How To Disappear Completely Part 1

How To Disappear Completely.

David Bowick.

Chapter 1.

It's amazing how fast you can run when there's a f.u.c.king rottweiler chasing you. Few domesticated animals can instill such fear in someone as a rottweiler can. Why anyone would ever want to house such a monster is a mystery to me. They're not lovable, they're not cute and they're not beautiful. They s...o...b..r on everything, s.h.i.t everywhere, and could easily eat the face off a child. Lovely. Sign me up for one. Make that two, actually.

But there I was, running like a mongoose chased by a lion on the dry plains of Namibia. I should probably also mention that the devil dog had only had three good legs, one eye, and a terrible bladder problem. He was spraying everywhere as he ran. His fourth gimp leg wasn't functionalit didn't have a knee joint and was a peg leg dragged along by the three good ones. I always imagined that the other legs had to be resentful of the one bad one. It just coasted along on the energy of the others, not contributing anything, like a child living at home with his parents after college. Yet somehow, by the will of some loving G.o.d, he could run. Fast. All I could think about as I ran was how I could first kill the d.a.m.n thing and make it look like an accident. Run through traffic and hope he gets. .h.i.t? Feasible, but also likely that I'd be struck by a car, which has never been on my to-do list. I've never even broken a toe. Call me adventurous.

So I did what any respectable, scared 20-something male would doI turned around, squared my position, looked around to see if there was anyone watching and I kicked the thing smack in the face. It was a spectacular performance. Any soccer player would have agreed that I was blessed in that moment with perfect techniquea divine gift delivered to the steel toe King David of my boot. My foot landed just under the jowls of the beast and raised him head first until he made a flip and landed right on his back. I wish that someone had caught it on video. I'd be an overnight star on YouTube. Who wouldn't want to watch an averagely attractive guy kick a three legged, one eyed dog in the face as it urinates all over itself? The correct answer is no one.

For a moment I started to feel sorry for him. He whimpered in a high-pitched whine and panted so heavily that I thought I pushed his ribs halfway into his throat. But then I saw itstill in his mouth, the reason for this whole ridiculousness, now covered in blood. In a moment of self-confidence after my victory, I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath and reached a hand in there. Wrapped around one of those nasty teeth was a ring. Not just any ringthe ring.

Eight days, thirteen hours and ten minutes ago I asked my girl to marry me. The ring that I had carefully picked out for her was now wrapped like a lace bow around a beast's tooth. Anyone would wonder why there was such expensive wrapping on a dirty, s...o...b..ry present.

I rotated the ring back and forth trying to jog it loose, hoping that the b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't suddenly get a boost of energy and bite my hand off.

I put the slime-and blood-covered six-thousand-dollar ring into my pocket and wondered what to do next. People had started to gather around and I had to have a story to get out of this in the clear. Time to turn on the old charm, I thought. Come on high school drama cla.s.s, don't fail me now. "Help! Please," I shouted, "this dog was. .h.i.t by a car. Please, anyone."

"Oh, dear," a rotund older lady said, "can you carry him? My husband's clinic is right down this way a few blocks."

It was time to kick it up a notch.

"Thank you so much ma'am. He's been following me for the last few minutes. I think he likes me, but the poor thing just couldn't keep up." Man, I am such a great liar! "Then he crossed the street with me at just the wrong time, and bam. His three good legs couldn't get him across the street fast enough."

When I smiled just then, I'm pretty sure one of my pearly whites had a sheen glow briefly, like in those old Pepsi commercials. Enjoy a Pepsi. Ding! Enjoy a Pepsi. Ding!

"Oh, the poor thing. Come on."

I picked up Satan though it took all my remaining energy. I was surprised by my own strength. It's amazing what your body can do after you have triumphed over the Devil himself. His body was limp in my arms and it was difficult to get a good grip on him. After a couple of awkward poses together, we finally settled into a pace that worked for both of us and we stopped stepping on each others toes.

The woman and I commiserated on our short walk to her husband's office. I learned that her name was Darla (are you kidding me?) and her husband was Herbert. Herbert and Darla Tanis. What year is this and where am I again? They'd been married for 20 years and have many pets. No rottweilers, though, of course. If you pictured a 45-year-old nice fat woman, she fits that image to a 't'. Big eyes, short, stubby arms just long enough to wrap a huge hug around a large child or small man. Dark brown hair and a dated half dress/half muumuu graced her with surprising dignity, much like I've pictured Mother Goose to look. The only other stereotype that I've seen fit someone so perfectly was my Italian roommate in college. Every time he was offered food, he yelled, "L'appet.i.to vien mangiando," as any good Italian does apparently.

We rounded the corner and the Tanis Animal Clinic was a few doors down from there. It was a handsome establishment in the middle of a somewhat dumpy street. I wondered how I had never noticed the clinic before. When we walked in the doors I was transported back to the 50s. I might as well have walked into a soda bar, with girls in beehive, and boys with pompadours. A young couple sipping from a milkshake from a gla.s.s with two straws, gazing at each other, wondering when and how they might get to lover's lane for some hanky panky without their parents finding out.

A thick, stately man paraded out from the back who I could only a.s.sume was the big man himself. He was balding and pretty shortjust big enough for Darla to wrap her arms around, I thought chuckling silently and shaking my head. Herbert was one of the few men that looked right bald. Some bald men you see and think, eeeehhhhh, that's unfortunate, and try your best not to stare. With Herbert, though, it worked. I bet that if he made the exclusive guest list to heaven, he'd still be bald (because, well, it's Herbert Tanisbald man extraordinaire) and G.o.d would parade him around as a trophy of the aging male.

"Goodness!" he exclaimed, as a man of his time would be expected to say in that situation.

"Oh Herby." Ha. Herby Herby. "I was bringing you your lunch and I came across these two. Is there anything you can do?"

"He looks pretty bad, but let's see what we can do. Bring him in here."

We followed the trophy through a short hallway lined with photos of happy clients and their mended pets. I took note of how many rottweilers I saw. Precisely zero. The room looked like a typical doctor's office except that it was actually pretty comfortable. It didn't feel like death or sickness, but rather like a blanket of fur that you might snuggle into for a while before realizing that it is, in fact, the carca.s.s of a dead animal and you want it off you immediately.

I laid Hades onto the metal table and he was still bleeding, panting and whimpering. For the first time, I started to feel sorry for the dog as he looked at me in pain. I put my hand into my pocket to finger the ring, making sure it was still there. Herbert took a few diagnostics and asked me questions about what happened, who's dog it was and other background information that I utterly lied about with an air of honesty. I felt like a politician telling his people what they want to hear. Lying is ok when it's good for the system, right?

I told him in detail about how I didn't know who's dog it was and how sad it was the condition he was in, what with its three good legs, one eye and bladder infection. Luckily he had peed all the liquid out of his body when I rapped him and there was none left to squirt around the sterile clinic, but the stench of the urine had stained his fur. He was wearing a tag that identified him, but I said that I didn't know the owner or how he got so far away from home. I recounted my story as best I could. I was a true hero in this epic, stopping to help a poor animal out of my busy schedule because it's what a good person should do. At one point Darla pushed her bottom lip out and pouted with an 'aww' thrown in there.

"Well, this guy's in pretty bad shape here," Herb said. "His jaw is fractured and there's a pulled muscle and some bruising in his neck and hind legs."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Darla.

"We should try and get ahold of the ownera Ms. Allison Grayson." He read from the tag. "I'm sure she'll want to know where her dog is and that this kind man may very well have saved his life. There's nothing we can really do for him except give him some pills for the pain and wait for him to heal by himself." The doctor turned to go call the number on the dog's tag.

Interesting twist, I thought: Cold-blooded ninja warrior turned hero. It was a good plan if for no other reason than to make her feel sorry for me. Before the doctor made it out of the door I interrupted: "I'll carry him to her house," I said in a kind tone. "It's not that far from here and it's on my way anyways."

"What a kind man you are." Darla whimpered.

"You sure are, a true samaritan." Echoed Herbert. "Please tell Ms. Grayson that this service is on the house because of your generosity and that if he ever gets sick again that our doors are always open."

"I will tell her and sing your praises," I said with conviction.

He finished cleaning up Satan and gave me a sample bottle of pain pills to give to Allison. Ms. Grayson was not a name I would ever think to call her again. Not after all this bulls.h.i.t. Who knows though, for a second I thought that things could turn out differently after I bring her poor dog back home from his long, painful, and much deserved experience.

Chapter 2.

Irang the doorbell and waited for a minute. The Antichrist was getting pretty heavy in my arms. I'm not made of much brawn and this 100-pound beast was getting the best of my strength. I felt like Christopher Robin holding Pooh bear up to get some honey, except there was no honey and this creature was not at all cuddly. I considered dropping him on the stoop as a final revenge, but my story would be blown if she opened the door at that moment. So I waited.

I heard footsteps come closer and closer to the door, and then silence. With wooden floors it's hard to hide your movements and someone outside can always tell when you come to the door but don't answer. They can even hear you walk away and know you just don't want to see them. If she decided not to open the door and to walk away it would be like watching her deliberately not answer her cell phone if I called from 20 yards away.

I'm sure she could only see my mug and not her precious beast as she peeked through the eyehole to see who it was. She suddenly swung the door open in a huff as if she were about to scream and slap me across the facebut then she gasped. "Oh my G.o.d!" she yelled. "What the h.e.l.l happened?" The yelling turned to sobs as she began to pet her dog. Well I couldn't very well tell her the truth and I sure wasn't going to tell her why he started to chase me to begin with, so I retold the story as Darla remembered it. Her version was rife with emotional torment, like a made for TV movie. Mine was CNN. Telling the story for the third time was much easier and the facts starting to feel like truth to me, and thus they would to everyone else.

She invited me in and I laid Satan onto the sofa. Allison stroked his head as I recounted every false detail. She was eating up every word like fine soft cheese, savoring each bite. I was a true wordsmith pulling out words I didn't know I knew and metaphors even Billy Collins would approve of. I told her all about Darla and Herbert who was the 'true' hero in this story. I had to fight myself not to wink and give a thumbs up as I said it. When I got to the part where I carried the dog home, she threw her arms around me and showered me in thank yous.

Unsure of what to do next, I said I was in a hurry and just wanted to make sure she heard what happened. I gave her the pills, repeated the dosage info Herbert had told me, and stood up. I looked at the dog and couldn't tell whether he was looking at me as an enemy or his saviour. Technically I was both, as most heroes are, but dogs don't remember all that much anyways, right? If they could talk, then there might be some issues, but as far as science knows right now, they can't and I was safe.

She started to baby talk the devil dog as I opened the door to leave. G.o.d I hate baby-talking to animals, especially to f.u.c.king rottweilers. They're animals not children. I'm not saying we shouldn't be nice to animals, but don't treat them like children. That's just sad.

On the walk home that afternoon, I couldn't quite decide whether I felt exhilarated by my performances or depressed about everything that happened before the debacle.

The morning before, I had woken up hopeful about myself with Allison. I had bought a ring that cost me six months worth of work and had planned the perfect proposal.

A friend of mine's dad owned a traveling carnival. I told him my elaborate plan and convinced him to keep the carnival open an extra night so that we could have our own private party. All he'd asked in return was that I try and convince his son Greg to get his life together. Knowing full well it would never work, I had agreed to try. Greg was one of those guys who didn't really have any goals. He lived the life of a typical fraternity jock even though he was neither a jock nor in a fraternity.

Later that day, when we got to the carnival, Allison had no idea that I had set everything up just for us. I guess she thought that it was just an unusually slow night because she didn't seem to find it strange that we were the only ones there. Eventually, after wasting some money trying to win her G.o.d-awful stuffed animals that she'd throw away in a week or so, I got us onto the Ferris wheel and asked the lovely hostess to let us hang out at the top for a while. It's amazing what a $20 bill will get you from a carnie. I could have gotten her to cluck like a chicken, but decided that wasn't all that romantic. It's too bad she wasn't a violinist, a poet, or something else that would be useful on a romantic evening. As we sat there at the top of the wheel looking out over the Boston skyline across the Charles, I doused her with a bucket of words, in my best lover's tone. I pulled out some "Remember when we... " moments which girls always melt for. As she was dripping into a puddle, I pulled out the ring and said the words that every man loves to dread.

Despite a slight hesitation, her answer started out perfect with an "Oh, Josh." The ring had one of those lights inside the case that made it shimmer like a star and it really did look beautiful (six grand's worth). Then came the worst words that can be said after a proposal. "Can we talk about this?"

Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?

"It's just that I don't know if I'm ready for that yet."

Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?

"You know I love you so much."

I briefly debated jumping off and wondered how long it would take until I finally hit the ground. Instead, I yelled down to the carnie to bring us down.

"Josh."

Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?

"Josh. Will you talk to me?"

The only thing I could muster up to say was "I want a corn dog."

When we finally got off the wheel of shame (as I call them now), I marched over to the food vendor area. Unfortunately food was not part of the deal with the owner. Only the rides and a few of the games were open to us. Are you f.u.c.king kidding me? I just wanted a G.o.dd.a.m.n corn dog.

We went back to her place because she wanted to talk, which really meant that she wanted to talk and wanted me to just sit there and not say anything, feigning interest in what she had to say. As we walked in, Satan glared at me and growled. Other than the fact that I hated him in return, I couldn't figure out why he hated me so much. I had never hit him or anything. I had fed him when I was asked to and walked him a few times, though he just tried to escape my grasp the whole time, probably with the urge to eat some defenseless children. We scooted past him as he stared me down the whole way up the stairs to her bedroom. What was once a nest of young love now looked like a battlefield as we both strapped on our armor and got into position.

After a war of ideas on how to get out of this horrible mess, I somehow fell asleep exhausted from battle. She probably kept talking at least 20 minutes after I dozed off. I had a dream that night where carnies were dancing in a circle around the ring chanting in an ancient carnie language the songs of their ancestors. It was oddly entertaining, though disturbing. I half expected Hannibal Lecter to come out and start eating their cold, clammy brains with a nice gla.s.s of Chianti before putting on a Bach record and air conducting along. All of a sudden, a rogue carnie drove one of the trucks top speed right into the middle of the campfire. The damage was devastating. I heard the screaming of the ones not killed on impact, but injured severely. The animals' cages had all broken loose and all the lions, tigers, elephants, and other large animals started running around in no particular direction. Eventually the scene quieted down after the sound of the ambulances faded along the dirt road heading back to the city.

When I woke up she had left for work early and left me a note saying that she was glad we talked and that she'd be home for lunch if I was still around. I made it a point to remember not be at lunch with her that afternoon. Besides, I had to go to work.

I worked as Barista at the local Starbucks, churning out over-priced water and bean-based beverages for people who thought they were more important than they really were. Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk. I used to always just think to myself, "Just order the regular one fatty, it's clearly not making a difference." But then again, I needed the job so I just smiled and handed over the drinks hoping that they'd spill it all over themselves and burn some of that loose skin off. Whatever, you've all thought it before too, so don't judge me. Some people just ask for it and I duly give it.

That was my endless routine for 6 hours a day, 6 days a week. It could have been worse, but not by much. Most of the time I just got into a zone and didn't see, feel, or have any real interaction outside of my own mind. It was like when you're driving and 50 miles down the road you suddenly can't remember driving that distance because you were in a trance conjured by the endless stream of white lines ticking like the seconds on a clock rolled out flat.

My goal was to get better at repeating this trance-like state. I wanted to see if I could learn to control it. That'd be a pretty good skill and I could use it daily. The whole day before it would have been a G.o.dsend. Especially after all of that proposal mess, I wanted the ability to help me not think of the harsh rejection. So for the rest of the day I decided to practice. I would zone out and make lattes. I became less and less like an employee and more like a robot. No extras, just work. I was super efficient and everything was going well until one lady ordered her usual "Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk."

She stomped through the doors wearing her power suit that was about to bust at the seams from a bunch of powerless and angry cloth. Her sungla.s.ses never came off as she got in line in a huff because she had to wait. She spoke quickly and loudly into her Bluetooth headset talking to someone who probably cared as little about what she was saying as everyone in the store. I noticed a few other customers roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of her and how typical and contrived her performance was.

Melinda, who works the registers, and I normally worked the same shifts. She was what she was and not much more. I couldn't have cared less about her and rarely spoke to her about anything. On that day, though, she forgot to write soy on the cup and the lady was furious. The fat b.i.t.c.h took a sip of her drink, reeled back, and spit it out, landing a spray of coffee bullets all over me as if I were a paper target in a shooting range. "This is NOT soy milk!" she screamed and proceeded to dry heave a la Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber except here it was not at all funny, just sad.

She threw her drink down onto the ground, spilling her Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with skim milk all over the floor as well as a few customers who were just minding their own business. I had never seen such a scene. She stood there screaming like an under-qualified military officer who just got promoted because her daddy was an elite officer. She was struggling for command of her soldiers, but everyone knew she didn't deserve any sort of respect and they all just wanted her to shut up.

My boss came out to try and console her, but she wasn't having any of it. Other customers were upset because they were either covered in her coffee or because they now had to wait as all the employees were scrambling to help and clean up.

I looked over at Melinda, dripping in a mix of s...o...b..r, espresso and sugar, and then looked down at my shirt. Looking back up to Melinda, she gave me a face that said 'What?' Eventually our boss had to give the lady a bunch of free drink coupons to get her to shut up and leave. It's amazing what you can get in life if you're evil and cause enough trouble. People will just reward your indecencies to try and keep the peace. All the regular people just going along should be rewarded for being regular. All the b.i.t.c.hes like her should be clubbed over the head and tossed to the gutter. If it weren't for that whole "justice and law system" thing, then I may very well have gone Fight Club on her.

Marcus, the owner, walked over to us shaking his head. "Alright you two, will someone tell me what the h.e.l.l that was all about?"

"The cup didn't say soy." I said politely.

"What? It sure did. He just didn't read it right." Melinda retorted.

Marcus looked at the two of us and went to go find the cup that had caused the whole mess. He picked it up, wiped it off and came back over. By now, all the coffee had erased or smeared most of what Melinda wrote. There was really no telling what was there originally.

"Look. I understand that she's just exceptionally nuts and completely out of her tree, but we can't have people do that in our store, so we have to make sure their orders are right. OK? Please don't let this happen again. Either of you."

Melinda and I agreed to be more aware and Marcus retreated to the office in the back. I grabbed a napkin to try and dry some of the gunk off of me, but it would have taken more napkins than the store had to get me clean. So I decided to be disgusting the rest of the day and proudly display my wounds from that battle.

I debated whether or not to drift off into a trance again but after you've been through something like that, it makes you care even less. I was contemplating revenge on Melinda when I heard a "Whoa, what happened to you?" I looked up and saw the last person in the world that I wanted to see. Allison. I would have rather had the Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk lady come back and spit in my face again than to see her.

"Look, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Alrighty, well I didn't see you at lunch today so I thought I'd see if you were here."

"Well here I am."

"You want to come over after work?"

"After a day like this I don't really think I'll be in a great mood." Not to mention a night like last night.

"Oh. Ok. Well if you change your mind, I'll be there just hanging out, ok?"

"Yeah, ok." There's no way in h.e.l.l that's going to happen.

She looked almost as defeated as Marcus did a few minutes ago and I couldn't help but smile a little bit inside for my small win. It's amazing that after shooting you in the heart, girls will often want to smile and cuddle afterwards. What they don't realize is that most of the time we just want to get them back. We want revenge. Not serious revenge, just little victories here and there. She retreated and rounded the corner outside the store then faded away.

It wasn't until two showers later that I felt like I got myself clean from the fat b.i.t.c.h spittle. I still shudder thinking about it. The next day, she came back. That Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk lady and her stupid face. I saw her walk in and was tempted to make whatever it was wrong on purpose just to see what would happen. I looked over and Melinda's face hardened as soon as she saw the woman.

Of course she used one of her many free drink coupons and walked briskly to wait for her cup, standing in front of everyone who was already waiting patiently. "Let's go, I'm in a hurry," she said, just begging me to forego my generally high sense of morality. "Come on!" she yelled again. "And could you maybe try and make it right this time?"

"Coming right up." I said cheerfully. After giving the other satisfied customers their drinks I finally started making hers. My mind was racing trying to think of what I could do and suddenly it hit me. The adrenaline took me by the hand and helped me as I took her Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk, put the lid on loosely and 'tripped' as I took a small step over to give it to her. The cup flew out of my hands and my G.o.d was it beautiful. I wish the Planet Earth video crew were there to film it at 100 frames per second so that we could watch it again at super slow motion in all of it's glory.

The lid that was loosely placed on the cup came off first as the first bits of coffee flew out. The cup got some good air as it left my hands and I had just enough time to see a reaction before the bomb landed. Her face was pure joy to my eyes. Just as her mouth started to open up into a scream, her Extra hot, double half-caf, non-fat, no-whip Mocha with soy milk landed on her face first, then her chest and the last little bits made it all the way to her feet. Like a cartoon, the cup hit her square on the head a hair later than the coffee did. I was an unbelievable shot. Everywhere that it landed it slid downward, around all her fatty rolls, invading every crevice and planting flags at each stop to claim its territory. The bloodcurdling scream she belched resounded so loudly that a few other people dropped their own drinks on the floor in surprise.

The new guy, eager to be helpful, rushed over to the woman with a whole ream of napkins to help get her dry. Marcus ran out of the back and as he saw the whale, he ran full speed over to her almost knocking over the display of Starbucks sponsored CDs and a few customers as well. After a.s.sessing the situation, looking at the woman and then Melinda, he looked straight at me. I had never seen that look in anyone before. He looked the way Jack the Ripper must have just before he carried out his well-planned murders. I tried to act surprised, but I was enjoying the moment too much to pull it off with any sort of conviction, and he saw my game. "Josh. My office. Now! Oh, G.o.d, you have got to be kidding me."

I slowly and triumphantly removed my ap.r.o.n and in my head I heard everyone in the place erupt into applause. I'm sure a few people who were there had seen what happened before and had seen her in the store a few other times as well. I hoped that someone understood and smiled with a nod while seeing the whole thing play out. Melinda looked at me as if she had just gotten smacked across the face by her best friend without provocation. Slightly bowing every few steps along the way, I brushed past Melinda, pushed open the door and arrived backstage to my green room.

It didn't occur to me until a few minutes later that this would end up hurting me pretty bad. I was still running on the fumes of my high to care much, but it all came to a screeching halt when Marcus came back in looking like Wile E. Coyote with the Road Runner in his sight.

Chapter 3.