Free Moondogs by Alexander Yates Page A

Benny, about it. He’s so, so glad that they’re speaking again.
    Howard opens his phone and scrolls through work contacts—a country in parentheses beside each name—to Benny’s number. He pauses before pressing call to check his watch and do the math. Early Saturday morning here, late Friday afternoon afternoon in Virginia. Classes should be out at the school where Benny works. This thought makes Howard happy enough to notice his happiness and be doubly pleased.
    The phone rings for some time, and the connection is lousy. He thinks he hears Benny pick up, but realizes after saying hello that it’s just voicemail. He wonders if he needs to leave a message; something to justify the unexpected call. But no. They’re talking again. They’re now people who call each other. He doesn’t have to justify anything.
    Howard’s knees begin to hurt under the strain of walking. He hasn’t always been overweight, and the fat sits poorly on him. More apple than pear-shaped—his abdomen and gut bulge while his neck and legs are still a trim impersonation of good health. He used to tell his wife that he’d rather be big all over than look made-from-pieces like this. She said it was proof he wasn’t meant to be a fatty. He’d lost friendships over less, but coming from her, even over a chilly phone line, it sounded light and forgiving. He’s tried to call her, once or twice, since her funeral. Or at least come home late and caught himself calculating the time in Chicago to see if it would be okay to call. The lapses always please him. It’s nice to imagine that she’s only far away.
    HIS HEAD A LITTLE CLEARER NOW , he decides to go only as far as Gil Puyat and then flag the next empty taxi that passes. He reaches the end of the promenade—the bay beyond this point reclaimed by artificial land with artificial buildings on it—and crosses Roxas again. About halfway across the wide boulevard he realizes that the three stray dogs have been matching his pace on the opposite side, and he turns back. The dogs come upon an upturned trashcan and circle it like a kill, nipping at one another’s hindquarters. From the pried-open lid and strewn debris, Howard can tell that squatters have already been through it. There won’t be any food. The strays realize this after some searchingand then just stare dumbly at the can. They bark at it, and at each other. Their bodies tighten and expand—each animal pulsing.
    He has no desire to get near them when they’re worked up, and decides to wait for a taxi on this side. He sits on the crumbling curb. It’s a whole process—lowering himself down. A stoplight above the dogs flashes red at irregular intervals. Power lines spanning the intersection buzz in the wet, sooty air. A jeepney—one of the stretch passenger jeeps decked out with flags and streamers and shining like pounded foil—speeds by with the crack of fuel cut with kerosene. It slows, but Howard waves it on. He sees a white taxi and tries to flag it but the driver ignores him, swerving slightly before making a hard left at the intersection. Howard waits.
    The sound of his phone ringing makes him jump and he shifts his weight to get at his belt loop. He’s disappointed to see that it’s just Hon. “Hallo Howie!” Hon yells. “Getting off the horn with Jack, you got a sec for me?”
    “It’s late,” Howard says, not liking the way his voice carries over the empty promenade. “Can this wait?”
    “Yup,” Hon says, sounding very cheerful. “But you’re not asleep. I got a couple questions for you in your e-mail. You get them?”
    “No.” Howard speaks in a near whisper. “Haven’t had a chance to read them, yet.”
    “Oh Howie … am I a cock blocker? Listen, just take a sec, there’s plenty of you to go around. I got them all listed out for you, just put something together and send to me so I can have Jack stop calling. Don’t CC him, though. He’s a schmuck. I haven’t been able to shit in peace since he