Free Immortal Max by Lutricia Clifton

same stitched design above the bill.
    I get it. The design represents woods in the country. CountryWood.
    I introduce myself. He points me to a chair in front of his desk. I sit. Clutch my scrapbook. Watch as he pulls a piece of paper from a desk drawer.
    â€œFill out this employment form.” He looks at my hands. “That the book Anise and Yee told me about?”
    â€œYes, sir.” We exchange scrapbook and application form. I write in my name, address, and phone number, stop at the line for Social Security number. I pull my wallet out of my pocket, remove my card, and notice he’s looking at me. “Um, I haven’t learned my Social Security number yet. This is my first time to use it.”
    The bassoon voice rumbles, “Still have a hard time remembering mine.” He continues to turn pages, looking at dogs.
    In the place for references, I put down Yee’s and Anise’s names. For purpose of business, I write,
To walk dogs
.
    â€œDon’t have dogs ourselves.” Chief Beaumont closes my scrapbook. We exchange it and the employment form again. “Wife keeps two cats, though. Siamese. Independent little buggers, but smart.”
    I nod. Some of Rosie’s cats are part Siamese. Monday and Thursday, the ones Max stopped from eating Birdie.
    â€œOkay.” He straightens glasses that look like aviator goggles. The wraparound kind with an elastic strap that goes around your head. “Here are the rules.”
    I learn that dogs are to be kept on a leash at all times. Are not supposed to bark continuously, as this is considered a disturbance. Are not allowed on the beach or inside the pool area, as their hair clogs up drains. Most importantly, they are not to leave “their business” anywhere.
    â€œCarry plastic bags with you to pick up after them. You know how to do that?”
    I nod. He demonstrates anyway. Putting his hand into a plastic bag, he picks up a tennis ball, inverts the bag so the ball’s inside, knots the bag so the ball is tied at the end.
    â€œYou see how it’s done?”
    I grin. “Not a problem. I’ve heard most of the dogs out here are little.” I point at the plastic bag in his hand. “Peanuts, not tennis balls.”
    He lets out a rumbling laugh.
Har-har-har
. The corners of his eyes wrinkle up like bird tracks. I decide he’s okay and relax.
    â€œThere’s bag holders every couple blocks,” he says. ”Look like birdhouses on short posts but they’re filled with recycled plastic bags. Have to carry the bag back to the dog owner’s house, throw it away there. And you can’t walk the dogs anywhere but on the right-of-way.” He pauses, eyeing me. “You know what a right-of-way is?”
    â€œYes, sir. The strip of grass on the side of the road.”
    He nods, looking over my completed form. “You don’t follow the rules, the dog owners will be given the citation.” Another piercing look through the glasses. “You know what
that
means?”
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll be fired.” I’m not feeling so relaxed anymore.
    He pulls a map out of a different drawer. Points out a lake in the middle. Streets curving around it. Squares that represent tennis courts, swimming pool, beach areas.
    â€œStay on this loop when you walk the dogs, nowhere else. Leave your bike at the first house you pick up a dog. . . .” He draws a rough circle along certain streets and connects the circle with the line leading back to the front gate. “Pick it up when you’re done. Turn in your pass when you leave.” He looks at me. “Got that?”
    â€œYes, sir. Justin Wysocki told me outsiders aren’t welcome.” I’m glad the outlined route isn’t near the places where Justin and his friends will be hanging out. The fun places.
    â€œHe did, huh?” Chief Beaumont lets out a deep grunt. “Okay, you’re good to go. Any problems, let