It Was My Job!
The holidays rolled around, my first after college. My parents went away around Thanksgiving, which was my greatest reason to give thanks. Not only did I not need to stay sober on Thanksgiving Day – an agonizing thought – but my parents asked me to watch our poodle, Mocha, while they were gone.
I was getting a dog!
“We can trust you to take care of her, right?” they said.
“Of course!” I said. I loved dogs more than I loved anything else in the world, and I loved Mocha more than I loved all other dogs. She was the treasured family pet, my bright light from childhood. I was thrilled that she’d be coming to stay with me.
Mocha was a very easy dog. She was older, relaxed, and required only basic care. She slept next to me on the couch as I drank and smoked – things she’d never been around. Our yard was a small square behind the house that couldn’t be reached without a hike down the block, around the slum building and through a locked fence – so Mocha got walked instead of “let out” every day. I’d stroll down the streets with her, me hungover and/or drunk, Mocha perky and happy to be outside.
These were happy times.
On Thanksgiving day, I woke up around noon as usual. Larry was in the kitchen with a tea towel tucked into his jeans, like he was in a sixties sitcom.
“I’m ready to cook the turkey!” I said, lighting a cigarette and grabbing the two-liter of Diet Coke.
“It’s already in!” Larry said, smiling. “We even have stuffing!” He showed me the empty box.
This felt wrong. I was raised with a Mom who did all the cooking, including on holidays. It seemed only right that on my first Thanksgiving with Larry, I should make the turkey.
“What do you mean it’s already in?” I asked. “It’s my job to make the turkey! I’m supposed to make the fucking turkey!”
“The turkey takes a long time,” he said. “You weren’t up yet and ….”
“But it was my job!” I screamed. “It’s our first Thanksgiving and I am supposed to make dinner!”
I had absolutely no idea how to cook, but I continued to scream at Larry until he started to scream back. We screamed and tossed things around in the kitchen until I finally stormed out the door, furious.
Mocha ran down the stairs and out the door with me. The noise terrified her; we both needed air.
But Larry followed furiously in his clunky boots, yelling: “You fucking bitch!”
Mocha and I were standing on the cobbled-brick street in front of the house when he arrived – fuming and out of control.
“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING LEAVING ME AGAIN!” he screamed, spoon still in hand.
Neighbors came to their doors and windows to witness the Thanksgiving commotion.
Hearts ruptured as Larry aimed all of his rage at my poodle. “FUCK YOU DOG! FUCK YOU STUPID FUCKING DOG!” He stomped after Mocha, his giant boots booming on the bricks.
I watched helplessly as Larry chased her down the street in ten thunderous strides.
“LEAVE MY FUCKING DOG ALONE YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” I screamed at him.
“Fucking dog,” Larry mumbled, slamming himself back inside.
Mocha had skittered off into a neighbor’s yard, safely away from the mean man with the boots.
I found her quickly, trembling and traumatized. Mocha and I sat on the curb for a long time, me petting her, calming her, calming myself.
Eventually we had to go back inside. It was cold.
And I needed a beer.