The First Time

Before Layla, my three-year old German Shepherd, and I finally arrive home, I notice a feeling of regret. I decided not to take the train. I don’t wanna get sick, and it would take longer.

I pull into a corner parking space in my apartment complex, looking in both side mirrors to ensure the car was accurately within the bounds of the faded yellow strips of the spot, while lowering the whispering sounds of one of her favorite songs, hearing, “And I held your hand through all of these years, but you will still have, all of me.”

I stop the music and feel the air conditioning vent with the hand I use to brush my teeth and emphasize an important point. My gaze shifts to the crackling bricks of surrounding buildings in the neighborhood, well-lit by the drooping sun, bleeding into the reflections of the nearby apartment windows. I briefly check on the continually depressed-looking plants in the three blue spotted pots on a terrace at my nine o’clock point of vision about three stories high, wondering (once again) what plants they are, and why they look like they’re struggling. Another one of the pots has a gray tone, seemingly with the texture of aging bricks encasing a 50-foot well, which looks like it’s from B-rated horror movies or Are You Afraid of the Dark episodes. Every time I see it, I laugh, thinking how I always hope there are no little kids trapped in there.

I hear a few fading voices, maybe the family next door. They sound impeccably obnoxious; they probably adore rooftop parties, say the phrase “without further ado” a lot, and hold seven cars in their garage, despite being a family of three.

Layla and I sit isolated in the lot, like a fisherman and his companion, miles from the dwindling coastline, holding hands with the aging horizon. Small waves of leaves bristle the wheels of the car, with some buckling above the tired, jagged river-patterns on the rear tires, and flossing the rusted pipes and dented bumper. The lot emulates a 3x3 Tetris shape, right outside of the 15- story building, saturated with small families and divorcees, maintaining a gray exterior. Most windows house tightly gripped fans and makeshift air conditioners, and the hallways stage occasional screams from the tenants.

I realign my backward Oakland Raiders cap, wiping the dog hair off of the logos. I look down at Layla on the passenger seat, noticing hair from her underbelly and tan upper chest in all areas of the seat. She gifts me with a sudden pinch of her cheeks.

My hand attacks the glove box and Layla swabs my hand with her nose, almost in a fist bump. I thank her and kiss her forehead. I reach down again, and she blocks my arm with her front left paw, smiling. She sits up and barks at me.

I reach down a third time and she barks again, pushing her head in front of my arm before it passes the center console, thrusting her snout slightly above the violently chewed straw in the McDonalds plastic cup, glued to the cupholder from a Fanta Orange soda spill two weeks prior. I look down briefly at the adjacent cupholder and notice the one deeply chewed pen-cap from moments of frustration in the car, with a second cap lying pristine.

I laugh, saying “What’s going on? Give me a second and we’ll go inside.” I massage her forehead and brush her back. Every concentrated stroke of fur resonates like gusts on a field of maze at dusk.

She’s never done this before.

I reach another time and Layla growls, gripping my knuckles with her teeth. I feel the force, noticing she’s coming close to clenching her bite. She holds for a moment and smiles as her mouth sweeps away. She leaves an immediate imprint of her teeth on my hand, which disappears in seconds. Layla briefly looks at my hand and eyes, back-and-forth, emulating the rhythmic dissonance of television characters experiencing the angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other.

I try again, and she barks and growls repeatedly. I briefly exclaim, “Hey, enough! Let me get a few things, and we’ll go home!” As I speak, I lean my head over the center console, looking at Layla’s eyes. Layla changes position to meet my face above the compartment, glaring into my eyes, growling, snugging her cheeks, and exposing the roof and foul-lines of her mouth.

I reach down, and Layla still responds with her teeth. I now yell, “Let go, damnit!” Layla growls, and while not clenching, holds my hand, as I wiggle my arm to get her to release. I notice blood begin to surface, trickling over my ring and middle fingers, which slowly streams to the end of my pinky from the aging air conditioner, rattling with every pulse. I fight to get my hand, and Layla continues growling. I respond in panic, voicing, “Let me go!”

Layla’s eyes widen and more of her teeth materialize. She swiftly shifts her head from side-to- side, like a skier flying down a steep, mine-filled, snowy mountain.

More blood arises on my hand, and droplets sparsely fall on my aged, ripped-up mesh shorts. I exclaim, “What are you doing! Let go of me!”

Layla resists her defense. She opens her mouth and softly growls, demonstrating guilt as translucent as a fresh pair of swimming goggles under the weight of the summer sun. She lays back down, now with her head clutched in the crevice between the back and bottom cushions of the half-ripped seat covering, as though she’s trying to hide in the fabric. Still, Layla’s compassion remains stubborn through her visual contact, which I work to evade.

I look outside the windshield and hold my face in my palms, with tears running down the inside of my hands and blood dripping down the outskirts of my wrists.

I look Layla in her eyes, and slowly reflect on her responses over recent minutes. I then express, “I’m sorry, pup. Let’s go home.”

I exit the car and my black converse hit the warm, sunset-bled pavement, with leaves greeting the winding ends of the laces. I walk across the hood and get Layla out of the passenger seat. She jumps out, and as she hits the pavement, her paws are met with the clashing breeze, shoveling grass-blades, fading out of sight one-by-one. I kneel down and pet her, while tears boil over from the heat in my chest cavity.

I bring her to the backdoor, preparing to go inside. I put the end of her leash on a pole near the entrance. I look at my grim shadow and decide to go back to the car by myself.

I walk back to the car, fixating on the shaded coloring of the once dark blue shape on the top of the license plate, fidgeting with the number combinations, mentally noting “Okay, 6,4,1,7 - 6+4+1+7 = 18,” and “ 18/3 = 6, and 6 is 3rd in the order of the plate ID.”

I open the passenger door and reach into the glove box. I rustle through the old receipts and random papers, saying “What the hell,” frustrated with the mess. A stack of napkins escape, and drop to the wilted rubber of the floor, populated by dog-hair, loose french-fries, and empty gum wrappers sitting lonely in the corners of the rubble.

In the catacombs of the clutter, I finally find the three syringes and needles, and three small bags I’ve been looking for. I put them in the pocket-compartment of my black hoodie, secretly hoping a hurricane will hit, leading everything to fall out and blow away.

I scream at the non-existent clouds, disappearing sun, and people that aren’t around. I take a breath and shut the door, briefly seeing my reflection in the window.

My mind goes to the pictures of my father I saw as a child, feeling a strong connection as I witness the emptiness of my gaze, filled with the abrasive strikes of emotional silence. Its as though our adhesive bond mirrors a newly constructed spider web, seemingly conjured up by the order my father’s DNA, or my father’s order of a DNR.

I begin to go back to Layla, trembling, walking with steps that would make Big Daddy Kane upset. Her tail becomes Newton’s Cradle, while my eyes remain a revolving door. My keys jostle in my dominant, blood-stricken hand, while my heart-hemisphered mitt wipes my eyes.

I grab an old receipt out of my pocket from a shop near my girlfriend’s place.

I notice the date in the periphery and turn the receipt over. I see the message in my girlfriend’s handwriting, reading “Please be safe. I’ll be home soon,” while counting the number of weeks since she wrote it, before going to the hospital. I recall the fleeting memories of recent days, enduring the thought of, “Maybe today’s the day.” I file the doctrine and follow Layla into the building. The sun finally tucks itself into its nightly sleeping bag, and the moon takes over afterward.