Pug Hill - Alison Pace [54]
“What is your favorite book?” she asks. Questions one and two for Amy: why do they have to be hostile ones, directed at me?
“My favorite book,” I say in all honesty, “is The Encyclopedia of Dogs.”
“The Encyclopedia of Dogs?” she says, very much in the manner of someone whose favorite book is probably by Proust. I am inclined to explain, as much as I am inclined to never ask her what her favorite book is.
“Let me explain,” I say, because this is important, I think, so much more so than the deleting of novels or the search for the Holy Grail, at least to me. “See, I’ve always really loved dogs, and The Encyclopedia of Dogs has every single one of them in there. It was the first book I ever loved. I can remember how big it was, I can remember pulling it down from the bookcase and looking at it for hours.” I notice they are both paying complete attention to me, but still, I continue.
“I had this game I played with myself, where I would turn to a page and slap my hand down, and whichever dog my fingers landed on, would be my imaginary dog for the day. I used to love playing it, I called it, ‘That’s My Dog.”’
I leave out the part about how Darcy wanted to be involved in my game of “That’s My Dog,” how she then changed the name to “That’s Me,” and how the dog your fingers landed on would be the dog that you were for the day.
I leave out the part about how Darcy, more coordinated and quicker at slapping her hand down onto the page, and not averse to resorting to hair pulling to get her way, always got first choice of the dog she wanted. I leave out that Darcy was always the collie, just like Lassie; the elegant French poodle; the mysterious and sleek weimaraner; the beautiful Doberman; the all-American golden retriever. I leave out that I was always the bulldog; the squat longhaired dachshund; the sad-looking, peculiar Clumber spaniel; the pug. I think the story is better without those facts, and then I think, Oh my God, I was the pug.
“You can’t really read from a book like that,” Amy says, and, just like that, I’m back in the present.
“I know, Amy. I’m going to read a poem.”
“Dude,” Alec says, turning to me and grinning, “you’re cute.”
I look down at the floor, at Alec’s square-toe loafers. Prada, I think. And once I’m done with this class, once I’ve made my speech, and finished the Rothko, and somehow gotten free of the crush on Elliot, once I’ve done all the things I need so desperately to do, I think I might need to rethink the amount of importance I place on footwear.
“It is an outrage! An absolute outrage!” Martine yells from across the table, slamming her palm down for emphasis.
“Okay, then,” Lawrence says, remarkably still in good cheer, “well I think I’m gonna call it a night. Go home and work on my poem.” He winks.
We survey the empty glasses in front of us. No one jumps in to suggest another round.
“Maybe next time we’ll all go to dinner,” Alec suggests as we head down the stairs. He taps the breast pocket of his jacket as he says this, as if something important is in there. “I’ve got the private number to Balthy.”
“Balthy, what’s that?” I ask, assuming, the moment the words are out of my mouth, that Balthy is some new, trendy, hip place that just about everyone knows about and I have once again revealed my complete and utter dorkiness by speaking at all.
“Balthazar,” he says proudly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Amy says without turning around to face him, “I didn’t realize we were in a time warp and all of a sudden it’s 1999. Balthy, please.”
“What? It’s hard to get into!”
We head out into the street and say quick good-byes, heading this way and that, spreading out into the night. I walk