Free Just Add Water (1) by Jinx Schwartz Page B

for ‘ree-tard’?”
    “Fifteen fives.”
     
    * * *
     
    Due to the late hour, we decided it
was better for Jan to spend the night on my side of the Bay rather than drive
home in RJ’s VW, or brave BART and then a city bus. Like many city dwellers,
Jan did not own a car.
    “What do you think of Lars?” she
asked as we drove into the hills.
    “I think his brother’s a prick.”
    “Lars says Bob’s not all that bad.
Maybe a little...distant.”
    “Distant? Mount Kilimanjaro’s
distant. This guy’s on Mars. Son of a bitch invented aloof. So what’s his story? Married? Gay? Child molester?”
    “None of the above. No serious
significant other, either. And Lars just broke up with someone. They invited us
to go sailing one day.”
    “They? Us?”
    “Lars figures he could drag Bob
along.”
    “Oh, he does, does he? What am I, a
charity case? I think not. I’d rather go out with Dilly.”
    “I’ve already arranged it. Dilly’s
delighted.”

12
     
    My doggy desperado’s hearing, for
which many neighbors, including a few Oakland Raiders, Warriors, and A’s,
turned out in case he needed character references from some of our city's
finest athletes, went in our favor. We played the paw card.
    Craigosaurus, veterinary witness extraordinaire , testified that RJ, now
on Prozac and painkillers due to his debilitating and terminal illness, was
neither a future threat to the United States Government nor society in general.
In fact, he said, were the alleged pup, er, perp , to again escape house
arrest, his medical condition and medication would render him incapable of
terrorist activities. Like Jeepjacking.
    The accused fixed the judge with a
dewy-eyed look, raised his paw and licked the large knot on his foreleg. The
only dry eyes in the joint belonged to the alleged victim. His were mean and
beady.
    Mr. Fujitsu, my neighbor and other
star witness, said his hedge was undamaged, and at any rate, he liked my dog
better than he did the postman, a Korean whom he suspected had a prejudice
against those of Japanese heritage.   Not
that anyone except me and his wife, Mariko, could understand a word Mr. F.
said. Despite years in California and an extensive English vocabulary, his
accent was atrocious. He was getting up a fair head of steam when the judge got
a word in edgewise and politely, but firmly, cut Fujitsu-san’s tirade short.
    We were let off with a severe warning
and fined two hundred dollars, the cost of fixing a cracked headlight on the
Jeep. I was to regain mail service the next day even though as we left the
room, Mr. Kim—obviously a sore loser—shook his fist and shouted some very nasty
things at us. I think.
    As it happened, RJ’s triumphant romp
through the halls of justice coincided with our Fifth Annual Raymond Johnson
Coffey Adoption Bash and Weenie Roast. Friends, neighbors, and their pets
attended the yearly fete. Cats were excluded due to RJ’s propensity to eat
them.
    The do, as most “dos” do, had its
origins as a small gathering of friends to celebrate RJ’s good sense in
adopting me. He must have known I needed a friend.
    Not long before RJ made this wise
decision, Japan Airlines had dumped me onto the tarmac at SFO in a
psychological body bag. Two years in Tokyo as a resident project engineer had
taken their toll. The disastrous Hudson affair, coupled with an unusually heavy
work and party load—seven days a week, twelve hours a day at work, and drinking
four of the other twelve—sent me to the brink of a breakdown. The final blow
was delivered by a back stabbing, corporate climbing, home office desk jockey
who managed to become my boss. The work problem devolved into an ego murdering coup de grâce that sapped any remaining
vitality I had left. I was plumb burnt out. And had developed an unreasonable
hatred of soy sauce.
      Already at an all time low-water mark, I returned to the United
States to find my house trashed. The renters had fried every appliance,
including the hot tub pump