you are viewing archives from 2003

always talk to strange dogs

Younger slackbrother j. is moving to Los Angeles tomorrow.

More specifically, he's moving in with me tomorrow.

He's almost 25 and coming out here to realize his dream of becoming an actor. That's what you do with a philosophy degree, I guess.

He seems too young to move out to a big, strange city, even if he's going to be living with his older sister and his older brother and his fiancée M. will be a scant four miles away. Of course, I still can't believe little j. drives. Or can drink. Legally.

I moved out here at 21 with a thousand dollars in my pocket and a job lead that fell through the day before I was set to move. I moved anyway. I stayed with my uncle and aunt in Santa Barbara in a house that was filled with tension and anger. I did my best to ignore it, as I was a guest living rent free. I made my food, cleaned up after myself, and tried to stay out of everyone's way. Every day I went to the library, checked out the Hollywood Reporter and the Variety and took notes on the classified ads. I came back to my cousin's old bedroom with the bunkbeds and wrote cover letters and rewrote resumes. I mailed. I faxed. I never heard back.

One day on my way to the library, I spotted a black dog scurrying down the street. I passed it and thought

that isn't right

and swung my car back around. I pulled up near the dog, a scruffy-looking border collie mix of some kind. I swung open the door; the dog jumped in and settled in my front passenger seat, smiling at me as if to say

Now what, dummy?

I couldn't take the dog back home, my aunt and uncle already had a dog. The dog didn't have a collar, so I couldn't take it to its owners. With dread in my heart, I took the dog to the only place that was an option: the Animal Shelter.

The dog was calm as I led him to what I knew would be his certain doom. As we approached the cages, a white-haired woman in a green vest came buzzing up to me.

I know that dog! she said. I adopted him out last week!

I breathed a sigh of relief. We went in to the office and found that the owner lived right near my aunt and uncle's house. She was a paraplegic, the woman told me. Could I just take the dog back to her house so she wouldn't have to make another trip?

Gladly, I replied.

I took the address and my new furry friend and I careened through the streets of Montecito singing along to the radio until I found the address. I pulled up to the modest tan brick house. I knocked on the door and a nurse answered.

Can I help you?

I'm dropping off your dog, I said, smiling.

She looked at me confused. We have a dog, she said.

I know, he got loose but I found him! I handed her the leash.

No, she insisted, look. She nodded toward the inside.

I looked past her and saw the canine doppelganger of my dog, who sat by his master's feet.

Oh.

I made the drive back to the shelter in near-silence, only hearing the dog's pant-pant-pant.

There are no happy endings, I thought. I patted the dog's head. It pant-pant-panted.

The white-haired woman was still there, surprised to see me back.

It wasn't their dog. I handed her the leash. You're not going to kill it, are you?

She laughed. You take a look around and come back to me when you're done.

I walked around the shelter. The dogs barked at me as I filed past the cages. It was clean. Bright. Even pretty. I returned to the woman, who was reuniting my canine friend with his family. They thanked me and I tried not to cry. They left and the dog never looked back.

The white-haired woman introduced herself as S. and asked me if I'd like to volunteer.

A day later I met Thurber, and my schedule was permanently changed. I woke up, went to the library, mailed and faxed and headed out to the shelter, where I'd walk Thurber and the other dogs. I volunteered at the shelter eight hours a day, six days a week and the occasional Sunday, taking time off for job interviews down in Los Angeles.

My aunt had other ideas, though. She called a family meeting, and told me in front of my uncle and their two children (who both received their own admonishments that day) that I had been spoiled. Coddled. I had never worked a day in my life and that was all going to change. I was a Polish-American-Princess with a worthless degree. I was qualified to work at a GAP, and by god, that was the job I was going to get. It was time to file away those Hollywood dreams because they just don't happen.

It's impossible, she said.

I swallowed back my tears. I had been humiliated enough. They were not going to see me cry. After it was all done, my aunt hugged me and said

I'm just trying to help.

The next day I went to the shelter. S. was there. We walked a couple of dogs and then sat down for a Diet Coke and a rest. I told her what had happened. Then I started to cry. She called my aunt a bitch. Then I started to laugh. S. told me that I should come live with her. That her daughter was a TV writer. Working in Hollywood wasn't impossible, just hard.

Two days later, I moved into S.'s house, where she and her husband B. treated me like family. I lived there for four months, twice as long as I had lived with my aunt and uncle. A while later, I met her daughter S., who became a mentor, a boss, and then years later, the woman who offered Older SlackBrother J. and I our first writing job.

So younger slackbrother j. is coming out to follow his dreams of becoming an actor. And I only have one piece of advice to give him:

If you see a stray dog cruising down the street, don't drive on by. Stop and pick it up.

It may just change the course of your life.