The lobby doors were usually locked by this time of night. Tonight was no exception. Max swiped his card through the reader. The electric strike buzzed open when he entered his 4-digit PIN. On the other side of the darkly tinted heavy glass doors, Max strode to the mailboxes. Using a similar PIN he opened box 401. He grabbed a sheaf of papers, advertisements, bills, magazines, and a free trial size sample of a feminine hygiene product.
He had been taking his mail from box 401 at this address for about ten years now. The mailboxes themselves were new. Well, actually old hardware salvaged when the old U.S. Post Office had been remodeled. They looked pretty cool here. Max was glad that he had gone to the considerable expense to have them installed. The seven boxes were located between the stairwell and the empty space where the elevator wold be someday. One mail box for each of the 2 retail spaces on the ground floor, one for each of two apartments on floor numbers 2 and 3, and one box for the fourth-floor flat.
With the exception of Max, the other tenants in the building were relatively recent imports. About the time that Max moved in, most normal human beings would not intentionally have set foot in this building, let alone this neighborhood. This particular structure was planned and designed specifically for this location in the late 1960's. In those days the central business district was still the regional hub for shopping and business activities. The 20-square block downtown served as the social and economic focus for a radius of about 30 miles in any direction. Until, that is, until the 'Invasion of the Malls.' The civic leaders in those days were also the owners of downtown real estate, and the operators of downtown businesses. In their collective wisdom, they declined the opportunity to buy-in, sell-out, or otherwise participate in a shopping mall project proposed for this part of town. The mall developers simply moved to a semi-rural location and built the mall. This is the mall that the city fathers knew would sputter and falter for lack of business. After all, who in their right mind would want to drive five miles farther just to go shopping? Everything that their customers had ever needed or wanted in the past was right here. Right here in the old-fashioned friendly downtown shops. What their patrons also had plenty of were high prices, poor selection, limited parking, and pigeon shit everywhere.
Ah...yes. The price of ambiance.
Needless to say, in the wink of a mall rat's eye, the downtown district had withered, decayed, and fallen prey to seedy pawnshops, dirty taverns, winos, and prostitutes. Shortly after the Franklin Building was completed, about half of the downtown store fronts had been boarded up. A few years later the building went on the auction block and was sold on the court house steps for the price of back taxes. A family friend, and real estate developer, had clued Max in on a pending megabuck investment in the neighborhood. This fellow had even entered into a real estate contract with Max in order to close the deal. Max had scraped together every cent, called in every marker, and generally hocked himself up to the eyeballs in his first (and hopefully last) real estate gamble. What had put Max into debt to the tune of $120,000 (a King's ransom in Max's parlance), was now appraised at many times that original paltry sum. Now that things were looking up, he had been thinking of it as his 'most recent hostile corporate takeover'. His cut of Manny's scheme was very likely to retire the mortgage post-haste.
When Max first moved in, he was the only tenant, save for a barber shop and a bar so seedy that even Max didn't make it a regular stop on his social calendar. Those two monthly rent checks, plus what he was saving in his own rent, came fairly close to making payments on the real estate contract. One at a time the vacant office suites on the second and third floors were converted to apartments while he slowly transformed the top floor spaces into one large flat, complete with spacious garden and patio spaces.
Over the ensuing years, the barber shop had been replaced by a unisex hairstyling salon, and boutique complete with tanning beds and a drive-up espresso window. The seedy stumble and puke bar had mutated into a trendy yuppie-haven cocktail lounge complete with a sashimi bar, and karaoke. The place was decked out in muted earth tones, light oak furniture, brass fixtures, indirect art-deco lighting, and (ugh!) ferns. Needless to say, Max avoided the joint and usually darkened the doors only to collect the monthly rent check.
Plodding up the stairwell, Max gazed out to the surrounding neighborhood. From ground level all looked fresh and new and clean and safe and affluent. Upon reaching the vantage point afforded by the fourth-floor landing, it became very clear that this little part of the city was a virtual oasis in the center of a desert of decay. The Franklin Building served as a dividing line between ascent and decline. To the north was the multi-million dollar office complex that incubated the good times, and to the south were crumbling husks of buildings owned by shortsighted and dying old men. Looking out upon the no-man's land between here and work left no doubt that his decision to carry a .38 in his belt was a good one.
"Ow ow-woooooo, ow-woooooo. Ow-ughf, ow-ughf, ow-ughf, ow-wooooooo."
Shaking his head, Max thought to himself that this was probably the only place in the city where he wouldn't be evicted because of Bruno's incessant howling. After all, he was his own landlord.
The routine was simple and straight forward. Unlock the door, but open it just a crack. If a slobbery black nose didn't try to wrench the door from his grasp, then all was well. If the nose did appear, it was a very good indication that the beast had again succeeded in breaking into Max's portion of the apartment. If the door was freely opened under such circumstances, the beast would bolt. What little brains that Bruno did possess were instantly put into cold standby at the prospect of leashless freedom.
On the occasions that Bruno did escape directly from the apartment, he would make a mad dash for any open door, window, or stairwell. If an escape route leading to the outside world existed, he would find it. Forget calling him back or tracking him down. When the beast obtained his freedom like this he was always gone for hours. No exceptions. Sometimes he would stay relatively close to the apartment building, especially on the weekends when there were plenty of people out and about trying to enjoy themselves.
From Bruno's perspective, the weekend people could be categorized into two distinct groups. Group number one was composed of those that when approached by an overly-friendly smiling, slobber-encrusted doggie, would stoop to scratch his ears or perhaps even share a tidbit of food. Group number two consisted of those that were instantly paralyzed with mortal terror, reflexively dropping any food that they might be holding, when accosted by an ominous, and apparently rabid, black beast with fangs like unsheathed daggers. Inspection of the relinquished booty and rapid disposal of any consumables was often followed by a refreshing run. Bruno just loved to run, and the members of group number two could, and would, run for blocks and blocks before they collapsed or dashed into the safety of a store front, car, or phone booth. Bruno preferred to play with group number two, even though their shrieks of terror or flailing limbs sometimes caused a bit of discomfort.
On the other hand, when attached to his leash and then released from the apartment, Bruno would actually respond to most commands from Max. Once escorted from the apartment on the leash, Max could even let Bruno run free with a fairly reasonable expectation that the hound would come, sit, heel, stay, and speak when commanded.
Today, Bruno would not escape unfettered. There he was, behind the filmy sliding glass door that separated Max's portion of the apartment from Bruno's lair. The exterior surface of the door was uniformly coated with dog slime from floor level up to about 36 inches (the average elevation of tongue and nostrils). He was howling pitifully through the glass, alternately staring at his food bowl, and pleading with Max for food, freedom and affection.
Just as the front door latch snicked back into the mortise, Max disabled the security system. Had it been a night-crawler that had just entered, the system would have activated in a matter of seconds. One of the deterrents designed into the security system was an electric latch on the patio doggie door. In less than half a minute after gaining illicit entry, a cat burglar would have his hands full with the pea-brained, compassionless beast. Even as a reject from the guard dog academy, Bruno was indelibly imprinted with the notion that a stranger, in his house, at night, in the dark, with the alarm sounding, was nothing more than a target. A target that was expected to be bitten, chewed, clawed, and otherwise traumatized to his little heart's content.
It was a wonder that there was not a bald spot on the top of the dog's head, the way he was continuously butting the latched doggie door. The poor guy had never quite made the connection between locked and unlocked. Luckily, he had no problem whatsoever distinguishing between the good guys and the bad guys.
This afternoon there were no bad guys, no good guys, just Master. Master went to the wall that opened and brought from it the big bag of food.
Aw-right! Bruno thought, saliva production going into over-drive. Dog food again!
His three-inch stub of a tail gyrated the rest of his body all over the patio, while his nose and slobbery lips traced a clearer liquid path along the sliding glass door. Every ten seconds or so, Bruno would give the doggie door another try. The food bowl, full to overflowing was coming closer and closer to the eating spot. Bruno's automatic waterer and space for his food bowl were in a corner on the kitchen floor segregated from the rest of the linoleum by a raised curb about of an inch high. In the center of this 18" x 24" area was a small floor drain. Max often thought that it would be nice if the whole apartment had similar features so that he could just hose down the entire mess once a month or so.
Max touched the doggie door release button, and in flashed the beast. He sprung directly for Max, his slobbery face just touching Max's finger. Turning in midair without stopping, Bruno made instantly for the food bowl. After all, it was his favorite.
Oh boy! Dog food again for the 239th day in a row!
Depending upon the type and variety of food, Bruno's feeding frenzy would last anywhere from five to ninety seconds. Canned dog food was the five second variety. Max would open two cans, removing the lids from both ends, and push out the congealed masses of grey, brown, or pink rubberized animal by-products and plop them into the food bowl. When Bruno was released, he would sink his choppers into the gelatinous loafs, biting off massive chunks, and literally inhale as he was going for the next bite. He made a sucking grunt with each of four or five bites, each taking only a fraction of a second. There were never any leftover fragments, splatter, or residue of any kind. On the majority of days, Bruno's fare consisted of dry food; small irregularly shaped nodules of reddish-brown compacted kibble. Filling the bowl to the point of overflow required about one and a quarter pounds. Bruno's method of ingesting the kibble nuggets was not quite as refined as with the molded meat pods. He would first mash his snout, jaws gaping wide open, to the bottom of the bowl. Then, as if staring at the ceiling, but eyes closed in doggie ecstasy, Bruno chewed like a Cuisinart as the masticated particles were sucked into his digestive tract. The frenetic chewing and grinding process sent chunks and nuggets and fragments off in all directions (hence the specially designed eating area complete with floor drain). About half of each mouthful was actually swallowed. After five or six cycles of dive-chew-swallow, the bowl was essentially empty, and the vacuuming process commenced. Bruno would huff, and slurp, and snort-up errant food fragments from the linoleum like a biological Hoover with lips. It was truly amazing that he didn't eat the bowl, the linoleum, or even his own paws. God only knows what would happen if any small animals, or children happened to be standing too close. Max had learned to keep his hands and feet well clear of the sharp moving parts as Bruno dispatched his dog chow.
Continuing the nightly routine required that Max feed himself, and most importantly, that Bruno be exercised subsequent to his feeding. Man and beast left the lobby of the Franklin Building, past the neon and fern-framed window of Frank's, rounded the corner and headed for the park. The park was, in essence, a narrow green belt with a bicycle/jogging path following the banks of Myrtle Creek for most of its journey through the city. The dog, once released from his fetters, would run ahead along the creek bank for about 100 yards, then return and travel upstream for an equal distance only to return again to repeat his cyclic sojourn. Max's two mile stroll became a ten mile run for Bruno. All the better since his habit of repeatedly stopping to sniff, mark, and unload unspeakably foul gaseous deposits at every opportunity required a large geographic area for adequate dispersal and dilution. Hence, the utmost importance placed upon the post-dining exercise regimen.
"There! Is that her?" Up ahead just crossing a foot bridge, Max could have sworn that it was her. The Jogger! Calling Bruno, he slapped the palms of his hands to his thighs to urge him on. Max was nearly in a panic as wild eyed and panting, Bruno raced up and skidded to a stop. He hooked up the hound to his wrist with an eight foot-long blue nylon leash, and began his pursuit. Bruno led the way, keeping a continuous tension on Max's arm. The duo exited the path, passing between two yellow posts, about three feet in height, planted in the bikeway asphalt designed to keep errant motorists from straying into the park. They were just in time to catch a last glimpse of The Jogger as she turned the corner and headed down the sidewalk onto Burley Avenue. At least that was what Max was watching. Bruno's attention had been grabbed by barely detectable furtive rustling at the edge of the path. Beneath, or within, a discarded Nacho Cheese Doritos bag, a small furry creature was in the process of taking his last small steps in this plane of existence. Planting his claws and initiating a 180-degree turn at full power, Bruno eliminated any discretion that Max had in regards to their intended destination or path of travel. Jerked nearly out of the shoulder Max's right arm pulled him stumbling into the very solidly mounted yellow post. With a dull thud and a squeak from Max, the post struck home scant inches below his belt line, taking with it every puff of breath in his lungs. He never did see the rodent meet his maker because even as the little bugger's tail was vanishing through Bruno's lips, all that Max could perceive was ringing in his ears, spinning stars before his eyes, and his balls in his throat. He may have been out for a moment, perhaps only distracted by the unfortunate turn of events. Moments after the stars dimmed, and his breath returned (no telling when his other parts would assume their normal positions) Bruno's probing nose and attendant rodent-scented breath prompted Max to at least sit up, in an effort to avoid being gassed into senselessness. Precious minutes lost, and with a good deal of his original motivation literally crushed, his pursuit of The Jogger seemed, at this point, to be futile. Hunched over somewhat, and moving much more slowly, Max inched his way down the path.
"Stupid fucking mutt!" Max croaked. "Bruno, you asshole."
At the mention of his name, Bruno looked up affectionately, still savoring the aftertaste of a tender and succulent mouse lingering on his delicate palate.
Max didn't know, for sure, just what it was that had sent Bruno into a spasmodic conniption and leaving himself (at least temporarily) wishing that his name was Maxine. He did suspect, however, that it had something to do with a squirrel, a bird, or a mouse of some kind.
"Mouse," he croaked, "go obscenity thyself."
Shuffling along the last few steps toward the lobby doors, he surveyed the goings-on in Frank's. It didn't really look all that bad. The ferns were not actually sitting on the bar. Even through the window, it was apparent that the beer glasses were heavily frosted as they were produced from beneath the counter.
"Perhaps I'll just stop in for one cool one. Maybe even a bite to eat." Since being diverted from the second half of his original mission by his sighting of The Jogger, not to mention the yellow post, his hunger had returned with a vengeance.
Rejuvenated after a quick shower, Max floated past the second floor landing, two steps at a time. Up till now, he had never considered himself as a potential patron of Frank's. Tonight, however, the lingering apparition of frosted beer glasses, combined with an empty refrigerator on the fourth floor, had radically modified his perspective. In the past few months that the Franklin Building Grill (a.k.a. Frank's) had been open Max had noticed a steady increase in the number of patrons. The curbside parking spaces out on Burley Ave, were always full on Saturdays from around noon to well into the evening. Max imagined that the lunch time crowd was probably a gold mine. On this Thursday night, there were enough customers to keep the bartender and short order cook awake. No one would work up a sweat. Max pulled up an un-upholstered bar stool that had a wooden seat contoured to fit your butt. It sort of reminded him of those perforated steel seats he had seen on antique John Deere tractors. His feet automatically came to rest on a brass rail held securely in the trunks of shiny brass elephants standing at three-foot intervals around the circular wooden bar. On the counter behind the bar Max was relieved to see that in addition to the expected somewhat dubious elixirs, aperitifs, cordials, coolers, liqueurs, sherrys, and vermouths, there were also good old fashioned whiskey from Kentucky and beer from Milwaukee from. This place even had Guiness Extra Stout on tap! Not bad for a fern bar.
The bartender was decked-out in a frilly white shirt complete with garters, a red vest, and a leather bow tie. An engraved white-on-black badge tagged him as Jerry. Jerry backhand-flipped a red and green cardboard Molson coaster in Max's direction from the far side of the bar. It landed about a foot away and slid to a stop right between Max's elbows. "Yessir! Welcome to Frank's. What can I get for you tonight?"
"Draw a pound of Guiness for me Jerry."
"Good choice, my friend." Jerry set a pint glass under the tap and started a slow thin stream of dark brown ambrosia. The genuine article Guiness taps regulated the pressure and kept the stream steady and even, preventing excess foam and providing just the right conditions for about three-quarters of an inch of the thick and creamy trademark head. Jerry had done this before, and his efforts did not go unnoticed.
"Great job my man!" Max complimented, smacking his lips in anticipation. The stout was at just the optimum temperature, about 55 degrees fahrenheit. Just cool enough to refresh, but not so cold as to mute the palate to the creamy rich flavor. "Jerry, this really hits the spot." Max nodded toward the sashimi counter near the front window. "I just wish that a guy could get a bite of real food in here. Something besides cat chow."
Jerry bowed deeply, and with a grandiose flourish whipped out a menu from behind his back. "Ask and ye shall receive, sayeth the Lord."
Flipping open the burgundy colored plastic pamphlet, Max had to catch his breath when his brain began to decipher the much too fancy calligraphy in the appetizer section. There were oysters (shooters, pan-fried, deep fried, and on the half shell), chicken (cajun style flaming hot wings, gizzards, livers, and breast fillets), sausages (pickled polish, knockwurst in beer, and Little Smokies in barbecue sauce), deep-fried goodies (mushrooms, onion rings, cheese, and prawns). The menu continued on, listing entrees, and salads, and sandwiches, and soups, and deserts, ad-infinitum.
"Okay, Jerry, set me up with a Reuben on rye. And while I'm waiting, I do believe that an order of flaming hot cajun wings and another Guiness are definitely in order."
Max was smiling, very pleased with himself at finally assuming the role of a Frank's customer. "This place is all right!" he mused, "I guess I should've stopped in to visit a long time ago."
Through the bottom of the initial Guiness pounder, Max could see the tray of tray of blackened chicken wings heading in his direction. Unfortunately, for the preservation of Max's delicate palate, the barkeep had neglected to bring a refill for the drained Guiness. The wings were, as advertised. FLAMING HOT.
"Yeeeowwww! Quick, gimme another beer! Quick!"
Flapping his hands and hopping up and down on the stool, Max quickly grabbed the attention of the other patrons. On cue, the barkeep produced not a beer, but a glass of ice water. The first order of flaming hot cajun wings nearly always elicited a similar reaction. The water and the rapt attention of regulars were always close at hand when wings were ordered by a newcomer.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Max sputtered, guzzling water and gasping for breath. He could feel his eyes bugging out and his throat constricting. "That's way way too hot!"
"Here, pal, eat a couple of these crackers." Grinning from ear to ear, and accompanied by a gathering peal of laughter form around the room, the barkeep offered a cellophane packet of saltines. "It works better than water."
"Hardly anybody ever orders the flaming hot cajun wings," Jerry explained. "Sure as hell, when a first-timer does, it's usually good for a show. What I would recommend is trying the gringo wings, they're still mighty tasty and plenty hot. Won't rip out your tonsils like this batch."
"Don't let this guy pull your chain." The voice came lilting over his shoulder. It was without a doubt the sexiest sound that had Max had ever heard. Well at least since his ears stopped ringing from the red-hot jalapeno chicken attack. "When Jerry heard you say the magic words 'Cajun wings', you can bet that you got a special batch. I eat these all the time. My first experience with Jerry's wings was about the same as yours. Here try a sip of this."
The words were coming from a face that matched the sound of the voice to perfection. Max's tongue was still sizzling from the attack of the cajun chicken, so he accepted the proffered libation. It was cold and soothing in his mouth and on his tortured tongue. But when he swallowed, the fire that had been consuming his tongue began a new attack on his gullet, gut, and gastrointestinal tract. Max tried to verbalize his current state of distress, but could only manage a dry gasp. Grabbing for the glass of ice water he chugged-down the remaining contents.
"Burrughhhph! Oh God, what the hell was that? Whatcha you trying to do, kill me lady?" Max wiped the tears of pain, fear, and surprise from his eyes. He suddenly realized that the heat from the killer wings and the mystery fluid had completely vanished. As a matter of fact, he didn't feel to bad at all. Feeling no pain and breathing a sigh of relief, he took a longer look at his benefactor with the melodious voice. Luckily, the ice water had been swallowed, otherwise his start of shock may have sprayed down The Jogger.
"The Jogger! You're The Jogger!"
"Pardon me?
It was her all right. She must have been hiding behind a potted palm, or a fern, or something.
"Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me...but I've been seeing you all over town the past few weeks. I work over at County General and I've seen you out jogging sometimes on my way back from the office. Well, not when I'm coming home from the hospital. I have an office over at the County Administrative Building. I was walking my dog by the creek a little while ago and saw you again. I was going to say hello, well not hello maybe, since I don't know you yet. I mean--"
"Hey, calm down there big boy," she said with a big, very bright smile. "Are your lips still hot?"
"Huh!? Lips?"
"Jerry keeps a bottle of 120 proof Stloli in the freezer. It works a real charm on the hot pepper sauce. The way I figure, first it freezes the pain away, then the alcohol dissolves-away the capsaicin. Capsaicin is a crystalize substance in hot peppers that gives them their pungency. Did you know that paprika comes from a very mild variety of hot pepper? And how about this; hot peppers are a member of the nightshade family. So are tomatoes and potatoes and eggplant. You can probably tell that I'm a hot food aficionado. That's how I found this place. Hey, have you eaten yet? They have great Mexican food here. Oh God, there I go again. The Stolichnya does it to me every time. I start to babble."
"That's perfectly all right. As a matter of fact I--"
"Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bobbie, Bobbie Huddleston." She smiled again, vigorously shook Max's hand, and paused, drawing in a long overdue breath.
"Hey, Jerry, cancel that Reuben. Bring the menu back again and set Ms. Huddleston here up with whatever suits her fancy."
"Why thank you, Max. You don't mind if I call you Max, do you? I overheard you talking with Jerry a few minutes ago."
"Max is fine. Glad to meet you, too, Bobbie. You know, this is about the last place that I would have expected to find you. From what I have seen of you so far, I would have said that you're a fitness nut. I've seen you at least five or six times, each and every one of those times you've been out jogging. Never expected to see you in a bar knocking back straight vodka rocks!"
"But that's exactly the reason that I do go out and hit the bricks, Max. If I didn't, I'd spend all my time eating enchiladas and sipping Stoli. Not much hope these days for 30-something fat old drunks. Max, did you say that you were out walking your dog?"
"Yup. Well, 'walking' is a bit of a misnomer. He usually drags me, or I chase after him. Not much walking involved in the process. Anyway, yes, I take him out so he can do his dogly duties at least every morning and every night after work. The exercise does me a little good, too. I try to walk to work whenever I can force myself up early enough, but besides that, the time I spend with Bruno at least keeps my appetite up.
"Oh, Max, I just love dogs, but I couldn't bear the thought of keeping one in a kennel, or tied up in a little apartment. Assuming of course that there is anyone willing to rent an apartment to a dog lover in this town."
"Yeah, it can be tough all right. I do know how difficult it must be to find a place to live that allows pets. I've only had Bruno for a few years, but luckily, my landlord doesn't seem to mind. As a matter of fact, there's a brand new apartment in my building, right now. It's an old office building that was converted to apartments. The last unit is just about finished and I'm certain that it's still available. His rental philosophy is really fairly open minded. Even though he is a pet owner himself, each applicant is evaluated on a case by case basis. I can honestly say that there doesn't appear to be any set criteria for acceptance or rejection. The application forms are non-existent, and the interview process is a one-on-one with the owner himself."
"Well, I don't have any pets right now, but I do need to find an apartment. I'm staying with one of the girls from work right now and it is really getting to be a pain. Looking for a place that is. I enjoy the building where I'm staying now because it's only a few miles from work. Max, your place must be somewhere close too, since you run Bruno right here in the park."
Max knew what was coming, what he was going to say, and probably how it was going to sound to Bobbie. "Yeah, it is really close by. Did you drive down here tonight?"
"Uh, yes. Why do you ask, Max?"
"Well, I was going to invite you to see my building, and if you'd like to see my apartment. But, on second thought, I thought that it might be better if I just walked you to your car and gave you directions to my building so that you could check it out at your convenience."
"What's wrong, Max? You aren't getting shy on me are you? Or perhaps you have a bit of the gentleman inside...." Bobbie crinkled-up her nose and shot Max a wink. "Not too much, I hope!"
"Nope. Not too shy, but when you find out exactly where my building is, and if you do happen to stop in and see the landlord, I just think that it might be a bit of a surprise. Here, let me jot down the address for you." Max pulled out a business card and wrote the address of the Franklin Building on the back. He folded it in half and handed it to Bobbie, hoping that she would take her time at checking the address and reconciling it with her present locale.
"Thanks Max."
"Speaking of appetites, what looks good to you? I had my mouth all set for a Reuben, but after that hot sauce, I think some chile rellenos might be just what the doctor ordered."
"Great!" Bobbie exclaimed, "Let's go for two of those. Jerry! You heard the man, and this time it's on me."
"Madam, I accept your gracious offer, and I extend to you my sincerest appreciation," Max extolled in his smoothest southern gentleman-type voice.