11. Culture Garden

"Hi, Roscoe," I say.

He's sitting on his usual bench in the outdoor sculpture garden. There's room for me. Jumpy comes out from under the bench, sniffs my hand, then flops back down in the dirt. Oh, it's you. He knows I never have any dog treats so I am not a big deal. It takes a lot to get Jumpy excited. He got named Jumpy when he was a pup, but I've never seen any signs of jumping. He creaks around just like Roscoe does. Old mates.

"How's it gun?" asks Roscoe.

I think he has an accent. Maybe just a hangover.

"Fine."

"Gud."

"Yeah."

We stare at the statues for a while, soak up some culture. All dog and cart people know about the sculpture garden. It's the only place where we can get near official artwork. City Hall has artwork, the library, some galleries, the bookstore. But you can't take dogs or carts in there, or noisy kids. I don't blame them. I don't want dogs, or carts, or noisy kids around either, which is funny considering I am glued to my cart. Does that mean I don't want me around? I am pretty boring. But these statues can be boring too. The man on the horse has been in that exact position forever. I do like looking at him though, not sure why. He's especially interesting right about now, when the museum is closing and the shadows start to make me wonder about other people's lives.

Oh look, bermuda shorts. That entire family is wearing bermuda shorts, a very ugly fashion. Why do people wear them? Men look better than women do. Maybe women don't realize how bad they look, even slim women. Kids look cute in anything, even bermuda shorts. Did I ever wear bermuda shorts?

"Did you ever wear bermuda shorts?" I ask Roscoe, nodding at the family heading for their car.

"Hmph."

"What?"

"Guess."

"Yes?"

"Nat."

Oh, guess not.

But I'll bet I did, in the summer. Playing in the summer with my sister. With our puppy. Running through the sprinklers. Long stretching summer. In the tree swing over the creek. Watching dragon flies buzz in the reeds, little frog croakings ...
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Oh, no! Where am I?! It's dark!
Roscoe. Where's Roscoe?!
Oh shit, oh shit. Where's my cart?!
Get UP! No, wait. Ow!!
Falling again, the rocks and barbs and wire.
Wire. Oh, it's my cart, my cart, precious cart.
Don't cry, you dummy! Stop, it's okay.
That boy, that boy is there. Dog chasing frisbee.
No, it's not dark yet. Park closes at dark.
That boy and his big dog are still here. There's time. Whew.

Okay, so that's one of my not so great behaviors. It only happens when I wake up. Going to sleep is okay, depending on the circumstances, but the waking up can be a problem. For me, waking up feels like I've been on another planet, but I don't know it, and when I open my eyes I find myself on the ledge of some cliff, or about to step into quicksand or fall down an elevator shaft. It's worse if I wake up in the dark or almost dark like I just did. It's also harder to recover without anyone else noticing. Too much visible freakout is very bad. Lots of attention is something you don't want out here.

This is reminding of Jeremy the wolf guy. He was fine during the day. He always had cigarettes, some money. He could buy you a cup of coffee and talk about Canada and the news. Women liked him. His beard was neat and his flak jacket was clean. But at night he wasn't Jeremy. He was Wolf. Not like a werewolf---they are only wolves at full moon. Jeremy did it every night, howling, running around, scaring people, including us. When he was Wolf, Jeremy didn't talk. He just growled and whimpered and crouched down like he was going to attack. This behavior got him locked up. Too much weird behavior is to be avoided.

I guess compared to Jeremy, my little wakeup problem is not so bad.