A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (rocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

But I didn’t know then I wouldn’t be back in the Dresden for a long time. I didn’t know any of the bad things that were going to happen to me, and, worst of all, to Monica.

3.

I kept my car in the lot behind the bar, and during the time it had taken me to drink my small dose of tequila, it had stopped raining and the sun, just before setting, had come out, and the light was magnificent. The world had turned purple.

I opened the windows as I drove and the air was fresh and sharp, and for a moment Los Angeles really was what the Spanish first called it: the Town of the Queen of Angels.

I headed north on Vermont and up ahead, on the mountain, the Griffith Observatory kept watch over the city, its wet dome like the head of an eagle.

I made a left onto Franklin, endured the traffic for a few lights, then made a right onto Canyon Drive in the direction of Bronson Canyon and the caves. I cut through the hills the back way and descended down to Beachwood Canyon and home. I live off of Beachwood Drive on a little dead-end street called Glen Alder. It’s at the base of the hill with the big wooden sign, the one that says HOLLYWOOD.

I parked in my detached garage, a white stucco box with terra-cotta shingles, opened the gate to the fence, and started my way up the forty-five stairs to my house, a white Spanish two-story bungalow built in 1923.

It has just four small rooms and a bathroom, but it was part of the original Hollywoodland development, and it rests high above the street, lodged into the side of a small hill. My front yard, feral and overgrown, is like a bit of sloping forest.

“Hello, everyone,” I said as I climbed, and I was speaking to all the trees and plants, and then in the dying light, I bent over some salvia and addressed them directly. “You’re so beautiful,” I said, and the thin purple tentacles swayed like underwater lilies.

I climbed some more stairs and touched one of my avocado trees—its trunk was strong and proud. Then, as I approached my house, which is shrouded by another avocado tree and a big elm, I said, “Hello, Frimma, darling,” which is what I call her. My house, like a ship, is female, and then I was through the door, and my dog, George, went nuts, jumping on me.

“Hello, George,” I said in English, and he said, “Hello, my great love,” in dog, which is spoken with the eyes. Then I plugged in my phone in the kitchen so I could call Lou after it charged.

In the meantime, George needed a walk and I grabbed his leash, and he started jumping even higher than he had in greeting. He’s half Chihuahua, half terrier of some kind, and quite springy. I’ve had him two years—he’s a rescue; someone left him chained to a fence—and he’s three or four years old, according to the vet. Unfortunately, I know nothing of his life before me, which I have to accept.

“George, sit!” I said. “Sit. Come on, sit!”

Finally, he calmed down enough for me to loop the leash around his neck and we went out the door. He was pulling hard down the stairs, but I didn’t care. He’d been cooped up all day and I wanted him to feel free.

Then we hit the street and I admired, as I often do, his small, muscular torso and how sleek and handsome he is. His legs are thin and elegant, as are his long-fingered paws, and his coloring—a tan head and body and a white neck—makes him look like he’s wearing a khaki suit and a white shirt, which is a good look for a gentleman like George in the semiarid clime of Los Angeles.

Trim and fit, he weighs about 22 pounds and has large mascara-rimmed eyes that break your heart and make you fall in love simultaneously.

Unlike most dog owners, I don’t project onto him that he’s my child, my son. Rather, it’s a more disturbed relationship than that. I think of him as my dear friend whom I happen to live with. In that way, we’re like two old-fashioned closeted bachelors who cohabitate and don’t think the rest of the world knows we’re lovers.

He does have his own bed, which I banish him to every now and then, but that’s very rare, and so we sleep together most every night of the year.

He starts off with his head resting on the pillow next to me, giving me moony eyes as I read—I always read before going to bed—and then when I’m tired, I put my book down and bury my face in his neck and inhale his earthy dog smell, which I love, and then I kiss his neck like he’s my wife before I turn off the light, and then he tries to put his tongue in my mouth, which I don’t allow, but I let him lick the corner of my eye to get some salty crust or something else tasty—it’s a whole ritual we have—and then when the lights go out, he burrows under the sheets and puts his warm body next to mine, and I’m ready to sing like Fred Astaire: “Heaven. I’m in heaven…”

So we walked down to Beachwood and then over to Glen Holly and back; he had one nicely formed bowel movement and at least two dozen marking urinations. Back inside, I filled his bowl with his food and made a quick plate for myself—a pickle, some crackers, some sauerkraut, and a can of mackerel whipped up with some Vegenaise.

Some intrepid ants were crawling around on the counter as I prepared this feast, but I didn’t have the heart to kill them. They were going about their business with such great purpose and industriousness that it seemed unfair to just come along and crush them. They had things to