Free Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek

kitchen, did the minimal throw-the-grounds-add-the-water at the coffeemaker, and sank into a 1960s chrome and vinyl chair (three dollars, Salvation Army, terrific deal, even though I had to drive home with it rattling in my trunk) to contemplate the day.
    Where was Horatio? Usually, by now he would be flinging himself at me, slurping all over me, and demanding breakfast, lunch and his favourite doggie bites served on his special platter. Instead, I was drinking coffee in a relatively civilized environment, without a selfish, egotistical, unpredictable, hairy, smelly roommate slobbering on my feet.
    I missed him.
    I picked up the phone and punched in Mrs. Lauterman’s number, remembering that Horatio loved to hang out at her place, where he could watch the Food Network all day while she fed him instant oatmeal and garlic chicken noodle soup, her main menu items.
    There was no answer. I remembered that she had a Scrabble date at this time every day in Mr. Hockney’s condo, where she and her friends Ralph and Rita argued happily over obscure words and arcane spellings. And, of course, she would have called me if she had seen Horatio.
    I went to the patio doors and heaved them open, making a mental note that when the Bow Wow Dog Food money finally came through, I should hire somebody to fix those doors, which always stuck, and sometimes opened and sometimes didn’t, and (although I would never breathe a word of this to my insurance broker, Harvey Elman) didn’t always lock.
    â€œHoratio—wherefore art you?’” I howled, but at half lung-power, given the events of the past day.
    Who could expect me to be in tiptop shape? Thank God, I didn’t have an audition. Most actors know that it is a law of the universe that after a month of oblivion, without a single call, audition or acknowledgment of their existence, on the very day that they are the most sick (usually with typhoid) their agent will call with an audition request— almost always to take place within two hours.
    So, gamely, the famous actors haul themselves into the shower or bath, scrub and try to imbue themselves with a semblance of health or will to live, and stagger to the audition, always creating the illusion of competence. People who work as accountants or cashiers can take a sick day without any significant career setback or loss of reputation. The life of the freelancer requires a constant presence. No lolling about on the deathbed when the film crew is waiting.
    Actors have an unrecognized grace in that they meet the demands of their work without complaint. They show up on time, know their lines and hit their mark. It never occurs to them to say, “Sorry, I can’t make it today, not feeling so hot.” Not when a film crew is standing by, or a theatre-load of people are waiting. For some, it is simply the money that might be lost if the contract isn’t fulfilled. For others, like myself, it is the sense of responsibility, the feeling that I am, however fleetingly, part of a team that has undertaken a commitment to create something, whether it is trivial (a commercial) or significant (a docudrama about the starving in the North, or the deprived in the South, or the homeless in the West, or the disadvantaged in the East).
    I was jolted out of this high-minded philosophical meditation on the grace of actors by the phone. I grabbed it and squeaked, maniacally, “Horatio?”
    There was a long pause at the other end of the line. A pause which allowed me to seriously question my sanity, if I was now hoping for phone calls from canines. Maybe I was just trapped in some weird novel or low-budget film and was one of those doomed characters headed towards madness. Just as I was beginning to imagine my wardrobe, if this film ever were financed, the voice at the other end of the phone cut through to my addled brain.
    â€œHave you seen Stan?”
    What could this mean? Of course I had seen Stan, about fifteen hours