Black Friday

by Bonnie Zobell

Pia sold her Mustang convertible on Black Friday and promptly paid down her MasterCard. Her shop should have moved out of the red that day—Anderson Cooper had promised as much on CNN. She envisioned pet owners tripping over each other to get at her cat condos, Barcaloungers, tutus for the bassets, Rottweiler formal wear, but all they bought were Iams and sunken aquarium ships. It was the recession. How was she supposed to survive?

The cowbell jangled against the shop door as she locked. Standing at the bus stop, she shivered, turned up her collar against the snow. When she saw the bus coming, she stuffed Tinker into her large wool pocket. Tinker as in Tinkerbelle, the teacup Chihuahua she'd owned for years. So dogs weren't allowed on the bus. So shoot her. Tinker mewed in her pocket, turned three times, settled in for a snooze. When she growled in her sleep, Pia rubbed her nose and apologized to the passenger next to her as if she had sneezed.

She was too broke for groceries. She daydreamed about the leftover turkey and cranberry sauce wrapped in foil in her fridge, scraps from a turkey day spread the renters next door had offered. She'd wolf it down the minute she got home. Tinker wouldn't eat much—maybe a bite of the crescent roll. Pia felt like purring with little Tinker warming her thigh and reached into her pocket to pet the pup's snout. The breeder said they were a love match.

Howard had already let himself in with the keys she'd given him. She could have used a time out, but already the lights were low, and he'd put on a Barry White CD.

"Sold another Escalade today," he said. "Took myself out for a nice roast beef dinner."

She stared in horror at the foil-encased turkey and cranberry he was eating.

"Still a little hungry," he admitted.

She shouted, "Do folks who spend $72,000 on hybrid Cadillac SUVs really expect us to believe they're trying to save gas?"

He slipped her purse from her shoulder. "Life's good," he said. Though Howard spent a fortune on Italian suits for work, he'd lived in a small apartment two blocks from Cal Worthington's Dodge dealership for eight years. At first he'd seemed a wonder of stability after a slew of bad choices on her part. At least he could hold onto a job. He seemed to genuinely like women. And he was, still, a good lover.

She kissed Tinker, the only being she could truly count on in life, before placing her at the foot of the bed. Then Pia allowed Howard to slip her clothes from her body, lay her on the sheets while he hummed the television jingle to the tune of, "If you're happy and you know it. . . ." "Go see Cal, Go see Cal, Go see Cal. If you want to change your luck, save a dollar or a buck, Go see Cal, Go see Cal, Go see Cal."

Maybe being with Howard would temporarily erase her bearish day. It worked at first. The ceiling blurred as she let herself go. Vaguely, she could feel Tinker wagging as Howard went into high gear. Tinker enjoyed it as much as they did. Pia pushed back, grabbed Howard's buttocks as he came, rubbed herself until she could join him. Tinker barked gleefully, but mid-bark, it turned to a screech. Then it stopped altogether. Silence rung.

Pia sat up fast, frantically patted down the comforter. She couldn't find Tinker. She peeled off the sheets and blankets, flung them to the floor. She stood and screamed. "Where is she?"

Howard lit a cigarette, not seeming to notice anything amiss. A clear sign that it was never going to work with him.

"Tinker? Tinkerbelle!" Pia shrieked.

Finally she saw she'd accidentally thrown the slight canine form onto the floor as well. "Oh, my God!" She shook the flaccid creature enough that an eye should have opened. One didn't.

"Omigod! Howard! She's dead!" She froze, mouth open, horrified.

Howard grunted. "Really?"

They buried Tinker in a Thom McAn shoebox, next to the barbecue in the backyard. Her baby curled inside, rigor stamped the fawn-like body into a pretzel, a diamond color for dignity.

Pia, eyes marbled and puffy, played with her tomato soup.

"So get another one," Howard said, humming.

She thought about changing the locks, but she couldn't afford to.

Instead, she stood from the table and pointed towards the door. "Out!" she said.

"Ah, honey." He moved towards her.

"Down, boy!" Pia opened the door herself, held it until he walked out.

At work the next day, she cleaned shavings out from under the hamsters, the smell of cedar clearing her sinuses. She laughed when she let the Corgi pups romp and pee in the alley, even though they galloped through oil spots and brought it back in. She clipped kittens' nails.

People came and went: flakes for the fish, worms for the parakeets, mice for the snakes.

The cowbell jangled right before closing, and in walked a craggy but handsome man with his Vietnamese pig. A craggy but handsome man who liked animals. Messy animals. She flushed.

"We need cat food," he said. "Fred, here, is famished. I know, I know—he should stick to his sweet potato roots, but sometimes a guy's just got to splurge to make life worth living."

Fred oinked, drooled at the crickets about to be dropped in with the iguanas.

Pia had no trouble imagining the handsome man in her bedroom, but she also liked the idea of new locks. She couldn't help pondering the gustatory pleasures inherent in Fred, but soup wasn't all that bad.

Once the man and his pig finally left, she took out her MasterCard and called her teacup breeder. "Expecting any new litters?" she asked. What was $500 in the bigger scheme of things?

© 2011 Night Train and respective authors/email support AT nighttrainmagazine.com