Wild Dog Soup

The sun was low, sweet and sober; the piano player was sober; the dogs outside

were barking, and if the dogs outside didn’t stop barking Sammy was going to kill the

piano player. This is what he said to me. This is what I heard. We’d been sitting at the

bar, drinking Sammy’s pitcher, smoking Sammy’s cigarettes, hearing the barks and the

baying of the animals, when he turned to me and said he wanted to pound something—

preferably a musician. I had only known him for an hour. I only knew about his wife

Sally in Tulsa; how she was small and fragile and how she wore striped shirts. He talked

about the oval scar on her forehead and how she left him for some hotshot grocery store

owner. I knew the type: she only loved her Pomeranian. Or her Chihuahua. Sammy had

big ruddy boots, a flannel jacket, and a face like snakeskin leather. I was eighteen, born

rich, and on vacation, but I didn’t tell him that. I was calling myself Johnny.

“Well old buddy,” I said, “well, old timer,” and patted him on the back, “allow me

honours why don’t you. Price one dollar.” Sammy combed his mustache with his

remaining bottom teeth and shot me a wide, drunken smile. Piano man struck the chord. I

thought: Sure, Piano man: Gimme some a that old time rock n roll. The piano started on a

low sad lick.

“One dollar,” I said again. “Price one dollar for a dead piano player. You can’t

beat that, Sammy. Shop around. Try the want ads. Go and ask that girl at the table— I bet

she charges twenty.”

“I bet she charges twenty five,” Sammy said. “A penny for every hair on her lip,

like Sally.”
 “Well then I bet she charges a thousand. Anyways, Sambone, I’m your muchacho.

I mean I’m your man.”

Sammy burped. “You’re a brat, Johnny,” he said. “Johnny Summer from Toledo,

you’re a goddamn brat.”

“I’m your brat, pal.”

Sammy chuckled and flagged the bartender. He ordered a pitcher, two double

whiskeys, a pack of Camels. He got his change; slipped me a one with his dozy left hand.

“Payment,” he growled. “Go ask his name. Find out where he’s from. Find out if he’s got

any kids or a dog. Or dental insurance. See if he knows how to box.”

I took the bill and saluted; slipped down off my stool, grinning.

The Hobnail Tavern was low-ceilinged, windowless, and oak. Tattooed women

with leather vests plied bourbon to the tables. Old men punched the slot machines and

young men kicked the jukebox. In every sad corner, dithering couples sucked eachother’s

chins. The piano was stuck on a low, bad stage, stuck by the banging front door. I paced

my way up to the front. Hobnail Tavern was dim and rumbling, dim and rumbling. It was

better than a day at the circus. It was better than Disney World. It was better than

Nintendo.

The pianist was playing his last couple of notes, so I waited by the stage, sizing

him up. He was tall and limp. I got the feeling that his mother breastfed him for too long;

that his father was a mailman with a taste for Rilke; that he liked sad movies; that he

loved sad girls; that he lived for Chopin. He didn’t belong in a bar like this, he was too

raw and fragile, and I knew it was his first and only gig. He had long brown hair, milky
skin, and fluttering eyelids. He finished his song to no applause, announced a break, and

came down off the stage in daddy long-leg strides. I nabbed him.

“Earl Winter,” I said and snatched his hand. “Wow, was that was a fine song.

That was fine playing, friend. I love Bach.”

He beamed down at me and touched his feathery hair. I figured him for an idiot.

“You enjoyed it!” he said. He had a German accent and wore a crooked black bowtie. “I

am happy that you did. The others, they did not take so much pleasure as you.”

I kept shaking his hand. I said, “What’s your name. Let me buy you a drink.” I

said to him, “My name is Earl Winter, friend. From Phoenix. Man, can you ever play.”

We sat down at the bar, seven or eight stools down from where Sammy was

sitting, and I was careful not to look over at him. I ordered two bottles.

“My name is Claus,” he said, and sighed. “I am visiting here from Austria. I am

on a tour. But nobody likes my music here on account of the Funky Bunch! I hate that

Marky Mark! In Austria we listen to Mozart!”

“You do?” I said.

He nodded at me gravely. “Yes,” he said, “we do. We have taste in Europe. And

the beer is much better.” He took a swig from his bottle and made a pantomime grimace.

He swallowed, stuck a finger down his throat, and made fake gagging noises. “It is like

the horrible piss of goats!” he yelled. He began to laugh in a slow loud donkey’s bray.

The bartender gave him a fierce glance and Claus crumpled. He hunched his shoulders,

looked down at the bar, and wiped his nose on his index finger. “I am so pleased you like

my playing, Earl,” he mumbled.

“Well finish that up,” I said. “We’ll see if they have any real beer.”
 “Yes!” he said, and nodded excitedly, “Yes, they must!”

“Are you married, Claus?” I said. “Do you have a family? Here, drink that up and

we’ll get something else. You’re almost done. There you go.”

He tipped his bottle until it trickled down his shirt. I ordered two Heinekens and

slipped my first full bottle down by my feet. He didn’t notice.

“No, I am not,” he said, “I would like to meet American women, but I find it

difficult. They have all cell phones. They have boyfriends and none of them like music.”

“Well, I like music, Claus.”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, yes, you do!”

“Here, have another.”

“Good.”

“What about her?” I said, “On the left.” I pointed to a booth where three women

drank clear, sparkling mixes. The one on the left wore bulging denim, a low cut shirt, and

had long blond hair with crinkled bangs. “Would you want to meet her?”

“I would very much,” Claus said, “she has very terrific jugs and hips for the

birthing act. Yes, I find this to be the height of genital satisfaction.” His eyes were red.

He shook his head sadly. “But she would not, I don’t think, Earl. She wouldn’t.” He

sighed and finished his bottle. I handed him mine, which I hadn’t touched. He swigged

and looked hard at the woman. “No, she would not like me, Earl. Americans don’t like

me. I will stay here with you. You are my friend here.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “If you don’t want to,” I said. “Women can be pretty

intimidating. I know how frightening they can be.”

“I am not intimidated, Earl” he said, “but I do not wish to.”

 I ordered a shot. The bartender looked at Claus and said, “Five more minutes,

Mozart. Then you’re up again,” and left to the back room.

To Claus I said, “Courage,” and handed him the shot glass.

He shook his head. “I won’t be able to play, Earl. I am bad for drinking. The

women here hate Germans, but I am not German. No thank you, Earl. Please. I can’t. I

mean yes, Please. Here. Give me the shot. I want it.”

“You only need confidence,” I said, “You’re a good looking man, Claus, and

you’re exotic. They like that. Everyone was impressed by your playing”

“Her breasts are quite handsome,” he said.

“I think she’d love to hear that, Claus. I think she wants to hear you say that, and I

think you need another shot.”

“Good,” he said. “I am lonely in America. It is horrible in America. I want

another shot. Good. Give me the shot. Yes. That is pleasant. Good. Now what do I do,

Earl?”

I patted him on the back and leaned in confidentially. “Just be yourself, Claus.

Tell her how you feel. Tell her how lonely you’ve been, that you only want to know her

better. Here, bring her a drink. And one for yourself. And two more for her friends. And a

second one for you.”

He looked over at the woman and back at me. His eyes were a flaming red. “But

you are coming with me, aren’t you? You can introduce me?”

“I can’t,” I said, “I need to go to the bathroom. Besides, she’ll be more impressed

if you go yourself. Confidence, Claus, confidence. Have one of my breath mints.”

I handed him the breath mint stashed in my shirt front pocket.

 He took it, swallowed it, and stood up abruptly. He touched his hair, straightened

his bowtie and breathed in deeply. “Yes,” he said, “You are right.” He grabbed the fresh

beers and marched to the table like a clockwork soldier. He sat down beside the woman

and extended a rigid right hand.

I slipped from the stool and moved down to the far end of the bar, where Sammy

was hunched over four empty tumblers. His face was a few inches from the tops of the

glasses, his elbows were on the bar, and his hands were over his eyes. It didn’t look good.

He swayed back and forth in a slow, unhappy rhythm, and he was chewing on his bottom

lip. I went right up and slapped him on the back. He shot up, spun around, and nearly fell

off his stool. He would have fallen, if he hadn’t grabbed a hold of my shirt collar.

“Sally!” He said.

“What?”

“Baby!”

There was a dead, stupid moment between us. The dogs were still barking. He

looked up at me and blinked. I took his hands from my collar and dropped them on his

lap. He looked down at his lap and rubbed the length of his mustache. “I thought you

were my wife,” he said.

“Well I’m not.”

He nodded at me, turned around, and found a glass with a mouthful of whiskey

left in it. I sat down beside him.

“It might be a little dangerous, Sambone,” I said. “The man’s tougher than you

think. He might have a knife.”

“Who?” he said, lighting a cigarette.

 I jerked a thumb toward Claus and the women. Claus had spilt three of the five

beers he’d been holding and was laying his suit jacket down on the table to mop it up. He

was frantic, bleary-eyed, but with a smile from top to bottom of his face. The woman in

denim wouldn’t look at him. She was staring at a Budweiser poster, smoking a cigarette.

Her friends were laughing. I saw Claus lean in and smell the woman’s hair.

“Him?!” Sammy said, “The hair-sniffer?”

“The musician,” I said, “He was in the German army. Special Forces. He killed

twelve men in the Crimean War and four in the Franco-Russian one. You should stay

away, Sammy. You should mind your own business. Just leave him be.”

“Crimean?” Sammy said. He was like a child for a moment. His eyes darted from

me to Claus and back again. He stroked his mustache and bit his bottom lip. Finally, he

broke into a grin. “The hell,” he said, “I know pussy when I smell it.”

“He’s a bad, dude, Sammy.”

“He’s scrawny.”

“And you’re old. Anyways, I think he’s looking for a fight. You might not be able

to avoid it. Look out for the pinky and thumb on his left hand. That’s the goat clamp of

death.” We looked over again. Claus was curled up in the booth with his head on the

woman’s lap. His hair hung down over his face. The two friends were laughing. The

woman in denim was not laughing, but she was starting to grind her teeth. Claus was

rocking back and forth.

The bartender came around from behind the bar, walked to their table and shook

Claus’ shoulder. Claus sat up. Even from across the bar I could see the deep red veins of

his eyes, the trickles of damp skin running down from each eye to his chin. The bartender
said something we couldn’t hear. Claus said something we could definitely hear: “Yes,”

He shouted, “I will play your piano. I am good for playing the piano. Where is the piano?

Where is the bastard whore? Where is the shit? Where is the goddamn… Ah, there it is.”

He stumbled up to the front, lifted a long left leg up onto the platform, swung around the

right leg, and collapsed onto the stage face down. He shot up, bowed, and sat down at his

bench. His chin fell down to his chest. Every person in the bar— the woman in denim,

her friends, the surly bartender, the girl at the table with hair on her lip, the desperate

couples in every corner, myself, Sammy— was waiting for Claus to play.

Claus struck a single note, turned his face to the crowd and smirked. He struck a

second note and scratched his ass.

“He’s bombed,” Sammy said to me, “He’s going to pass out on that piano.”

Claus said, “If you are enjoying all, I will make sound-love to this piano. This

piano loves me like I do it.”

I turned to Sammy, “Now’s the time,” I said. “You’ll need to surprise him or

you’ll get fucked.”

“Diane!” Claus screamed from the stage. He looked over at the woman in Denim,

“Diane, I make love to you by the running creek like I do to the piano pedals.”

“Get up on stage before it’s too late,” I said. “Nobody will care. Nobody will do

anything. Get up on stage and I’ll back you up, I swear.”

“I will play the horrible Funky Bunch!” Claus said. “Watch, I’ll do it. I will play

the Marky Mark for you and then I will make love to you by the running creek for days.”

“Christ,” Sammy laughed, “I’ll leave the poor bastard alone. He’s already fucked

anyways. Here, have a whiskey.”

 The piano started up in a jagged, burping rhythm. Claus rapped: “Allow me to

introduce each of you… to the Wild Side!”

The audience was laughing, but horrified. Diane stood up and grabbed her bag.

She put on her jean jacket. Even through the Funky Bunch you could hear the dogs

outside barking. They were street dogs. Street dogs are always hungry. Sammy lay his

head down on the bar. The woman in denim was leaving.

Claus yelled: “Everybody sex-grind!/ Well, Annie took a hit, breathed two small

breaths/ One for life, the last for death/ Now she’s gone, a former valedictorian/ ended

up becoming a topic for historians! Wait. Diane where are you going? I will come with

you.”

I looked down at Sammy, his eyes closed, his cheek pressed against the bar. Claus

wanted to leave. “I think he fucked Sally,” I said.

Sammy’s eyes shot open. He stared at me.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said, “He fucked a Sally. In Tulsa.”

He got up, grabbed me by the neck and flung me to the floor. No one seemed to

notice. No one seemed to care. Then he was on top of me. He was crushing my ribs. I

squealed: “I’m serious, Sammy. I’m your friend. He said he was playing in Tulsa and he

fucked some woman named Sally. She was in a striped shirt. She had a scar and she was

tiny.”

He grabbed me by the throat. I choked out, “she took her Pomeranian everywhere

with her.”

“Her what?”

“Her Chihuahua,” I screamed.

 He let go of my throat and fell over to the floor. He sat cross legged and stared at

his lap. “Her Chihuahua named Mittens?” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. “Her Chihuahua named Mittens.”

We got back up onto our stools. No one had noticed us: the bar was too busy with

Claus. I glanced over at the stage. He was standing on top of the piano, and he was

undoing his belt. He was crying. Nobody wanted to stop him yet, not with a spectacle like

that. “Fuck Diane,” he shouted. “Motherfuck America! Yes, I will hump all your mothers

until they say they do not like it, and then they will say they do like it, and then they will

say you are all bastard infants. How will you like it when that happens?”

Sammy got up from the bar and moved slowly toward the front. His hands were in

his pockets. Claus took off his pants and flung them on the ground. He said, “I hate

goddamn America. Fuck you Marky Mark! I will shit in all your rivers. I will piss in your

horrible bottles of horrible piss beer. How will you like that? Where is Earl?”

Sammy was at the front. The dogs were barking.

“I will,” Claus yelled, “I am going to…” He sat down on the piano. He said,

“Earl? Where is Earl? Fuck Earl.”

He lay down on the piano. “So how do you like all that?” He said. Sammy

jumped up on the stage. The dogs kept barking. Sammy moved close to Claus. The dogs

kept barking. I took a sip of whiskey and headed to the bathroom.

“How do you like all that?”

I thought: Wag.