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“Please take him out back, honey, for a poo-poo. It’s his time,” she says sweetly.
“Oh my god,” Livvy whispers.
Enzo, bless him, shrugs and takes the leash.
“Mrs. Perkins, these men do not work for me—” Livvy starts to say.
But Enzo raises his hand to stop her. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He heads for the back of the shop to find his way out, Sinbad and poop bags in tow.
Mrs. Perkins returns to fingering the Swarovski-studded dog collars as if she’s choosing a color, humming an old, vaguely familiar show tune.
“Hey, don’t forget to pick it up, young man. You know dog shit is all over this city,” she calls after Enzo.
My god. What have I just witnessed?
“I’m so sorry,” Livvy whispers to Owen and me. “She has really poor eyesight.”
I catch Owen biting his lip, his face turning red. He starts to shake and I realize he’s trying his damnedest not to laugh. Of course, this kicks off my own case of uncontrolled chuckling, and I race for the door with Owen on my heels. Once outside, we let it rip.
Finally back in the clean, pet-free safety of my office in EastSide, Owen smells like urine, my proposal looks like it was attacked by Jaws, and when Enzo returns, he’s traumatized by the sheer volume of Sinbad’s feces. We sit quietly, trying to understand the chaos of the last fifteen minutes.
Is that placed cursed or something? I’ve never seen anything go from okay to shit quite that fast.
After his adrenaline stops racing, Enzo gets to his feet. “Well, guys, I gotta get to work.” He quietly leaves, shaking his head. Owen is right behind him.
Before we left, I put a bottle of champagne on ice for a celebration. No need for that now.
I close the door to the office and put my head in my hands. As I replay all that went down, and how I might have improved, my cell rings.
It’s my mother. Shit, I hope no one died.
That’s pretty much the only time she calls.
“Mother. What’s wrong?”
Her laugh tinkles over the phone line, which really means nothing. Mother always laughs like that, no matter what is going on.
You could tell her she won the lottery, or that the world is coming to an end, and she’d still giggle lightly. I’ve never been sure whether it comes from nervousness or plain old indifference. But it’s her calling card.
It’s strangely comforting to hear her voice after Livvy’s unequivocal smack-down. I feel like a little boy who was just pushed off the playground swings, running to his mother for comfort.
Get it together, asshole.
“Weston, hello, darling. It’s been ages.”
“I know, Mother. Is something wrong? Is Dad okay?”
“Everything’s fine, fine, fine. I heard you had a little gathering the other night at the restaurant. Sounds like it was quite the soirée.”
Goddamn. She has spies everywhere.
“We did, Mother. It was a great success.”
I don’t ask her how she found out. It doesn’t matter, and besides, it’s not like it was some kind of big secret.
“Yes, that’s what I heard. The food and drinks were flowing for all your friends. How lovely you can do that for the people you care about.”
Oh.
