What Goes Around

“Come in, Mr. Leroy.”

Jeff Karpinski, lead attorney at Cormac Litigation, stood from his desk and offered his hand. Harold Leroy took it with a close-lipped smile.

“It’s great to meet you, Mr. Karpinski.”

“Certainly, Harold. And may I add that is a lovely tie. Are those rubber ducks?”

“Of course, Mr. Karpinski. I’m quite fond of them.” That wasn’t exactly true- he never really cared for the yellow creatures, but he knew Karpinski did, and so had made the purchase yesterday morning. He predicted he would never wear it again.

“Me as well, Mr. Leroy. My mother used to put them in our bathwater. Boy, did I love the way they’d circle around the bubbly surface. My own little pond, I always imagined.” He laughed as he shuffled some papers on his desk. “Childhood was a trip, wasn’t it, Harold!”

“Most definitely, Mr. Karpinski.” He delivered this line with the enthusiasm of a waking corpse.

“Well, back to business.” Mr. Karpinski began. “This is your third interview with the Cormac organization. And frankly, I believe you deserve the associate attorney position. Not only because your resume’s ironclad, but because you’d be a good fit here. You’ve clicked well with each of your interviewers, haven’t you, Harold?”

“I’d say so, Mr. Karpinski.” He better have- he researched each evaluator for hours, hammering his talking points, his topics of small talk. It wasn’t something he liked to leave up to chance.

“That’s great, Harold. And it’s why it makes this next part so difficult.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Karpinski pulled a remote from his desk and clicked it as he swiveled his chair. A large television lit up over his shoulder, and in the middle stood a vertical screenshot. It was an exchange of messages on a chat board. The text was miniscule, and there seemed to be a hundred comments.

“Our AI system picked up on some unusual activity from you, Mr. Leroy. From the last five years. Does this look familiar?”

He resisted the urge to squint his eyes and read each one. It did, of course, look familiar. In truth, he had been on the account just this morning. But he didn’t want to seem over eager. “Maybe. What seems to be the issue?”

Mr. Karpinski nodded solemnly. “The issue is that hiring an associate with an Instagram called ‘LeroyTheDestroyer,’ well… it’s not good for the brand.” He swiped left, and a new image appeared of the Cormac webpage. “Our mission says we provide ‘honest, respectful, and accountable service.’ Now, that’s not the full truth. We work below-the-belt when needed, just like every other law firm. Yet it’s important clients BELIEVE it’s true, because it’s how we draw business.”

He swiped again, and a closer view of his profile filled up the screen. “It seems this ‘LeroyTheDestroyer’ stands against all of that. He debates religion and politics; he belittles other commenters. Most of these debates stand against another account, ‘graceinspace.’ Likely a woman, who would not be afraid to pick up the phone and make this a bigger issue at your… I mean his… hiring. Do you understand?”

Harold’s face was emotionless, and he nodded politely. Under the table, his fingernails dug into his palms. “I understand, Mr. Karpinski.” He paused, looking over the man’s shoulder at his own account. It was something he used to be proud of. How pathetic of him. “This ‘LeroyTheDestroyer,' is there a way to navigate around his impact? Get Cormac Litigation some assurance that it won’t be a problem?”

Mr. Karpinski put the crux of his thumb over his lip. “There might be one. A signed covenant from this other account, pledging forgiveness and an inclination not to speak out. If you were able to get one, I might be able to swing this around upper management.”

Harold was already standing. “I’ll be back, Mr. Karpinski.” They shook hands, and Harold made for his car. He said nothing all the way down the elevator, and after reaching his car, removed his tie and placed it in the passenger seat. It was three red lights later that Harold finally felt comfortable enough to crush the steering wheel in his hands and curse until his voice became stripped grain.

-----

It took him almost two hours to reach the western lip of New Jersey. She lived in a brick row house at the top of a foothill. He locked in the hand brake (a dusty tool he never got to use in the city) and made his way up wet sidewalk to her door. He was still wearing his work suit, tie banished from his throat, and had thrown on a beige trench coat. He wasn’t going to get sick trying to find this girl, although he figured he deserved it.

Harold knocked and waited. The street was quiet, not eerily but comfortably, the way a boat at sea floats on a blue universe that is entirely its own. The brass banister was thin and ice cold, and Harold’s foggy breath swam over to heal it. On the other end of the door, he could see the peephole go black, and a series of unlocks. Then, a woman appeared, frizzy haired with a purple sweater rolled up to her elbows.

“Hi- sorry,” she began. “Usually my dog tells me we have visitors.” As she took another look at Harold’s varnished Oxfords and tight crew cut, she said, “So, what’re we selling?”

He skipped the etiquette. “Not selling anything. Buying, actually.” He handed her a printed page of the online exchange that Mr. Karpinski had shown him. “Does this look familiar to you?”

She held the paper to the light. A crease firmed up around her eyebrows as her gaze drifted over the page. Then, she laughed abruptly, like the clink from an icepick.

“Is this you?” Her eyes are locked on Harold now.

“Yes.” He said. “I’m sorry, but I need your help.”

“Ha. That’s rich.” She began, a bit of that same venom Harold craved boiling on her tongue. He hated that he was excited. “For years, you followed me. I couldn’t even post a picture with my family without you commenting. I didn’t block you because my daddy taught me to be the bigger person. Turn the other cheek.” Her breath was becoming cloudier against her red lips. “But you never quit, did you? And now you’re in trouble.” The crease across her forehead lessened. “So what do you want?”

He was surprised Grace was hearing him out. “I applied for a job. They know about my page. They think if you sign a release form, there’s a chance I can still work there.” And, with a cold shake in his voice, he added, “I really need this job. I’ll do anything”

She stared at him in silence as both their breath’s coalesced into storm clouds. She spoke. “You know what you are? You’re a splinter.” She started closing the door, still speaking to him. “You imbed yourself into other people’s lives, prick away at them as they kick and scream. You enjoy the power it gives you, right? And now you have none. So no, I don’t think I’ll help you.” The door was a crack now. “Good luck finding some other sucker to berate.” It closed with a soft click.

Harold didn’t move. His mind was ten steps ahead now. Where else would he apply? Not many organizations would harbor a keyboard bully in their ranks. What would he tell his buddies from school? That he chose not to use his degree? Settled for a job in telemarketing? Sweat pooled and cooled on his neck as he entered his car.

The glare coming through the windows made him angry. So did the tightness of his gray suit on his arms and back and legs. And the entirety of this stupid little town, how dead of noise it was. It made him simmer over. He had lived in a place like this once. He slammed his hands on the dash and lowered his head.

Then there was a tap. He raised his head, confident that he’d just imagined it, but Grace was truly there, tapping at his window with that crease back on her face. He rolled down the window and looked at her in brief bewilderment.

“Is this your car?”

“Yeah?”

She opened the door and sat down, staring out the window. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?”

Grace looked over at him, morning light threading through her hair. “My dog. He ran away. We’re going to find him. I’ll sign your paper if we bring him home.”

Harold nodded and started the car as they pulled down the open street.

----

They made many stops, most without speaking. The dog pound. The library. A dumpster behind a dirt-crusted Walmart. There was nothing.

Finally, Harold tried to bridge the gap. “Have you lost him before?”

She responded with a scrunched-up face, her lips becoming tight ruby cuts. “No. If I had, I’d know where to start.” She ran her fingers through her hair- the strands slipped and turned like the tiniest of snakes. “But now I’m wandering my hometown with a stranger who berated me on the Internet. So pardon if I’m not in the best mood.”

Harold grit his teeth. “You could have just said no. Told me to piss off. This was all your idea”

Grace snapped her gaze back at Harold. “I have no driver’s license, OK? That’s why you’re involved.”

“You never got a license?”

She turned back to the window. “DUI a few months ago. You never expect to get caught in a small town, but it happens. Think it almost put my father in the crypt.” Then, that special crease on her head appeared again. “But I was feeling bad about myself, and I wanted a few drinks to feel confident. To feel less alone. I just wonder where those feelings could have come from?”

The pinpricks in her gaze seemed to bounce off his cheeks. His entire face was like rubber now. It looked ahead without a wrinkle and with the sheen of fresh kilned pottery.

Grace began to speak, to insult, but Harold interrupted. “What color’s your dog?”

“Black,” she said.

Harold hammered the throttle and shifted into the right lane.

Grace grabbed the overhead handle in the rocketing beamer. “What are you doing?”

Harold said nothing, keeping his eyes on the empty street corner. Grace followed his gaze. Under the shady theatre overhang that was rapidly approaching was the faint black outline of a dog. Upon hearing the roaring engine, it pricked its ears and began to stand.

“Slow down!” Grace said. “You’re going to scare him!”

As if snapping out of a trance, Harold switched over to the brakes. The car drew smoking lines on the asphalt, and the screech was more than enough to send the dog trotting.

“Wait! Moose!” Grace slammed the car door behind her as she ran down the street.

Harold raced past Grace, the street growing thinner in his peripheral. On that dog, tied to his collar, was the key to his future. He wouldn’t let it leave his sight.

The dog, panting as it moved, was closing in on the end of the street. Harold, in a quick jerk of the wheel, parked two of his wheels on the flat lipped sidewalk. His hood came inches from smashing against the gray wall of a local bank and his suspension buckled like a fleeing bull. But the dog was trapped, and she knew it. The dog howled and howled until Grace got a hand on its scruff.

“Stop freaking out, Moose!” she said, taking a knee. “Why’d you run off like…” There was silence as Grace examined the pup.

“What?” Harold said from his lowered window.

Grace looked back at him. Her jaw was clenched in an unnatural way. “It’s not mine.”

“Huh?”

“She looks like my dog, but she’s not mine. She doesn’t have a collar, either.”

Harold was silent. The dog whimpered outside his car. “So what do we do now?”

----

They drove back to the dog pound. Grace seemed in a better mood with a third party in the car, and the dog was happy with the arrangements, too. She licked Harold’s face as he steered, and no matter how he positioned himself, the dog always found an open patch of skin to endorse.

“Grace! Can you get this thing?”

She kept laughing. “Nope. Karma is revealing itself in front of me. I will not interject.”

“Ha-ha-ha. Really. I’m not a dog person.”

“Adding it to the list of things I don’t like about you.”

Harold kept his mask on, but a memory of a dimple floated on his cheek. “I used to be, I guess. Had one growing up. A little beagle.”

“That’s cute. How long did you have him?”

“Can’t remember. End of high school, probably. They were all gone by then.”

Grace stared at Harold. The light of setting day played on his face, and it seemed to add a new texture that she hadn’t noticed before. It was a streaky roughness from a fraying brush. She pulled the dog on her lap and held its furry head close to hers.

They pulled up to the dog pound and entered for a long time. The staff ran tests, checked for a tracker and a whole grocery list of diseases. They didn’t speak in the musky lobby, yet he could feel Grace focused on him most of the wait. It was a different feeling than before.

Finally, a scrubbed-up veterinarian pulled the dog from the back. Her tail hung between her legs but resurfaced with a wag at the sight of Harold’s porcelain face. The veterinarian held back the reunion with a grunt.

“She’s free if you want her. She’s all spayed up. Anti-everything running through her system, too. Just gotta sign a few pieces of paper before you leave.”

Harold stood up and held a hand. “No, thanks. We just wanted to make sure she was OK.”

Grace grabbed his arm. Harold noticed that the crease on her forehead was gone, replaced with a twinge between her eyebrows.

“Take her, Harold,” she said.

“I don’t want her.” Harold said. Yet there was no strength in his delivery.

She shrugged and smiled. “I’ll sign your paper if you sign hers.”

Then, turning to the veterinarian, she said “He’ll take her.”

Harold wondered why those nailed to the cross were always the first to shake hands. 

----

Driving back to Grace’s house, his car had become a packrat’s paradise. With a crate and a bed and water bowl and toys, they barely had room for the dog, who was now sitting on the console. She gleefully slobbered on Harold’s shoulder and shook as Grace scratched her back.

Turning the corner of her street, Grace yelled so loud it scared both Harold and his new companion.

“What, Grace?”

“Moose!” Harold pulled next to the sidewalk as Grace was already pushing the door open. Sitting on her small patio-sized lawn was a little black dog, almost identical to the one they’d found, scratching at a knot behind his ear. Grace ran over to him and started hugging him, black hair clinging against her purple knit.

“Where were you, buddy?” She said, babying her voice under the darkening sky. Harold’s own dog barked in triumph at the sight of another pup. Making sure Grace was turned away, Harold gave her a nice, long pet.

Grace walked back to the car and, with her skitzy dog under her armpit, parked an elbow on the open window.

“This turned out to be a pretty good day.”

Harold stared as the pink sunset reflected against her cheeks. She was so beautiful it made him want to cry. With a voice he hadn’t known still lived inside him, he said “Why were you so nice to me today?”

She gave another smile, this one quick and small. “I lose everything. My license, my dog. I’ve lost more important things.” She didn’t wince as Moose began licking her ear. “I have a feeling you’ve lost things, too.”

Harold had nothing to say, but he smiled. He at least owed her that.

She continued. “Well, I better get going. Make sure you feed the bitch, or I’ll come for you.”

Harold thanked her and was thirty minutes from the city when tears started streaming down his face. His dog licked them up happily. 

----

A week later, Harold was sitting in his Brooklyn apartment, staring at his phone. Not much had changed since he’d gotten the job. He’d celebrated with some friends, made a nice LinkedIn post, and was prepared to start in two days. 

His dog lay on his lap, and her head bounced up when she heard the ‘ding’ on Harold’s phone go off. Harold full-screened the notification. 

It said: '@gracefromspace requested to follow you.'

He grinned and wondered if Moose was prone on her lap when she pressed that button. He moved his finger to the accept icon. But something stopped him. 

He navigated to his own profile and scrolled through the photos one last time. They didn’t feel the same anymore, like they were posted in a different language. He didn’t hesitate when he deleted the account all together. 

He tossed the black brick on the couch and stood up. “Grace!” he shouted in the warm room. His dog heeled next to him- it was something they’d been working on. “Let’s go for a walk.” The dog seemed to nod as she looked at him. And with an outstretched tongue, Harold’s dog led him out the apartment and into the last lingering of daylight.