The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
‘Adventures of Bill and Othello — chapter one,‘ by Julie Tran.
Jimmy’s dog had always had this distinct, undeniable look of embarrassment. It was like if someone who knows Jimmy’s dog was shown a close-up photo of just the eyes and the nose, they would exclaim in a stroke of recognition that yes, that was indubitably Jimmy’s dog, because the dog looked indubitably like Jimmy.
Little did they know that this very resemblance was the reason for the dog’s embarrassment. Because let’s face it, Jimmy was not an attractive pal.
“Call me a b****, fellas, but he looks too much like a goddamn cat,” said Jimmy’s dog one weekend at the dog bar on 71st. Jimmy at the time was walking down 52nd, sticking Have You Seen Me posters to lamppost and trees.
“Is that really a good reason for running away, though?” said Larry, whose old owner name was also Larry. Larry’s old name was Doug, but when he ran away he decided to shed the symbol of control his humans had enshrouded him, and proclaimed his new identity by picking a truly celebratory name. Unfortunately, Larry the human was a loser who never had anyone over and never took him out, so the only other name Doug knew beside Doug was Larry. By the time Doug-slash-Larry found the dog bar, it was already too late. Changing your name twice just seemed tacky, you know.
From the other side of a bar, a rumbling gruff barked, “Good reason for running away? Who are you to tell anyone what’s a good reason for running away?” It was Othello, a bulldog that used to belong to a writer-slash-pianist-slash-cocaine-addict. Jimmy’s dog shrank in his seat, but Larry simply sent a withering glare over the brim of his pilsner.
“Just because your owner tried to sell you for five grams of crack doesn’t mean you get a monopoly on running away, Otho.”
“It’s Othello, you uncultured twit.”
A lazy voice drifted over, “Really, five grams?” I would’ve guessed ten, considering…” It was Biscuit, a magnificent poodle that Larry had a devastating crush on. But by a miserable act of God, Biscuit was engaged to be married to Carl, the owner of the dog bar, who, like each and every one of his patron, was an alcoholic. Unlike his patrons, however, Carl was a human. They thought he moved here from Minnesota, after his dad’s auto repair shop burned down and he got the insurance payout, but he only told the story once a long, long time ago, and they didn’t care enough to ask again. Biscuit didn’t like to ask, because she preferred that her man maintained an appearance of mystery.
“Considering what, Biscuit?” asked Larry breathlessly.
“Well, considering how buff Otho is!”
Even from across the bar they could see Othello blushing. “You think, Biscuit?”
“Careful, Othello,” Carl’s voice rang threateningly from behind the bar. “You’ve been having lots of drinks on the house now. Don’t want to start paying $5.75 for each, do you?”
Jimmy’s dog chuckled into his beer, which was also on the house. Carl usually did that for dogs with owners and dogs that had only just ran away, because where were they going to get the money to pay? Of course, after a while, they would eventually get some money and start paying, all of them, except for Othello, who didn’t seem capable of holding down a job.
Carl leaned on the bar and gaze around. He was a scrawny youth, freckled from head to toe under a shock of red curls that covered half of his thin-skinned, pointy face. It was now wearing a bland look of contentment, noteworthy only for the two spots of pale blue that were his eyes. After a while, these eyes came to rest lazily on Jimmy’s dog.
“So, you finally did it, bud?”
Jimmy’s dog grinned. He liked it when Carl called him “bud.”
“Yes, bud. I did it. I left that cat-looking son of a b**** and I came straight here.”
“That’s bold move.”
“I’m a bold guy.”
“Any idea what you’re gonna do for a job?”
Jimmy’s dog set down his mug and narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea?”
Carl spread his palms in a seemingly nonchalant, but was in fact calculated, fashion. “You can come work for me.”
“You’re kidding!” Jimmy’s dog laughed. “Work for you! Like bartending?”
“Actually, bud, I’m thinking something with more legwork. See, I’ve meaning to expand. Run a delivery service.”
“A booze delivery service,” Jimmy’s dog repeated slowly. “To whom?”
Carl spread his palms again, a smirk pushing up the freckled cheeks. “First, to our customers that can’t be here because their owners are on vacation or some other reason. Then we grow our business by approaching potential customers in the park.”
Jimmy’s dog snorted. “And do you want me to recruit runners, too, my Weasley drug lord?”
“Don’t laugh!” boomed a voice from behind him, causing him to squeal and tumbled sideway out of his stool. It was Othello — in a silence disproportionate to his size, the bulldog had crept up behind Jimmy’s dog to listen with an apparent, hungry interest. “What’s the pay, Carl?”
Carl’s pale eyes flickered up and down very quickly before he answered with a shrug, “Enough to pay me back for the free drinks, Otho. Might even have some to spare, you know, for food and stuff.” He turned to Jimmy’s dog, who was still climbing back into his seat. “So what do you think, bud? Just to kickstart the whole job thing? You can quit later if you want to, I won’t hold you to it.”
Jimmy’s dog frowned at his beer for a while. “Well, the job market is tough right now,” he admitted finally. “And it does give me the independence and whatnot from that cat-looking son of a b****, that whole thing Larry’s always on about. Right, Larry?” he turned to Larry, who was flirting gingerly with Biscuit and wasn’t listening, and turned back to face Carl, who was grinning.
“So you’re in?”
Jimmy’s dog downed the rest of his mug, then slammed it victoriously on the bar. “Hell yeah, I’m in.”
“I’m in, too!” said Othello eagerly, hopping on the spot. Carl nodded, glowing with contained triumph. They watched him disappear behind the door at the back of the bar and re-emerge with a sheet of paper.
“Here are all our regular customers,” said Carl, siding the sheet over on the counter. “You two go and see if they’re interested in having their booze delivered. No more having to sneak out to drink, yeah?”
“Yeah!” cheered Othello, swiping the list and tucking it on a pouch dangling from his nameless collar. With one mighty paw he slapped Jimmy’s dog on the back. “We can start right now, bud! Let’s go!”
Jimmy’s dog smiled politely as he eyed the black bulldog from head to toe. A vague sense of alarm bloomed in the back of his mind, like ink in water, but it was quickly diluted. Grinning courageously, he slid down from the stool.
“Alright,” he said. “Just don’t call me ‘bud.’ That’s kind of Carl’s thing.”
“What did your owner call you, then?”
Jimmy’s dog frowned in distaste. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He looked at Larry, who was slumped over in defeat as Biscuit once again rejected him. “I should probably name myself, right? Being independent and all?”
They made their way to the door, both had their faces scrunched up in search for a fitting name.
“William,” said Othello with definitive conviction. “Like Willian Shakespeare, the greatest human ever lived.”
Jimmy’s dog was inclined to snort in derision, but they had just entered daylight and Othello’s size cast a clear cool shadow over his entire body, and he thought better of it.
“Sure. Bill for short, though.”
Othello grinned toothily.
“Sure, Bill. But you’d better not be calling me Otho for short, like that son of a b**** Larry.”
“I would never,” said Bill in total honesty. The spot on his back where Othello had slapped him earlier was throbbing dully. Othello grunted in approval, and together they turned the corner of 71st Street, onto Columbus Avenue, determined to turn every dog in the city into an alcoholic.
