Cory Scarola

Bark

Excerpt

It’s Thursday again and I’m on my hands and knees at the front door, staring out into the street. I’m eye level, shoulder to shoulder, with Gus, who sits panting beside me. Gus is a German shepherd. He is one-sixth my age and yet somehow possessed of more certainty than anyone I know. It’s mid-afternoon and this is Gus’s favorite spot for a few hours on either end of right now. He likes it when we leave the front door open so he can gaze through the storm door and eyeball squirrels or bark at the Amazon guys. We’re so close to the door that our breath is fogging up the glass. I’ve learned, through watching him for years, that this is the way it’s done. 

The two of us are waiting on a pair of Jehovah’s Witness missionaries who’ve been coming around my neighborhood recently. (They always come on Thursdays. I’m not spending every afternoon posted up here with Gus in hopes they’ll show.) It doesn’t matter the weather or anything else, these guys march right up to the door.

“Good afternoon, sir…”

Always polite, always giving Gus a friendly nod while he does a stationary tap dance and fantasizes about becoming best buds or ripping their throats out—whatever a dog thinks about. Always dressed like they’re on the way to the office. It’s no joke, the Jehovah’s Witness image. 

I am not religious. When I was younger I wasn’t shy about telling people I’m an atheist, but nowadays if someone asks I just say I don’t practice. My wife, Morgan, is the same way. We just don’t enjoy the argument that particular a-word often kindles as much as we used to. Our friends and families are aware, for the most part, but a lot of other people aren’t. It’s North Carolina, what can you do? As for Gus, I don’t want to speak for him, but I think it’s safe to say the only thing he believes in is the tragically false assumption that he’s going for a walk every time we open the pantry, because that’s also where we keep his leash.

I’ve been greeting the missionaries in different ways every week. The first time they came I answered the door thinking they were UPS.

“I’m sorry, guys,” I said, cutting into the opening of their spiel. “I’m kinda in the middle of something. Now’s not really a good time.”

Gus gave a chesty rumble behind me, either antsy for interaction or reminding me that he’d happily tear into their calves if I would only give the word. (The duality of dogs has always been funny to me. Such unconditional affection. Such potential to do harm. Reminds me of people.)

The missionaries were all nods and smiles.

“No problem, sir.”

“Another time.”

They made their way next door—which I could have told them was a mistake—and got an earful from Gerry, my aging neighbor with a hard-on for firearms and property lines. I hoped for their sake that Gerry wasn’t out there with the double barrel he keeps hanging in his mudroom. (I know it’s there because he’s told me—he’ll tell anyone, you don’t even have to ask.) What a flattering portrait of the neighborhood that would be. But these guys had clearly seen it all. I swear I saw them smile at each other as they backed off and bypassed Gerry’s house. I patted Gus and said, “Good boy,” and shut the door.

What I didn’t realize was that saying it wasn’t a good time was about as direct an invitation as I could’ve given for them to come back when next they were around, which turned out to be the following Thursday. I caught sight of them through the window before I got to the door. I could’ve just ignored the knocking, let Gus yowl to his heart’s content until they left, but some impulse came over me. Maybe it was boredom, I don’t know, but when I greeted them I put on the most caricature-ish cockney London accent I could summon. You know the type. (“Aftanoon there, chaps, ’ow can I ’elp you?”) I figured that would be the end of it. Scare them off; send them running, marking their map of the neighborhood with a big fat X on my house to signify that the guy who lives there is certifiable and thus not an ideal vessel for the Good Word.

But they didn’t bat an eye, just got right to it.

“Good afternoon, sir…”

“Oh so sorry fellahs, ’fraid you’ve gone and caught me wif a spot-a-tea in the kettle. Might we ’ave a go at this anuvva time?” It was the only thing I could think to say.

Smiles and nods.

“Another time, absolutely.”

“No problem, sir. You have a blessed day.”

Gus laid down to watch them go with a protracted groan of disappointment. 

I said to him, “What do you care? Whatever their whole thing is, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t apply to dogs.”

He looked up at me, maybe incredulous, maybe hungry.

That’s how it started. I never gave them a firm rejection so they kept coming back. I ran out of accents pretty fast, so I waded into the morass of old junk in the basement and came away with a pair of choice ideas. One was a Viking Halloween costume I wore in college. I supplemented it with a thick, braided blonde beard I found online. The other was an apron Morgan got me as a joke gift when we were dating. It was black with red lettering that said, I LOVE TO RUB MY MEAT. With that one I answered the door holding a spatula and wearing a chef’s hat made of cut and folded construction paper. (I found a YouTube video with instructions on how to make the hat. It was intended for teachers to show their kindergarten kids, but I’ll be damned if a six-year-old even comes close to the crispness of my lines.)

I am not currently employed. I have the second round of layoffs at the bank to thank for that. Of course, that wasn’t the term the bank used. Layoff is such a dirty word. They reached elbow-deep into the thesaurus of corporate horseshit and came back with “right-sizing.” Whatever they want to call it, the outcome has been a daily slog through my own personal swamp of resume drafts and reference sheets, population: me and a legion of HR goons who somehow all have on the same blue button-down. (What more undignified task is there than to write about yourself to people who couldn’t give two shits? I have been in banking for my entire professional career…come to understand that this business is inherently personal…believe my adaptability and experience make me an ideal candidate…nothing gets me going like a good loan modification…)

This change has also led Gerry to decide that I’ve become the housewife. He decided this because I now do the lion’s share of the housework, where before it was an even split. I know he’s seen me cleaning through the windows, or bringing in the dry cleaning. If he catches me outside he’ll yell some version of, “Tell the husband I said hello!” before getting in his F-150 and driving off with his rifle to strangle deer with his bare hands. (I kid, of course, about him asphyxiating venison.) Anyway, it hasn’t been all bad. It was an organic shift, given that I’m home all day and Morgan still has work. And there are times I’ve found myself enjoying the change of pace. It’s funny, the things you discover about yourself when you get the chance.

About the Author

Cory Scarola is a fiction writer from Long Island, currently living in New York City. He writes short stories and has an impossibly large family, which tends to make its way into his work.