The Boy Walker

By David Perlstein

Brute Greenbaum faces challenges beyond those of ordinary 12-year-olds. Faded hearing. Dimming eyesight. Bad hips. A penchant for farting. They're normal for an English Bulldog equivalent to a human centenarian and pursued by the Malach HaMavetthe Angel of Death. But they're only the beginning.

A cantankerous lover of literature, rabinnic wisdom, humor and skateboarding, Brute must hold together the remnants of his shattered San Francisco family. Abbie Greenbaum, a 24-year-old dog walker, remains estranged from his college-professor father Morty more than a decade after the deaths of Abbies sister and mother. Yet he and Morty still live in the same house.

Enter Saraha 10-year-old with Down syndromeand Rivka, her divorced Jewish-Chinese mother who teaches stand-up comedy and can't shake her ex, a classically trained cellist into bondage.

The three Greenbaums encounter a series of trials posed by mortality, jealousy and long-buried secrets, which represent nothingand everythingto laugh about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491714102

David Perlstein

DAVID PERLSTEIN has authored eight other novels and a volume of short stories. He also wrote God’s Others: Non-Israelites’ Encounters with God in the Hebrew Bible and Solo Success: 100 Tips for becoming a $100,000-a-Year Freelancer. David lives in San Francisco. davidperlstein.com

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THE BOY WALKER

David Perlstein

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

The Boy Walker

Copyright © 2013 by David Perlstein.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1409-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1410-2 (e)

Contents

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Carolyn

"The span of our life is seventy years,

or, given the strength, eighty years;

but the best of them are trouble and sorrow.

They pass by speedily, and we are in darkness.

Who can know Your furious anger?

Your wrath matches the fear of You.

Teach us to count our days rightly,

that we may obtain a wise heart."

Psalms 90:10-12

Dogs are way smarter than people. A dog sits up in front of a person, gives the big-eye look, collects a treat then contentedly goes off to play. A human sits up in front of a TV, crams down chips, dips and pizza with extra crust filled with extra cheese then wonders why he has to drop thirty pounds even though he only drinks diet soda. Dogs’ senses are more evolved, too. Like, dogs bark before an earthquake. Humans? They’re clueless that downing vodka like water, snorting blow or having affairs can bring the house down on top of them. And who is it that keeps Pookie’s food and water bowls filled, walks him in the rain and picks up his shit?—B.G.

1

T he Malach HaMavet —the Angel of Death—seizes victims arbitrarily and inflicts on their survivors wounds both horrific and seemingly irreparable. Wait. This is heavy stuff. Maybe I should begin differently. But screw it. Humans sugarcoat too much of life. Not dogs. Dogs take the truth on its own terms. Therefore I will lay it all out for you—offer you the whole megillah . At my age, I withhold neither my opinions nor the words with wish to express them.

Know then that the Malach HaMavet weighed heavily on me for a long time. It pursues me still. Yet my dread began to lift over a period of several months beginning on a dank Martin Luther King, Jr. Monday morning. I arrived at Mountain Lake Park with the Rat Pack. And yes, the name for our quartet of close-knit canine companions—chosen by me—paid homage to that revered Hollywood/Vegas pantheon of the nineteen-sixties. I, Brute Greenbaum, naturally played the role of Frank. Being an English Bulldog, my outward appearance projected a fierce demeanor compelling respect. If you spell that much misconstrued word f-e-a-r. Sadly, even our nickname, Bullies, suggests a pejorative—one entirely misleading. The English Bulldog is mild-mannered and amicable. I embrace as well, distinguished. Hence I have always considered myself a lover, not a fighter.

In a manner of speaking.

Still, my fellows acknowledged me as a dog among dogs. Which is why Dean (Flash to his masters), Sammy (Sherlock) and Shirley (Princess) contentedly embraced subservient but hardly demeaning roles.

And so we cherished yet another hour of convivial exercise directed by our human leader, Abbie Greenbaum. Not that I intended to break a sweat. Bullies overheat easily.

And that is the least of it.

Having attained the age of twelve, I had far surpassed the breed’s average lifespan of eight to ten. Dismissing the outmoded algorithm that equates one canine year to seven human years, I was virtually a centenarian. As such, I was well aware that I would soon be gathered to my ancestors—a term the Hebrew Bible relates to the deaths of the Patriarchs and the ultimate journey to the unknown. On top of which I bore the Greenbaum family’s terribly familiar relationship with death.

Thus candor requires me to admit experiencing more than occasional bouts of anxiety.

As regards Abbie, my co-master—eschewing political correctness, I do not deem the word master to be derogatory in deference to the canine preference for hierarchy—the holiday represented just another workday. Or, more accurately, work half-day. Over the past several years, Abbie maintained payments on a used Toyota Corolla and provided himself with modest amusements as one of San Francisco’s numerous professional dog walkers. His income—limited by negligible ambition but all cash—enabled him both to escape the watchful eye of the IRS and maintain his distance from his father Morty, my other co-master. Still, Abbie lived at home and enjoyed kitchen privileges in return for nominal rent.

Independence so often is a state of mind.

Not long into our morning’s journey, we spotted a human compatriot, Hilary, approaching in the midst of half-a-dozen likewise high-spirited canines. Hilary walked with the unnaturally erect posture of the dancer she had once been. She wore her blond hair down to her waist, carried a dark, polished walking stick and exhibited a fondness for sandals even in the rain. She waved. What’s shakin’, Abbie? She looked up at the sky that had unfurled a rainy-season umbrella of pewter-gray and turned to me. Gotta love the weather, hey, Brute?

I grunted in return. Although not intending to do so, I passed gas.

Your guys are looking good, Hilary, said Abbie with a wave of his own. Pray for sun.

Our two groups mingled and sniffed each other’s posteriors. Humans text and tweet. Canines employ a more basic form of social media.

Whatever works.

Barking interrupted us.

Barnaby, you can do better than that! Hilary scolded.

Abbie approached Barnaby, a white Maltese terrier given to overexcitement. He squatted and rubbed the top of the offending canine’s head. You’re a good dog, aren’t you, Barnaby? You know we all love you.

The Rabbis condone small lies to promote peace. I praise their wisdom. I laud as well Abbie’s inevitable kindness towards dogs both familiar and not.

I confess to not always adhering to such generosity of spirit.

Barnaby, taken with Abbie’s flattering attentions, wagged his somewhat disheveled tail and slobbered.

The simple are easily accommodated.

I’ll pray for sun if you will, Hilary advised.

Deal, Abbie assented. Be seeing you.

We separated.

Give credit where due. Abbie consistently offered anyone walking one or more dogs a pleasant if brief greeting highlighted by an engaging smile that ignited a sparkle in his blue eyes. Dogs brought out his capacity for boyish charm and inherent gentleness.

Honesty nonetheless compels me to reveal that in most circumstances, Abbie withdrew from human contact. The tragedies he’d experienced had rendered his personality rather brittle. As to his father, Good morning and good night frequently represented the extent of his communications. Such behavior pained me. Yet do not doubt the love I bore for Abbie.

And he for me.

We continued our stroll flanked by towering eucalyptus trees. At nose-level beckoned an abundance of newly embedded native wetland and woodland plants. Do not ask me for names.

Not to dismiss the glory of nature, but I am an urban dog.

Abbie shared our joy. Physical activity often proved therapeutic. A confirmed inch-and-a-half above six feet with a head of thick, curly, dark hair adding the illusion of another two inches, he’d played basketball at Washington High School. I offer here a footnote. At birth, Abbie weighed nine pounds, eight ounces. Several family photos culled from acid-free boxes display a beaming Morty hefting his son at Abbie’s bris alongside the mohel, who performed the circumcision and intoned the appropriate blessings. The two men stand shoulder to shoulder like fishermen exhibiting a prize catch—the one that did not get away.

Abbie also remained an avid skateboarder. In my younger days, he graciously passed many of his skills on to me. Even now, my paws occasionally urge me to mount a board.

My hips warn me of my extremities’ folly.

At last, Abbie removed our leashes. Although the park’s eastern end offered a dog run and enhanced social opportunities for humans, we held course to the west to circuit the lake at my stately pace.

Pausing as necessary.

Sammy, the three year-old beagle among us, squatted to shit.

I abhor euphemisms.

Abbie withdrew one of several small plastic bags from his jacket pocket, deftly scooped up Sammy’s turd and deposited the bag in a nearby receptacle.

Abbie’s gracefulness again struck me. If only, I thought, he would put a little more flesh on his bones. Not that Abbie was in any way a frail man. At least, physically.

Make no mistake. I had long conceded Abbie his manhood. Yet given the disparity in our life cycles and his emotional fragility, I also thought of him as a boy. And being a regular strolling companion also called upon for comforting cuddles and a patient ear, I inevitably considered one of my major tasks in life to be that of a boy walker. Truly, such a young man—and boy—as Abbie bore watching over lest he lose himself in one of life’s thickets like the ram Abraham sacrificed in place of Isaac. Attention, to reference Willie Loman’s wife, must be paid.

If not by me, who? If not now, when?

We approached the meadow adjacent to the tennis courts. Two women played among a smattering of puddles. Here a gangly Abbie learned the rudiments of the game from Morty, who had played in high school. This bestowal of athletic knowledge from father to son took place shortly before tragedy struck Abbie’s ten-year-old sister Sara and, the following year, his mother Lenore. Now, during the warmer months, Morty played singles with Rich Hoernerman. Rich battled the vastly superior Morty with unflagging determination but never won a single set. The gameness of his big heart succumbed to hauling around the court an even bigger tuchus.

A burst of friskiness overcame Shirley. For some weeks she had exhibited great fondness for running after a pink, tennis-size rubber ball whose once-smooth surface exhibited a near-moonscape of teeth marks. The ball brought out Shirley’s protective instincts. A sleek Chihuahua, she had born several litters before being spayed.

Sammy also displayed a fondness for chasing balls—when he was not wandering off to track a scent. To Sammy’s credit, he knew to leave Shirley’s ball alone. Usually.

Dean, part-Lab, part-golden retriever and nominally my second in command, found contentment in observing Shirley at play, as did I. My troubled hips condemned me to exhibit an exaggeration—often in slow motion—of the English Bulldog’s natural rolling gait. And like my predecessor with the family, Churchill, another of my breed whose tenure I briefly overlapped, I endured an agitated stomach, dimming eyesight and frequent failures of hearing in the upper register.

As such, I ran after nothing.

Abbie, ever seeking to provide my confreres with appropriate activity, tossed Shirley’s ball in the direction of a tree at the edge of the meadow.

Shirley sprinted off.

As the ball came to rest, a young girl of perhaps eight or nine popped out from behind that self-same tree. She wore a pink, fleece-lined jacket and pink jeans. Dark brown hair with reddish overtones peeked out from a pink wool cap topped by a fuzzy pom pom. Her ensemble, of which Shirley later approved after calming down, suggested a certain delicacy of nature. Her slightly off-kilter physical appearance confirmed that judgment.

Was she hiding from a playmate? Scoping out the lay of the land? Or spying, as children are wont to do when their imaginations wander off towards dark, mysterious places inhabited by elves, trolls, giants and virgins locked in bramble-protected towers? Whatever her reasons for being in that place at that time, she awkwardly but earnestly lunged towards the ball and snatched it up.

Shirley stopped short. Her back arched. Her ears pinned themselves flat against her head. Her tail wagged between her legs. She bared her teeth. And if all this wasn’t sufficient to demonstrate her displeasure, she emitted a high-pitched bark that could have shattered glass.

Shirley could be one tough bitch.

The girl, ball in hand, covered her eyes and screamed.

While the girl had no business disrupting Shirley’s play, I remonstrated with Shirley as demanded by my role as the Rat Pack’s alpha male. We adhered to the highest standards of decorum while strolling in the park.

Besides, the girl obviously meant no harm.

Regrettably, Shirley’s vociferous protestations, which prompted my reading her the riot act, further disturbed the girl. She stamped her feet like a wind-up toy soldier suffering from mechanical difficulty. Her screaming grew louder.

Abbie saved the day.

Princess, you know better than that, he called out with firmness, not anger.

Shirley lowered her head.

Abbie was our alpha male.

The girl dropped her hands.

Abbie coaxed her to release the ball.

Although the girl’s scent provided me with a great deal of information, I engrossed myself—in spite of the limits of my vision—in further study of her outer form.

She seemed short for the ten year-old she was. Her head sat upon an abbreviated neck connected to a rotund body from which sprouted undersized arms and legs. Small ears partly hidden by her cap and hair flanked a rounded face punctuated by a slightly upturned nose. This account being stated, she gave off a certain familiarity. At the same time, unusually narrow eyes implied something more than what I took to be an Asian component of her genetic makeup.

Maintaining a distance of some five or six feet, Abbie lowered himself to one knee like a prince in a fairytale seeking to comfort a comely-if-awkward damsel no longer in distress. "It’s all right. You’re all right. He flipped the ball to Shirley, who clutched it in her jaws and retreated. And Princess is okay, too. The thing is, she’s really attached to her ball."

"It’s my ball. I want my ball! the girl demanded. My ball!"

I gave considered attention to her speech. While understandable, the girl’s diction fell a robust degree or two short of precise.

A smile suddenly brightened her hazel eyes. It’s pretty, she cooed. It’s pink.

Abbie smiled.

Curious, I drew closer.

The girl took full measure of me and, on the verge of tears, stepped back, stumbled then fell on her tush.

Abbie glanced at me then back at the girl. "Don’t be afraid of him." He beckoned me.

I waddled up to Abbie’s leg.

He drew closer to the girl and assumed a full squat. This is Brute. He’s really very gentle. Old and gentle.

Way to rub it in, I thought. But what cogent argument could I offer in opposition?

The girl remained on her tush, her palms pressed into the grass behind her. She blinked several times as if reconsidering her circumstances. Brute. That’s a funny name.

I felt the urge to bare my teeth a la Shirley. Had the girl no respect for her elders?

She stared at me. Her face suddenly contorted like a drawing crumpled by unseen hands. Her throat released the suggestion of a growl.

My anger fled. The girl possessed a sense of humor.

It wasn’t to start with, Abbie explained. His name, I mean. Brute. My dad named him Brutus. After a guy in a play. Well, and history, too.

I can only speculate on Morty’s naming me as he did since he never revealed his reasoning, which I believe to be the only confidence we never shared. Perhaps Morty subconsciously feared that one day his beloved son might turn on him. Or, relative to Freud’s remark that sometimes a cigar is only a cigar, he found my inherent Bully dignity worthy of the name of a Roman patrician dedicated to liberty and willing to risk all to achieve it. Nonetheless, I could not fathom Morty’s assuming the prerogative of naming me. One hardly expects a father to select a name for the dog he presents to his young son as the successor to a rapidly declining pet, to wit Churchill. Not when he proposes to draw the boy’s mind away from the recent loss of his sister.

I like Brute better, Abbie said. Brutus was an honored guy in Ancient Rome, but he also did something that wasn’t very nice.

The girl stared blankly.

I gave thought to my name and concluded that, as always, things could have been worse. Abbie had merely altered it to something of a diminutive rather than choosing a different and tasteless appellation, such as Sparky or Wonder Boy.

I pause to ward off the urge to hurl.

Of course, I bear another name as well—my Jewish name. Not being born into the Greenbaum family, I considered myself a Jew by choice. A ger or proselyte adopts a Jewish name. In the absence of any such ceremony instituted by Morty or Abbie, I took the obligation upon myself within the privacy of my personal relationship with the God of Israel—following, of course, sufficient time to observe and learn. Since I’d been named Brutus then Brute, I chose a name beginning with the letter B. Baruch—Blessed—seemed appropriate. Most Jewish blessings begin with that word. Moreover, I felt blessed to have a family that despite the heartrending weight of its undue measure of catastrophe—or perhaps because of it—showered me with so much love and enabled me to provide so much love in return.

It’s a canine thing.

Thus I became Baruch ben Avraham v’ Sarah—Baruch son of Abraham and Sarah, Judaism’s founding patriarch and matriarch. In no way, of course, do I conceive of myself as a second-class Jew. The Talmud states that all future Jewish souls stood at Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. And Maimonides in his letter to Obadiah declares that the proselyte is a full Jew, a child and disciple of Abraham.

Who am I to argue?

As far as Abbie’s renaming me Brute, this I have long considered to be more than a rejection of violence applied to matters of state. Anyone with a Yiddishe kopf—a Jewish head or, more to the point, smarts—could see that the renaming represented a small but significant act of passive aggression, a precursor to a pattern of periodically negative although rarely violent behavior—smoking pot, drinking and violating sundry speed limits.

Not praiseworthy, I admit, but not all that uncommon as relates to the maturation process of the human male.

My musings gave way to the exercise of natural bodily functions.

The girl’s facial muscles balled themselves into knots. Brute’s making funny noises.

Obviously, the girl displayed little familiarity with Bullies’ tendency to wheeze and gasp brought about by an elongated soft palate, undersized trachea and stenotic nares—better known as pinched nostrils. Breeders now seek to correct this and other defects such as deep facial wrinkles and pronounced jowls.

Whatever will we do when we are no longer cute?

And he smells, she added.

I shuffled in place, perhaps uncomfortable with her remark but scarcely apologetic for the workings of the English Bulldog’s gastrointestinal system.

I released another toot.

Just because I could.

Abbie, habituated to my inherited behaviors, wrapped an arm around me. "That’s okay. Brute’s a good dog. A great dog. Really. The greatest."

I felt better both for his embrace and his words.

Abbie whistled.

Dean, Sammy and Shirley came running.

Abbie drew us close and gathered us in his arms.

We delighted in the warmth, strength and comfort of canines and humans sharing a timeless bond.

You guys! Abbie sighed. He appeared as carefree as I’d seen him in months. I suspected that Abbie’s display of lightheartedness had much to do with the girl’s impish presence. You guys! he repeated. He stood.

Having reached the limits of their attention spans, Sammy, Shirley and Dean scattered.

As Abbie pulled the girl to her feet, a shrill voice assailed us. What the hell’s going on? A slim woman approached. I took her to be somewhat north of forty yet attractive in a motherly sort of way. Her flashing eyes proclaimed the will of a warrior fully prepared to engage in mortal combat.

The girl… Abbie responded. He struggled for words as a man submerged in water gasps for air.

My daughter! the woman countered.

Abbie blinked once, twice, three times. She…

I’m Sarah Leah O’Hara-Ohara-Horowitz-Chan, the girl announced.

Sarah! the woman called, unwittingly repeating her daughter’s name while scolding the girl for revealing it to strangers. Something to be avoided by nice Jewish girls.

But let me not get ahead of myself.

Sensing an opportunity, Abbie called to Shirley.

Shirley paused for a brief moment, clamped her teeth on her ball and approached.

This is Princess, Abbie said. She got a little excited when Sarah… when your daughter… picked up her ball.

"My ball!" Sarah protested. Her voice carried across the park.

The woman frowned. "It’s not your ball. You know that."

"My ball!" Sarah insisted.

Despite the woman’s ferocity, Abbie, having explained himself, staged a magnificent recovery. It’s Princess’s mothering instinct.

His newly calm and carefree demeanor failed to temper the woman’s fury.

You want to know about mothering instinct? she asked. Her voice suggested the abrasive chafing of two pieces of broken glass.

Abbie froze. Perhaps he pondered his own lack of a mother, although Lenore doubtless had imprinted on his earliest consciousness a firm sense of her own fierce protectiveness.

As to myself, I found the woman’s lack of gratitude deplorable. Abbie had handled the uncomfortable encounter between Shirley and Sarah with the deftness of an accomplished diplomat. And diplomatic—at least at home with his father—he was not.

The woman, firm in her rejection of Abbie’s innocent ministrations, seized Sarah’s coat at the shoulder and hauled her away like a prison guard hurrying an inmate tarrying too long in the exercise yard.

Plainly the woman, rather than Abbie, stood as the abusing party.

Head down, body leaning forward in expression of uncompromising purpose, the woman distanced herself and Sarah some fifty feet. Then, for no apparent reason, she turned and stared at us.