“So, what did you think of the space?”
“I liked it. It was…funky.”
“Please, take a seat. Water?”
“No, thanks. I’m good. My, what an interesting looking dog. Is she yours?”
“He, you mean?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Happens all the time. It’s because you’re so cute, aren’tchya. Yes, you are! Look at that face! But to answer your question—yes, he’s mine.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name is Crump.”
“Crump? How interesting. What kind of dog is he?”
“I don’t know, really.”
“Where did you get him?”
“Well, since you asked, I got Crump here—yes, you! You’re such a good little boy! Yes, you are! Can you tell we’re talking about you? Yeah? –Anyways, so I got Crump…it’ll be nine years ago this month, I’ll never forget it, because it was around the same time I had gout—in both feet, mind you—and when his namesake, a Mr. Walter Crump, died, may he rest in peace. He was one of my first tenants here, Mr. Crump, but you don’t remember him, do you! No, you don’t! You were just a little puppy then! Weren’tchya? You weren’t even supposed to be there, huh! But good thing you were because then I’d never have met you! Down! Crump, down! Down Boy! I’m sorry. He likes you.”
“It’s O.K. I don’t mind.”
“You see, back then, dogs weren’t allowed here. I know, can you imagine? This place with no dogs? But bear with me. When the first tenants moved in, their most common request was for me to allow dogs, and I almost said what the hell. But the building was brand new, and I had just had all the floors of the units lacquered with this maple-scented coat of poly—expensive stuff. So I’d have been a fool to allow dogs in here, right off the bat, scratching and smelling up the place, leaving me to clean up their mess. Which would have been a real pain, too, because I could barely get around back then, on account of the gout. But you took care of that, didn’t you! Yes, you did! You licked the gout right out! Besides, I figured there’d be noise complaints. So forget it, I said. No dogs.”
“So why the change of heart?”
“I’m getting there. So a few months after everyone settled in, I get this call one night, at like, midnight. Naturally, I let it go to voicemail. The message—I’ll never forget it—it said: “Gerry, Walter Crump here. Those pancake smelling floors you put in, I need those gone. Out. Immediately. They’re too goddamn slippery, and they’re giving me a headache. I can’t sleep, for crissakes.” Then he says, “Get a crew over here in the morning, your best floor guys, guys that actually know what the hell they’re doing and clean up after themselves. I can’t have dust flying around everywhere. And don’t call me back, just get it done. I’ll be gone early. Unit 407.” But I call him back, of course, and say, Calm down, not to worry, I’ll have my floor guys swing by, first thing in the morning.”
“Wow, do you always get requests like that?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Once I had this guy—I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but I feel like I can trust you. Can I trust you? Don’t repeat this.”
“Of course.”
“I can already tell you’ll make a great tenant. And wittle Crumpy here thinks so too, don’tchya! Yes, you do! That is, after your credit check, of course. Anyways, so this guy, he was a real pain in my you know what, complained about everything, the water’s too hot, the water’s too cold. One thing after another. Then he asked if it was okay for him to build a balcony that would extend out from his kitchen window. He was one of those very green people, too—are you very green? Because if you are, I don’t mean to offend.”
“I like the environment.”
“Me too. Trust me, I love the environment. But this guy, he was beyond green, said he’d install the balcony himself, using no tools, no electricity, just duct tape. And I’m like, “Uh-uh, no way.” Then he asked if he could have the key to the roof-deck. And I’m like, why’s everyone always obsessed with roof-access? I don’t get it. There’s nothing up there but bird feces and a rubber-sealed floor. So I’m like, “Sorry, pal, but no can do. If one person sees you up there, everybody will want to be up there. Besides, it’s too much of a liability. My insurance,” I said, “would go through the roof.” I thought that was great—through the roof! So, anyways, I told him what I tell everyone else—“Check the lease. It’s all there, all spelled out.” Where was I going with this?”
“Crump’s phone call? About the floor’s?”
“Right! Crump! So, the next morning, I go up to Crump’s place, you know, to talk to him, let him know that the floor guys would be there to take care of things. Mind you, this was when the building had no elevators, so I had to hobble up there, with my gout and all. It hurt so bad. I was heavier then, too, like, a hundred pounds heavier!”
“You’re kidding?”
“Honest! One-oh-two, to be exact! (But don’t tell anyone, I got the surgery.) So anyways, you can imagine, all that pressure in my legs and feet—my God. I had to cut holes in my shoes, right above my big toes, you know, to let my feet breathe, and make room for my gout and all. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner I’d massage the lumps on my feet with this ointment cream that smelt like vinegar.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It was. Have you had it?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Look at you! What are you? Twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“I’ll be thirty-one next month.”
“Oh, get out! You look younger. A real soft face, and I mean that in a good way.”
“Thanks. So, how’d you get rid of it—the gout, I mean?”
“I’m getting there. So I knock on Crump’s door, hard, you know, but after several knocks, I don’t hear anything. So I unlock the door and, before walking in, through the crack, I yell, “Hello? Mr. Crump?” just to make sure, because you wouldn’t believe the things I’ve walked in on, let me tell you. You wouldn’t believe it!”
“I bet.”
“But it seems pretty clear that he’s not there. So I open the door, and when I walk in, get this—I notice that there are scratch marks all over my new floors, like he’d tried to move around some of the furniture, you know, so the floor-guys could get to it? The coffee table, the TV, the couch—all had been shoved into the corner of the room. And then I hear this noise, coming from that part of the room. It’s like a faint water leak noise, or like a wet mop sliding back and forth. So I go over and kneel on the couch, to check behind there, you know, see if there’s a leak or something. And there’s Mr. Crump, lying belly up, his neck and face all gray and rigid and bloated.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Crump was gonzo. Knew it immediately. Have you ever seen a dead person before?”
“No…like, at a wake, you mean?”
“No, like, someone who has just died.”
“No, I—I haven’t.”
“Well, if you ever do, you’ll know. Trust me. You’ll know. And let me tell you, Mr. Crump was dead.”
“How’d he die? Did he slip on the new floors or something?”
“Oh, don’t be silly! He died of a heart attack. Actually, off the record, I thought he slipped, too, at first. Kind of panicked, really. But lucky for me, the paramedics said they saw this sort of thing all the time—old people getting up to do something, move things around, then their heart just explodes, poof, body falls, and game over. Just like that. Sad stuff.”
“Jesus.”
“Wait, it gets better. So before that, I called 911, of course, and while I waited for the paramedics to arrive, I sat down on Crump’s couch. I needed to—it was all very startling, as you can imagine. Plus, my feet were killing me. So I’m sitting there, on Crump’s couch, airing out my gout, with Crump all dead on the floor behind me, and I feel this wet, tingling sensation come over my feet, like a cool breeze whirling about the floor and through the holes in my shoes and over my swollen toes. I even leaned back and closed my eyes, it felt so good. Then I heard the mopping noise again. It was close, very close, like, right under me now, so I opened my eyes….and—you won’t believe it!—little Crumpy here was licking the floors wild, right between my feet, practically stripping the maple lacquer right off, then licking right over my gout, the ointment getting all over his nose! And I have to say, I wasn’t even mad about the floors anymore. It felt incredible. And look at that face. How can you get mad at a face like that? Yes, you! Come here, you silly boy, you! That’s a good boy! Watch this. You’re not going to believe it. Let me just take my shoes off quick—do you mind? You’re not one of those I-hate-feet-people, are you? You’ve got to see this. The gout’s gone, I promise!”
“Oh, no. Please, go for it.”
“Down boy! Watch this. Down, Crump! Down, boy! Good. Now, lick, boy, lick! Can you believe that? He still does it! But only if I ask. And let me tell you, it still feels incredible, even without the gout.”
“How…interesting.”
“I know, right? I guess there’s something in their saliva that fights infections. I don’t know. That’s what the doctors told me. Yep, old Crump must have snuck little Crump here into the building, thinking I’d never find him. But I found you, didn’t I! Yes, I did! And you found me! And now you’re mine!”
“What about Crump’s family—they didn’t want the dog?”
“That’s the thing, turns out poor Mr. Crump didn’t really have any family, just some cousin, who, I’d heard, was a cat person, anyway, so it wouldn’t have worked out.”
“How sad.”
“Yeah, but it sure did me, and everyone else, really, some good, because we’re all so happy to have dogs here now. After all, it wouldn’t have been fair to just allow Crump in the building and no other dogs. Isn’t that right, boy! My wittle Crumpy-poo! God, you’re so cute! Isn’t he cute?”
“He is.”
“Oh, how rude of me. I’ve been yapping away all this time and never thought to ask: what kind do you have?”
“Sorry?”
“Dog—what kind of dog do you have?”
“Oh… I have a cat, actually.”
“A cat, you’re kidding? We… uh… we actually don’t allow cats.”
“Oh no?”
“I know. Thing is, I’m deathly allergic. Oh, before I forget—did I give you a copy of the lease?”
“No, but that’s all right.”
“Sit, I have copies. Please. Let me get you one. What kind of cat did you say he was?”
“She’s a Bengal.”