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 three,” by Julie Tran.
It was funny as a thought, but now that he was here, the actual prospect was so deeply uninviting that Bill, crouching furtively behind a tree, was sure that this day, were he to do what he was about to do, would sear itself upon his memory forever.
Several feet away from him, behind a similar tree, Othello peered in the same direction as he was. This day would be memorable to him, too, though Bill doubt it would be for the same reason.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Othello with satisfaction. “I’ve been wanting to hit this stand for a week.”
Begrudgingly, Bill admitted that he knew what Othello was talking about. Like a cruel cosmic trick, the stand was upwind from them, and wafting in their direction was the aggressively compelling perfume of hotdogs. They could see them: handed so cavalierly from the hand to hand, an easy and free flow of hotdogs. The only thing that dampened this sight was, ironically, the originator of the hotdog flow, a 300-pound hairy creature in what perhaps used to be a red-and-white striped suit but now looked brown-and-yellow. The creature, at best, bear vague resemblance to a human being. At worst, however, it resembled an peculiarly-shaped mound of the stuff you get from sweeping down hair salons.
“I agree, Othello, the dogs sure smell god,” said Bill, bobbing his head. “And I would love nothing more than to eat a food that’s named after our species but is made of an entirely different one — I mean, that’s the closest to luxury you can get. But there’s no way I’m attacking that thing,” he jerked his head in the direction of the hotdog vendor. “Not even if the hotdogs are named William Shakespeare, I’m not.”
Othello’s wrinkled face collapsed into itself as the bulldog frowned at him. “Who said anything about attacking the thing?”
“Well, how else are you going to rob a hotdog stand?”
Othello shook his head and mumbled something under his breath about amateurs. He pointed at the stand.
“You see the leash tied to that hook over there?”
Bill squinted. There indeed was a grayish leash tied to one of the hooks attached to the stand’s side. The other end of that leash was obscured by the stand, but Bill understood.
“You want to bully the guy’s dog into stealing for us instead?” he asked.
“Now you’re getting it!”
They got out from behind the trees and advanced. The park was packed with people and dogs — no one really paid any attention to the bulldog and the mutt smartly approaching the hotdog’s stand and following the leash to just beyond a shrub. Othello already had his mean face on. Bill had done his best to imitate him. Both of their faces, however, melted into unpleasant surprise as the end of the leash presented itself.
“Jesus, Othello, you’ve been casing this stand for a week and you didn’t even find out it’s a goddamn cat?” yelled Bill.
The cat was as black as any black dog, but much smaller and, in Bill’s opinion, much uglier. It stared up at the two dogs with wide yellow eyes.
“What’s your business, gentlemen?” it asked in a nasal voice.
Bill instantly hated it. He had always hated cats, partly because Jimmy, his old owner, had looked like a cat and he had looked like Jimmy and it had brought shame upon them both. But this cat, this cat was making his blood boil like no cat and no cat-like person had ever done. And he couldn’t even to begin to understand why.
“We have no business,” he said shortly, already turning to leave. “Let’s go, Othello.”
But the bulldog didn’t move.
“Let’s go, Othello,” he repeated. The bulldog made no sign he had heard him. Bill frowned, glaring at the cat, like it was its fault. But apparently, it really was, because the cat was also staring at Othello, open-mouthed in the cat-version expression of complete shock.
“Whiny!” exclaimed the cat.
“Hissy!” exclaimed Othello.
Bill couldn’t understand this sudden burst of adjectives. Bemused, he walked back to between the two.
“I’m guessing you two know each other?” he sighed defeatedly.
“Yes!” said Othello happily.
“From the breeder!” said the cat, just as happily.
“When we were babies!” Othello concluded, grinning at Bill. The grin faltered under Bill’s pointed gaze. Othello turned back to the cat.
“Listen, Hissy —”
“Not Hissy. I’m Lucy, now.”
“Listen, Lucy —”
“Lucy?” Bill scoffed.
“Yes, after the man’s ex-wife, Lucy,” said the cat with an attitude. “Excuse me, but who the hell are you?”
“Listen, Lucy!” said the bulldog forcefully. “They call me Othello now. And this is my associate, William Shakespeare.”
“Bill,” he corrected.
“Yes, Bill Shakespeare,” nodded Othello. “And Bill and I want to ask of you a little favor.”
“Favor?” echoed the cat.
“Yes. For hotdogs?”
“Hotdogs?”
“Yes, from your owner’s stand.”
“From my owner’s stand!” exclaimed the cat in wide-eyed surprise. “Heavens to Bast! Why on earth would you want to?”
“Well, they smell damn good, don’t they?” said Othello with much enthuse. “And we’re hungry. We’re men at hard work, Lucy, and we want something good to cap off the day.”
Slowly, Lucy shook her head, but not in the fashion of denial. It was more like the nods humans give someone when one of them was being an idiot.
“Sure, I’d get you the hotdogs,” said the cat in the voice of someone who wasn’t going to get them hotdogs, “if you want to cap off your day at hard work by going to the doctor.”
“What d’you mean?” asked Bill. “Are the hotdogs bad?”
“They can’t be bad,” Othello scolded him. “We would know! They smell as good as they come. Bill, seriously, have you ever sniffed anything that good?”
Before Bill could answer, the cat cut in, “No, he haven’t. Because the hotdog he’s grilling, he got from a brand that’s been discontinued for years.”
“Discontinued?” asked Othello.
“By the FDA, fool. Apparently they make humans sick. Hate to think what they’d do to you two,” said the cat airily, like it didn’t really hate it that much. “If you want real food, I suggest you head down to Jerome’s Bodega. It’s right around the corner.” The cat pointed vaguely west. “Tell them Lucy sent you.”
Bill looked at the cat suspiciously. “What, Jerome’s your friend or something?”
“Or something. He’ll give you real food, trust me.” The cat squinted its eyes at them shrewdly. “Maybe he can help your booze business, too.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Bill.
“The feline gossiping network is much more effective that your huffing and pawing, dear,” said the cat with sweet venom.
“Really?” said Othello with much enthuse. Without warning, he took from Bill’s dangling hand Carl’s client list and gave it to the cat, who took it. “Maybe you can help us with the promo and all.”
“Othello!” Bill protested. “We need the list to meet clients!”
“I’ll give it back tomorrow,” said the cat lazily, its yellow eyes flickering over the handwritten names. “And sure, Othello, I can help you. It’s real simple. You’ve got my word.” It looked up at Bill coldly. “Run along, now.”
Bill didn’t need telling twice. Once again he turned around and made to leave, but once again Othello stayed still.
“Why don’t you come with us?” said Othello abruptly, then immediately assumed an expression of surprise, like his own proposal surprised him just as much as it did the cat.
“Come with you?” repeated the cat. “As in forever? Like, run away?”
“Yeah, why not?” said Othello, his enthusiasm certain now. “Bill and I ran away, and we couldn’t be happier!”
The cat looked flabbergasted still. “Bountiful Bast, this is very sudden!” it said, then got suddenly thoughtful. “It’s true, I’m not the happiest here. But to slum it on the street like a feral animal …”
“I bet we can convince Carl to let you room at the dog bar.”
The cat thought about it. “I’ll have to think about it some more,” it said after a while. “I’ll get back to you after a while.”
Othello seemed happy enough with the cat’s answer, and he big his goodbye, walking and humming merrily. Bill, on the other hand, as not so pleased.
“We can’t let a cat into the dog bar!” he said in a furious undertone as they left the park.
“Why not?”
Bill clicked his tongue impatiently. “It’s a dog bar, Othello! We let one cat in, we might as well let the whole damn Bronx Zoo in.”
“Don’t be dramatic, William,” said Othello without concern. “I’m sure Carl will be fine with it.”
“But I’m not fine with it!”
“You know, you’re being very racist.”
“Racist?” exclaimed Bill indignantly. “How can I be racist when it’s a cat we’re talking about? If I was hating on a chihuahua, sure, that’s racist, but also understandable, because they’re so shrilly and aggressive all the time, the damn midgets. But a cat, Othello!”
“Alright, alright!” said Othello loudly. “But to Lucy’s credit, she told us where to get good food.”
“How do you know if it’s even good?” said Bill sullenly.
“Tell you what,” said Othello in sudden inspiration, “if the food truly turns out to be good, you have to stop being a b**** about letting cats in the bar.”
Begrudging, Bill agreed to it. Around sunset, they found Jerome’s Bodega eventually — it was small and unremarkable, tucked between a pharmacy and a grocery store that was closed down for renovation. A mean-looking German shepherd sat at the door.
“Hello,” said Bill uncertainly to this dog. It scowled at him and he shrank away.
Othello cleared his throat with a cough and took a brave step forward. “Lucy sent us?” he said.
“Lucy, you said?” barked the dog.
“Yes.”
“Good,” it nodded. “Go stand over there with Stan and Stanley. The twins,” it added, when Bill and Othello faces remained blank. “Wait for my signal there. Good God, what are you looking at! Go!”
Out of fright rather than understanding, Bill and Othello did what they were told. They went in the corner the German shepherd indicated to find themselves crouching behind a cluster of overflowing trashcans with two hairy chihuahuas, one white and one yellow.
“Stan and Stanley,” said the yellow one, with a raspy voice distinct of a heavy smoker. “Pleasure,” it said.
“Ditto,” said Billy.
And then came the signal. Bill knew it was the signal before he even knew what it was for.
“CHAAARGE!”
And from the crevices and corners of the street, no less than thirty dogs sprung up from their hiding places, fangs bared, and ran straight in the direction of Jerome’s Bodega with the German shepherd as their leader. It was too late when Bill and Othello, in a shared fleeting glance as they pounced in the direction of the canine flood, realized that they were part of an invading army.
