Walking the Dog (13 page)

I wasn't particularly lonely. This was a good place for a cautious kind of healing. I ached all the time, but there were less of those stabbing, sharp pains. I worked, opened and closed my hands constantly, and began to actually miss painting. Aside from that, I had few other feelings.

My chores were handed to me by the woman known as the captain of floor eight (where I was). She didn't call me by my name, but “hey you” seemed to suffice. Of course, being a newbie, I got the bathrooms, showers, garbage, sweeping, mopping, and dishwashing. I worked from 4:00 a.m. until lights out at 10:00 p.m., and this satisfied my cloudy brain. No one talked to me—not even a hello. I was only ordered around. Even a “this looks like shit, do it again” seemed like pleasant enough conversation. What made me nervous was that 85 percent of the women were black, and I was waiting—in the showers, the cafeteria, the kitchen—for the punishment for my height
and my race. I'd heard a couple women whisper “honky bitch” when I got in their way, but the verbal or physical onslaught didn't come.

One night I got back from preparing the dishes for breakfast at about 9:30 p.m. My cellmates were awake and both of them had their eyes on me. One was heavyset and moved with labored breath. She used an inhaler quite frequently. She wore a pink-and-white checked housecoat with Clayton pajamas underneath. Tufts of her dyed black hair were covered in pink sponge rollers that she used every night. She was sitting on her cot, a three-month-old
People Magazine
on her lap. The other woman straightened her short hair with a product that made her bangs hang over gloomy brown eyes that could be seen through the cracks. She wore a Clayton T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She was thin and muscular, and I thought she could be capable of real trouble.

My mattress was rolled up against the wall as per their instructions. At night I rolled it out between their cots to go to sleep. I wasn't allowed to change clothes until morning if they were in bed or asleep so I tried to brush my teeth and do a wash in the kitchen sink each night if the staff let me.

I rolled out my mattress and the heavyset cellmate pointed to a clear part of her mattress.

“Sit,” she wheezed.

“Yeah, sit,” said the other.

I sat.

“You been a really good girl,” the fat one said.

“Better than we ever thought,” commented the other.

“So we're going to tell you our names. Mine's Rolanda and she's Sue.”

Of course I'd known their names from the first day since they used them with each other all the time, but I solemnly nodded my head.

“Don't pretend you don't know,” Sue snapped at me. “We're just saying you can talk to us out loud now. Conversation like.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “I'm not being sarcastic or anything, but should I tell you mine?”

“Your name is Carleen Kepper, and you was some Jew name before that,” Sue said. “Which we're not interested in.”

“You been doin' real good,” wheezed Rolanda.

“And we want you to keep it up,” Sue chimed in.

“Floor eight is pleased with your behavior,” Rolanda announced. “Now you can start to live at Clayton.”

“Can you tell me what that means?” I asked politely.

“No one will bother you unless you slack off, pick a fight, or become a white Aryan.”

“No way,” I promised. “No white Aryan stuff.”

“And don't think we're your buddy just cause we talkin' to you. You still have your place and nothin' higher.”

“Friendship is an earned medal,” Sue said. “Friendship is a proved, long-form, algebraic truth. Friendship is a mountain climb in an ice storm. You go up inch by inch together,” she added. “That's from one of my poems.”

“Sue's in the stand-up poetry class,” Rolanda said. “We killed people but we're not stupid. Isn't that right?”

“If you don't know the circumstances you can't speculate on the motive,” Sue explained. “In fact some very high IQs have ended lives.”

“Don't answer us 'cause we're not really interested in your opinions.”

“I'm not very interesting,” I heard myself saying.

“We don't care about that either,” Rolanda said. “You sleep and shit here, but you're not our friend.”

“We're not even each other's friends yet.” Sue gestured between her and Rolanda.

“Two years and working it out,” Rolanda nodded.

“Friendship inside is a marriage,” Sue said. “Anyways, we got you a clean mattress.”

“We were worried about that stinky piece of shit you been sleepin' on. Lice. Bedbugs. Even maggots if someone died on it.”

“Don't thank us,” Sue said. “That's not our etiquette.”

CAUGHT

One afternoon I was summoned back to the PetPals office. Hubbs and Lucinda had rescued two pit bulls, Gunner and AK, from the South Bronx. Despite Hubbs's habit and Lucinda's sometimes insufferable bossiness, I admired them for this. They'd both come from the streets, but were completely against dog fighting. They'd lost a lot of friends for their opinions and made enemies by summoning cops to break up the fights. This was one of the reasons they'd set up the office in Soho and, in the beginning, I guess they paid for their rent with drug money. I never got any clear stories from them about their beginnings. Although I was curious, I figured it was better that I didn't know.

Gunner and AK were all muscle. Gunner was brown with white markings and AK (short for AK47) was pure white. They were gorgeous specimens, and I identified with them because they were covered with scars. They'd both been nearly dead when Hubbs and Lucinda adopted them. Hubbs spent all his free hours training the hate out of them. If provoked, they still attacked, and I muzzled them on the street. A mistaken signal, unexpected crash, or bad smell from another dog could set them off. I'd seen Gunner lose control in the office and even Hubbs had to kick him with his combat boot to keep the dog from leaping for his throat. Afterward, Hubbs would hold
him and rock him, explaining that “that kind of shit just isn't cool, man.” Except for very, very few incidents, they had obedient, loving natures, and as Hubbs said, “They didn't do this to themselves, criminals did.” I was another kind of criminal, so Hubbs figured we were a good match. I always walked them to Brooklyn and worked them hard near the bridge where there were abandoned lots and future construction sites. They chased soccer balls and jumped through hoops, and I'd throw old pillows up in the air for them to demolish. I took Lucinda's bike with an engine and revved it up in the lots and had them chase me. I always made sure no one was anywhere in sight and I put the muzzles on quickly if even a car passed and slowed down to see what we were doing. I never got attacked by either of them and thought of them as my brothers. I think, next to Hubbs, they felt the most protective and loyal to me.

I was always given the difficult dogs, so I rarely saw a golden retriever or Lab except at dog runs. I missed a simple walk. A dog on a leash sniffing now and then, wagging his golden tail as he looked back with brown eyes for approval. I missed anything simple and easy in my life. I also knew I'd be consistently scared, confused, and guilty until I finished Pony's list, so during my free hours or during meal breaks, I snuck down into what I now considered my boat, and letter by letter, word by word, tried to eke out what was the real part of the story. Here's more of it:

CONTINUING MY CRIMES LIST FOR PONY

15. As I said, I met Leonard Salin in college. We mostly played with toys and games. He was tall and very thin, with dark curly brown hair and a mustache. The thing I liked about him was that he always wore shorts, even
in winter. He was studying architecture because he wanted to build creative revolutionary toys, games, and playgrounds. He could be kind and goofy. He was also unpredictably moody and sensitive. Sometimes he drank a few glasses of wine to calm his fears.

16. My clique of artsy-type students was nothing special. There were five of us: a composer, a French horn player, a painter/sculptor, a novelist, and a kid who was a critic and knew thousands of facts about art and literature even if he didn't do anything. Leonard was not a member.

17. Miko also had no interest in my college life. He was gradually becoming irritably hostile and intolerant. He had begun the downward road from pot to cocaine to meth. In the beginning I refused to do anything beyond pot. I loved to paint when I was stoned, but I always had to redo details the next day, so I didn't trust it.

18. Nonetheless, my clique began to experiment with cocaine and took to creating “site specific” and “spontaneous art” in the woods, in supermarkets, and in rivers. We celebrated holidays that didn't exist, staged parades and marches for causes that we made up.

19. We were rich, spoiled brats. We easily got bored. I remained dedicated to pranks and assignments and private experiments, so all I was losing was sleep. Leonard didn't know about the clique or our progressive art forms. He could be very full of himself and only came out of his cloud when he chose to. He barely noticed when I was on one drug or another. His addiction was to me. I didn't know if he really loved
me, or if he was in love with being in love with me. He built a tree house for us with ropes, ladders, and swings. He said it was our love nest. But he was so into its construction I began to think he'd forgotten who he was building it for.

20. Miko gave me my first taste of meth. How could I give him up? I was immortal, a muse, an angel. I had power over colors, shapes, and sounds. The colors that had always guided my life exploded in dimensions and intensities.

21. My whole clique started indulging in more drugs and different varieties. But the pranks and performance art were losing their thrill. I still shoplifted and it gave me a nice twinge. Perhaps stealing might provide the rush we all needed. I suggested that we become criminals. I put myself in charge of planning the robberies, but I didn't have a clue how to do more than slip a costume necklace into my pocket. I asked Miko for advice. He'd served time twice for crimes related to drugs. He thought I was a riot.

22. I lied to Leonard. About everything. About my whereabouts. About my posse. About Miko. About drugs. About booze (I loved vodka). He was suspicious and hurt. Like I said, his own mood swings could be spectacular and we'd clash at times. The two of us were a trapeze act swinging back and forth. We somehow seemed to meet in midair. Grabbing on to one another, we could spend whole nights passionately discovering incoherent philosophies of the postmoderns or simply staring at each other. One night, Leonard decided we should get married. I accepted Leonard's
proposal without pause. It fit in perfectly with the pranks, drugs, and confusing fantasies of crimes. As for time, there was only now.

23. I also started using the tree house as a hideaway home base for my pathetic crime schemes. I demanded my clique come up with a name. Our writer came up with “the Terrartists.” Stoned, the pun seemed brilliant, as did every plan and idea. And so we began our secret criminal lives. Simultaneously, Miko was learning to make crystal meth in a farm twenty miles or so from the school. I didn't know anything about it, didn't even know what crystal meth was, but I vaguely noticed that his personality was a bit unpredictable, and, at times, deep back in my throat, I was intimidated.

24. The Beginning: I set out my rules. The Terrartists would never rob anyone for money. We were robbing for the sake of doing it and the thrill, not the money. After all, most of us came from wealthy or middle-class backgrounds. We'd start in small groups and knock off some convenience stores in small towns. Just to get the knack of demanding or grabbing objects. We'd steal ridiculous things like batteries, Pez dispensers, adult diapers—sardonic, amusing, sophomoric crime. We decided to get in shape in case we needed to make a run for it, and jogged together for an hour each dawn. We did push-ups and sit-ups, arm wrestled, and bought expensive boxing gear. Since we were all artists we didn't get very strong and gave up very fast. But for me, it was a pleasure. It was almost as if I had friends. This was as close as I was going to get to being a normal college student. We never talked about our
personal lives or families. Nor did we share feelings. We were so stoned most of the time I doubt any of us were carrying on the same conversation.

25. In the midst of the Terrartists planning and training, Leonard and I drove to New York City, got to City Hall, got a license, and got married by a judge in a blue suit and red striped shirt. Just like that. And then we stayed at the Ritz and ordered room service. It was a rich white kids night and we had no fear of the consequences. Annulment and divorce were as easy as birth control. Before bed we went to a Mexican restaurant, got drunk on margaritas, and zoomed back and forth on the Taconic State Parkway in Leonard's Mustang, taking the curves as fast as we dared. When I drove, Leonard was terrified. I think our honeymoon was spent vomiting somewhere near Tarrytown. When we got back to college we were both dizzy, weak, and laughing. We were happy. We decided to postpone a formal announcement until finals were over, though. He didn't want any distractions from his finals.

26. After my marriage, the Terrartists held a meeting at the tree house and I laid out the plan for our first big robbery. I could feel the thrill rushing through my veins (or maybe it was just the drugs). One kid had a paper due and another had a concert so it was hard to nail down an exact date. Finally we found a Friday that was completely free. I had been scouting and came upon a somewhat-isolated clothing boutique on a street near a community college outside Amherst, Massachusetts (land of the WASPs). There was a church on one side of it and a framing shop on the other. Across the street
was a large mall, but I'd made sure its parking lot was a mile away so no large groups would hear or see.

27. I told Miko that I'd married Leonard. For about five seconds he didn't say anything. Then he asked if it was going to make any difference. I said of course not. He laughed. I told him about our plan for the Terrartists' first heist, and he agreed it was a good beginners' scheme. He taught me the art of switching cars. We also researched back roads just in case there was a problem on Route 7-A. Miko was a patient teacher. He thought my foray into crime was a joke. But he also said, “You're going to be an awesome criminal.” I thought I loved him when he was teaching me to be bad, but it must've been the meth.

28. I was the driver. I was always the driver. The reasons for this were simple. I was most likely to be recognized. Secondly, and more importantly, I knew the most about cars and had been trained by my lover to take curves at high speeds. Back roads in New England are nothing but steep curves and hills. Here was the plan:

            
a) Two kids stayed at school (with much protest) to create our alibis.

            
b) One kid waited in the first car, an old Volvo, seven miles outside of Amherst.

            
c) I waited in the second car ten miles, and in an unexpected direction, from him. My car was a Buick, but it had a redesigned high-voltage racing engine. I'm telling you it could fly.

            
d) The female poet would commit the robbery (it was a women's store).

            
e) After dropping the robbers off at school, I was in charge of getting across the border and hiding the loot.

29. Miko wanted to supply us with guns. But I said absolutely not. There might be an elderly saleswoman and I didn't want to be responsible for a stroke or a heart attack. Miko wasn't amused and said he wasn't sure he wanted to be associated with “rich preppies who played cops and robbers.” He said we were bound to get caught. That we'd probably get off because of our rich parents' lawyers. He'd been a little moody since my marriage and I teased him about it. He dropped his stern attitude and said we should just paint some water guns, which we did. When Miko pushed me too much about the guns, I reminded myself what Leonard always said to calm me down: “Remember what the caterpillar said to Alice: Keep your temper.” We wore extra-large gray hoodies and goggles.

30. The first heist was perfection. I was focused on the thrill not the items. The clothes weren't close to our style, so I told the poet to steal only coat hangers. She bagged about fifty hangers and off we went. It was a thrill speeding from car to car even though no one was chasing us. I careened on the corners the way Miko had taught me to and because of the coke I'd snorted, I was fearless.

31. I incorporated the hangers into a large sculpture made out of bent steel from abandoned cars. It wasn't like any piece of art I'd made before, and I wished I could display it. The energy of the heist gave my sculpture shape; angular objects hung like mobiles attached to mobiles. One night I went to the woods to grab a look
at my sculpture and I laughed. I had the sense that it could be my Dorian Gray. I'd be Ester on the outside—eccentric, charming, spacey, dedicated—but in the woods I'd keep welding and soldering and gluing objects I'd lifted onto the sculpture, which would grow monstrous and moldy, and would be lined with snakes and demented chipmunks.

32. Leonard knew nothing of this part of my life. As far as he was concerned, I was working on a massive show for a new gallery in New York. We'd discussed getting our marriage annulled, but avoided doing it. There was a genuine connection between us. However, on both our parts, the connection was based on only a fraction of the whole. We held together, steady and kind. He stayed stable. I lied with virtuosity. He got a three-month fellowship to Denmark, Sweden, and Finland, where some master carpenter was creating jungle gyms, mazes, and vehicles for children. This master was supposed to be one of a kind. And when he got back, Leonard wanted to spend a couple months at Epcot Center in Orlando so he could see how Disney did its magic. I think he stole a lot of original ideas and techniques during his fellowships. Leonard was ambitious and politically correct, but didn't sparkle in the imagination department. This really bothered him, so he pretended other architects' creations had occurred to him before and they just got them out to the public first.

33. The new, famous, hip painter David Sessions came to our college to do a residency. He was going through this period of painting huge, huge canvases, and our college cleaned out a barn for him, bought him all his
materials, and promised anonymity. David Sessions was a real one as far as I was concerned, so I felt excited and humbled to have him around. We hit it off immediately. He was a fan of my work, especially the collages and Bauhaus motorcycles. He found my sculpture in the woods to be very frightening, secretive, but, yes, up to my other work. He encouraged me to show it, but I adamantly refused, lest some evidence accidentally get revealed. We were brother and sister and our painting was love. I didn't trust him, but he had the least faults of anyone I knew. And I worshipped his technique. His backgrounds taught me as much as the fully completed paintings themselves. I became one of his assistants and often would show up stoned. “I didn't know you were a druggie,” he'd say to me.