Dog Day
"Nobody told me there'd be days like these . . .
Strange days, indeed . . .
Most peculiar, Mama . . ."
--John Lennon
(based on a true story)
Of course it just had to be one of those devil dogs, the ones they always used in horror films, with its beady little black pearl eyes totally devoid of emotion, those razor-sharp fangs, sinister shark fins for ears. No tail to speak of; what the hell was up with that? It just had to have been a Doberman Pinscher, or maybe, just maybe a Rottweiler, perhaps some freakishly evil mixed breed of both, that runaway monster mutt that effectively ruined Marshall's day, to say the least, and would, by no deranged stretch of the imagination, come dangerously close to destroying his life.
Dangerously close to ending it, really, no joke.
Not that Marshall Goodman really got a good look at the wayward beast, at least not right away. Shit just went down too quick, a proverbial lightning flash of his entire life suddenly running across his windshield, tearing across the peripheral vision of his unsuspecting mind's eye. No doubt emotionally scarring him for life, even if he did manage to survive this ridiculous, dare he say surreal, ordeal.
Of course it just had to be the hottest day of the summer, not even noon and a hellacious ninety-eight, according to one electronic bank sign, one hundred and seven according to another, and him at least a good forty-five minutes away from Lake Shore Drive, his ass still sitting in the Mickey D's drive-thru in the sweltering suburbs precariously late for work. Only the second month of his first big city job. A shit job really, relatively speaking, as he was fast coming to realize. But at least he was working, as his beloved Gram would humbly, proudly proclaim upon his mandatory semi-weekly mission of mercy, dutifully alternating with his sister to chauffeur the old girl to the grocery store, Italian butcher shop, Polish bakery, bank, beauty parlor, etc. Though his title was pretty impressive sounding at least to Gram: Assistant Watch Commander of Protective Services. Truth be told, what was he? Just another security grunt, a glorified rent-a-cop at one of Chicago's biggest, most overrated, at least in Marshall's opinion, tourist attraction, consistently called upon to work grueling twelve-hour shifts at the Museum, a few hours of relentless nerve-grating in-your-face public contact, then, lock up the old mausoleum and call it a night, pray for daylight, then no choice but to pull another double when your predictably slothful midnight relief fails to show, yet again. Thank you so much, Mr. Shit Heel. Stuck chasing phantoms on the graveyard too often. Wandering through the execrable depths of the U-505, that creepy haunted Nazi submarine exhibit out of sheer unadulterated nocturnal boredom, despite countless warnings from some of his more thoughtful peers to steer clear of the unspoken Forbidden Zone.
Some bad-ass mojo down there, Brother. A couple dudes went down there before, never was heard from again. Some say ghosts, hearing growls of invisible devil dogs, whatever. Won't never catch my ass down there, dead or alive, you feel me, AWC?
Graveyard shift was definitely not for everyone; certainly did seem to affect some people in strange ways. Then dead tired the next day even when he wasn't called in, too tired to work-out, to spent to do anything but sleep, really. Totally taken out of your normal routine, haunted by the weirdest dreams.
At least his college degree afforded him some semblance of so-called authority over a handful of his newfound chronically disgruntled colleagues, at least theoretically. There's a new Marshall in town, boys, he cheekily chided his grim, seemingly humorless new charges. But not one of the lethargic grunts ever seemed to get his private joke. The one or two minimum wage flunkies hailing from the Lakeside Projects or South Chicago ghetto who actually, rarely but occasionally, gave a shit. But, on the bright side, he was now graced with untold opportunities and unlimited potential for exciting, rewarding career advancement. At least according to those suspiciously too-hot Stepford femme-bots at Corporate HR downtown. And for the first time in his life he was finally out on his own, able to pay his own bills, support himself one hundred percent. Or he would be able to very soon, as soon as he found the time to start searching for the perfect apartment, at least a semi-habitable one, could finally get the hell out of his sister's smoky, one-bedroom kitty litter palace. Obviously young Marshall had to vacate himself from the Queen of Clutter's lair tout suite if he planned on landing his first big city girlfriend. And, word hot off the grapevine, that smoking hot strawberry blond Siren from Visitor Services was definitely gunning for the new guy. Yes, things were finally looking up for the nearly down-and-out Indiana boy.
And with so much going for this unsuspecting, otherwise completely law-abiding young man, who among us could have reasonably predicted that a most happenstance and bizarre tragedy was only moments, one wholly unavoidable traffic mishap away? As Marshall Goodman innocently cruised down a quiet, tree-lined stretch of Oak Park Ave, only slightly above the posted speed limit, only slightly distracted by, on one hand the incessantly buzzing, blinking and vibrating work pager that had very un-fortuitously landed unseen for the moment at his feet, and on the other, the precariously over-filled Jumbo-sized beverage, the enormous girth of which wouldn't quite fit into either one of the convenient front seat twin cup-holders of his recently purchased Grand Prix, this slightly distracted driver simultaneously attempting to safely, discreetly change lanes to better accommodate his very necessary and timely exodus from suburban traffic, not to mention execute an even more crucial and inconspicuous entry to the forthcoming expressway lane, the slim and speedy black beast seemed to come out of nowhere. But not quite speedy enough, it would seem. The dog, if in fact it was a dog, one of the few facts to which the subject in question would be able to attest to the authorities in the ensuing investigation, suddenly ran out into the street at reported breakneck speed, causing a similarly startled VW Bug in the opposite lane to perpetrate a screeching halt, almost instantly became helplessly lodged beneath the undercarriage of said subject's almost equally immobilized vehicle. In retrospect, Subject Goodman, admittedly not a religious man by any stretch of the earthly imagination, would very shortly swear up and down, to any and every higher authority applicable, despite the contradictory word of any and all highly questionable so-called eyewitnesses in question, that, Yes, Officer, he had, in fact, applied the brakes of his vehicle as quickly as humanly possible. The conspicuously fresh and still-smoldering tar-black residue of thick, serpentine skid marks, only slightly obfuscated by a glaring and unsightly crimson smattering of what appears to be fresh blood, most likely non-human, would, at least, seem to verify this portion of the Subject's testimony.
In any event, the world seemingly frozen in time, soundless, save for the unforgettable sound of the most ungodly sorrowful non-human whimpering from somewhere, below, enveloped in his own private bubble of panic, Subject Goodman relates the following: Immediately bringing his vehicle to a stop, promptly exiting the vehicle to investigate. Upon seeing no visible signs of the reported animal, cautiously lowers himself to the ground to peer beneath the vehicle, retreats just in the nick of time as he sees a potentially lethal set of jaws viciously closing in upon his defenseless visage. Yet, beneath the vehicle, whether voluntarily or not remains unclear, the demented beast remains. A small but weirdly assertive crowd, so far about half a dozen aggressively curious onlookers, indignant residents and mostly unsympathetic fellow motorists—the mouthy old matron in the babushka who had just needlessly emerged from the nearest bungalow; the impatient gentleman in the Sikh turban whose cab was held at a standstill by this unfortunate melee; his even more indignant passenger, some asshole powerhouse attorney in a thousand-dollar suit by the looks of him, probably late for his power lunch or some earth-shattering mundane court hearing; the clueless posse of glue-sniffing thrasher brats who just happened to be skateboarding by—seemed to materialize almost as quickly as the dog had appeared just moments ago, the damned thing still somehow inexplicably lodged in the shadowy, sweltering underbelly of Subject Goodman's vehicle. Dual and opposing contingents of the strangely spontaneous gathering issuing, shouting a litany of confusing, contradictory directives.
At least his college degree afforded him some semblance of so-called authority over a handful of his newfound chronically disgruntled colleagues, at least theoretically. There's a new Marshall in town, boys, he cheekily chided his grim, seemingly humorless new charges. But not one of the lethargic grunts ever seemed to get his private joke. The one or two minimum wage flunkies hailing from the Lakeside Projects or South Chicago ghetto who actually, rarely but occasionally, gave a shit. But, on the bright side, he was now graced with untold opportunities and unlimited potential for exciting, rewarding career advancement. At least according to those suspiciously too-hot Stepford femme-bots at Corporate HR downtown. And for the first time in his life he was finally out on his own, able to pay his own bills, support himself one hundred percent. Or he would be able to very soon, as soon as he found the time to start searching for the perfect apartment, at least a semi-habitable one, could finally get the hell out of his sister's smoky, one-bedroom kitty litter palace. Obviously young Marshall had to vacate himself from the Queen of Clutter's lair tout suite if he planned on landing his first big city girlfriend. And, word hot off the grapevine, that smoking hot strawberry blond Siren from Visitor Services was definitely gunning for the new guy. Yes, things were finally looking up for the nearly down-and-out Indiana boy.
And with so much going for this unsuspecting, otherwise completely law-abiding young man, who among us could have reasonably predicted that a most happenstance and bizarre tragedy was only moments, one wholly unavoidable traffic mishap away? As Marshall Goodman innocently cruised down a quiet, tree-lined stretch of Oak Park Ave, only slightly above the posted speed limit, only slightly distracted by, on one hand the incessantly buzzing, blinking and vibrating work pager that had very un-fortuitously landed unseen for the moment at his feet, and on the other, the precariously over-filled Jumbo-sized beverage, the enormous girth of which wouldn't quite fit into either one of the convenient front seat twin cup-holders of his recently purchased Grand Prix, this slightly distracted driver simultaneously attempting to safely, discreetly change lanes to better accommodate his very necessary and timely exodus from suburban traffic, not to mention execute an even more crucial and inconspicuous entry to the forthcoming expressway lane, the slim and speedy black beast seemed to come out of nowhere. But not quite speedy enough, it would seem. The dog, if in fact it was a dog, one of the few facts to which the subject in question would be able to attest to the authorities in the ensuing investigation, suddenly ran out into the street at reported breakneck speed, causing a similarly startled VW Bug in the opposite lane to perpetrate a screeching halt, almost instantly became helplessly lodged beneath the undercarriage of said subject's almost equally immobilized vehicle. In retrospect, Subject Goodman, admittedly not a religious man by any stretch of the earthly imagination, would very shortly swear up and down, to any and every higher authority applicable, despite the contradictory word of any and all highly questionable so-called eyewitnesses in question, that, Yes, Officer, he had, in fact, applied the brakes of his vehicle as quickly as humanly possible. The conspicuously fresh and still-smoldering tar-black residue of thick, serpentine skid marks, only slightly obfuscated by a glaring and unsightly crimson smattering of what appears to be fresh blood, most likely non-human, would, at least, seem to verify this portion of the Subject's testimony.
In any event, the world seemingly frozen in time, soundless, save for the unforgettable sound of the most ungodly sorrowful non-human whimpering from somewhere, below, enveloped in his own private bubble of panic, Subject Goodman relates the following: Immediately bringing his vehicle to a stop, promptly exiting the vehicle to investigate. Upon seeing no visible signs of the reported animal, cautiously lowers himself to the ground to peer beneath the vehicle, retreats just in the nick of time as he sees a potentially lethal set of jaws viciously closing in upon his defenseless visage. Yet, beneath the vehicle, whether voluntarily or not remains unclear, the demented beast remains. A small but weirdly assertive crowd, so far about half a dozen aggressively curious onlookers, indignant residents and mostly unsympathetic fellow motorists—the mouthy old matron in the babushka who had just needlessly emerged from the nearest bungalow; the impatient gentleman in the Sikh turban whose cab was held at a standstill by this unfortunate melee; his even more indignant passenger, some asshole powerhouse attorney in a thousand-dollar suit by the looks of him, probably late for his power lunch or some earth-shattering mundane court hearing; the clueless posse of glue-sniffing thrasher brats who just happened to be skateboarding by—seemed to materialize almost as quickly as the dog had appeared just moments ago, the damned thing still somehow inexplicably lodged in the shadowy, sweltering underbelly of Subject Goodman's vehicle. Dual and opposing contingents of the strangely spontaneous gathering issuing, shouting a litany of confusing, contradictory directives.
Sir, you have to move this car, you're blocking two lanes of traffic. The poor thing is trapped under your wheels, you have to move the car. Man, you can't move that car, the poor animal will be crushed, you have to pull it out yourself. You have to move the car forward, very slightly. No you have to move it in reverse. That poor dog is under there, man, it's dying and you have to do something and you have to do it fast, GET MOVING, MAN . . .
Subject Goodman, understandably discombobulated by the drama, unspeakably flustered under the extreme and unexpected circumstances, this protective services professional perhaps slightly less so than the average civilian would be, was nevertheless predictably at his wit's end as to precisely the right thing to do, and even further distracted by the endless trill of his work cell phone, no doubt his superiors calling to investigate the unexpected delay of their thus far exemplary new employee. Finally, he decided to take matters into his own hands and simply return to the illusory sanctuary of his vehicle; he was, after all, late enough for work as it was. Perhaps ill-advisedly hoping to depend on the more helpful and hopefully wiser contingents of the burgeoning, for lack of a better word, mob, Subject Goodman, secretly cursing the stupid animal to high heaven among other places, tentatively placed his vehicle in gear, gingerly applied the slightest of pressure to the accelerator to move the vehicle forward in hopes of freeing the poor, demented creature who had so mindlessly placed him in this highly unenviable predicament. For better or for worse he snap-judged that forwards would be a safer bet than backwards, considering the added complications and potential dangers of striking any of several malingering members of the thus-far-not-very-helpful crowd, not to mention the too close for comfort independent taxi who, Subject Goodman suddenly recalled, had been foolishly riding his ass since he'd pulled out of the Mickey D's. But when a sudden discordant tone rose up from the crowd, our poor overwhelmed driver, understandably fearful he had made the wrong choice, perhaps misinterpreting the general consensus of the alarmingly fast-growing crowd, hastily pushed the gear lever in the opposite direction, pressed on the gas to place the vehicle back in its original position, slowly reversed. Apparently not slow enough. This time an even louder, angrier clamor surrounded him, as did the seething mob, quite literally, the human blockade collectively drawing so near to his inescapably debilitated Grand Prix that Subject Goodman couldn't have made a run for it, either on wheels or on foot, if he had wanted to. Truth be told, this option, cowardly or not, was suddenly looking more and more attractive. Too bad for him it was such an inconceivable impossibility at the moment. What the hell could he do?
Call 9-1-1? And tell them what? He was trapped in his car, surrounded, being attacked by an angry neighborhood mob for just running over and killing, or at least horribly mutilating, an idiotic stray dog who didn't have the common sense to look both ways before it crossed the street? How embarrassing was that? And just who else could he call to his defense? Not that they would even be able to reach him in time. Even if he wasn't so inconveniently sitting on his cell phone, frozen in terror. His Gram, who resided a mere four or five blocks away, sweet old lady probably lazily indulging in her daily afternoon cat nap, just champing at the bit to lead the cavalry charge in her low-powered electric wheelchair. The preposterous notion almost made him laugh, if only to keep from crying. There was his big sister, as well, who lived nearly equidistant, tireless workaholic no doubt predictably sleeping off her daily night shift paralegal hangover. Not exactly Jenny-on-the-Spot, to say the least. But come to think of it neither one would be at home; this afternoon Gram and Gabby were at the White Sox game, proudly accompanying their collective kitty clan to Pet Day at the ballpark. He'd been especially sad that he couldn't make the game because he had to . . . work. And of the few friends he'd made thus far at the Museum, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't collected a single phone number. He had Kristen's, of course, but they'd only gone out a few times with friends, their first official date planned for this coming weekend. Goddess willing and the Powers That Be don't call, she had coyly declared, fucking up his first well-deserved scheduled weekend off since starting the job. But much to his dismay regarding current circumstances, his fetching new love interest had ironically revealed herself a total canine freak—she owned three dogs, ran a small dog grooming business on the side and helped her aunt and uncle breed Alaskan Huskies in her spare time.
Perhaps pulling a runner, making a run for it, was exactly what the captive audience to this unlikely afternoon freak show suspected him of attempting to perpetrate. Thus collectively closing in to prevent such a dastardly escape. Not so fast, buddy boy. Goddamned dog killer, what the hell kind of gutless police officer is this guy? They should take away his badge and his gun, hell maybe we should do it for 'em!
The strange sensation that the defenseless driver's embattled vehicle was rocking back and forth, and not in a gentle baby's cradle kind of way, was much more than Subject Goodman's overactive, stress-induced imagination at work, soon became painfully clear. And before he could give a second thought to his seriously limited options, such as hitting the power lock button before it was too late for instance, the driver's side door was thrown open by so many angry, justice-seeking hands—unbelievably, many of them armed with baseball bats and tire irons among other potentially lethal makeshift weapons—and, before you could radio code a 10-69 or whatever it was, Officer Needs Immediate Assistance, Subject Goodman was involuntarily and quite rudely pulled from the mounting pendular hazard of his short-lived vehicular sanctuary.
What was the meaning behind this insanely irrational collective over-reaction? Was it the unexpected but not totally unseasonable heat? Did they fear he was packing heat? A badly misdirected knee-jerk reaction to a series of highly publicized local police brutality incidents?
Couldn't these idiots read a lousy uniform patch, could they not tell the difference between a poorly underpaid and sadly unarmed rent-a-cop and the real deal? Why was he being singled out as the bad guy? At least until this fateful day, he had held no particular grudge against the canine race. Perhaps his father, who as a child had been reportedly savagely attacked by a South Side stray, forced to endure a terrifying series of painful treatments that supposedly bordered on so many medieval torture sessions, had instituted in him an irrational, unnatural aversion to dogs in general. Never allowing him to own a dog, constantly, relentlessly issuing a neurotic verbal barrage of warnings to him and his siblings to Beware the Savage Beasts who roamed the otherwise placid and picturesque countryside of their bucolic childhood landscape. Once again, all his earthly troubles could be traced right back to that sad, sorry, crazy-assed excuse for a shamelessly absentee so-called father.
Couldn't these idiots read a lousy uniform patch, could they not tell the difference between a poorly underpaid and sadly unarmed rent-a-cop and the real deal? Why was he being singled out as the bad guy? At least until this fateful day, he had held no particular grudge against the canine race. Perhaps his father, who as a child had been reportedly savagely attacked by a South Side stray, forced to endure a terrifying series of painful treatments that supposedly bordered on so many medieval torture sessions, had instituted in him an irrational, unnatural aversion to dogs in general. Never allowing him to own a dog, constantly, relentlessly issuing a neurotic verbal barrage of warnings to him and his siblings to Beware the Savage Beasts who roamed the otherwise placid and picturesque countryside of their bucolic childhood landscape. Once again, all his earthly troubles could be traced right back to that sad, sorry, crazy-assed excuse for a shamelessly absentee so-called father.
At this point, having no choice but to defend himself, Assistant Watch Commander Goodman found himself reluctantly beating off the brutish dog-defending masses with his hefty protective services-issued Mag-lite, of which he was almost instantly relieved, along with his work-issue cell phone, overwhelmingly outnumbered by this shockingly massive mob that now appeared to fill the greater part of four traffic lanes from curb to curb.
DOG KILLER! DOG KILLER! DOG KILLER! Subject Goodman now at the mercy of several units of the local suburban police department, just now arriving slightly past the nick of time to rescue out embattled anti-hero and disperse the angry crowd. Lifted several harrowing feet off the ground as he presently was did afford our Subject an ironically fortuitous vantage point at this very moment, allowing him the perfect view of the original antagonist to this entire bloody mess, at least in the biased opinion of our troubled Subject, namely the dog, evil trouble-making devil dog, suddenly emerging from the back end of the crowd, innocently slipping away, almost totally unnoticed, scampering off, limping slightly, not horribly, hopefully none the worse for wear, into the awaiting sanctuary of a corner lot kiddy park.
Though Subject Goodman did end up taking quite a savage beating from the mob, his freshly pressed painstakingly pristine work uniform shamefully ripped to shreds, by the time police managed to come to his aid, pulling him into the long-awaited safety of a sweltering patrol car—along with his sole defender, the driver of the VW Bug, perhaps the only viable witness to the split second incident sparking this entire sordid affair—our anti-hero was still marginally conscious when the fleet of local TV news crews arrived. Followed very shortly by the riot squad. At which point the unruly crowd was effectively dispersed by the dutiful stormtroopers in a manner of moments. Unfortunately, not in time to save our poor distracted driver's recently purchased Grand Prix, which at this point had been violently scratched and smashed to all hell, overturned with surprisingly vehement alacrity, not to mention lack of remorse, and, accidentally or not, set on fire, burned beyond recognition.
HIT N RUN DOG KILLER INCURS WRATH OF SUBURBAN MOB
Somehow the story of Mitchell Goodman's harrowing personal ordeal was deemed sensationalistic if not newsworthy enough to be plastered over every news media outlet imaginable, both locally and nationally, for days, with heated and vitriolic public opinion divided roughly fifty-fifty as to whether young Goodman was a victim or a villain in the sordid affair. In the end, perhaps due in no small part to his heretofore squeaky clean driving record, he was issued nothing more than a measly citation for a relatively minor traffic violation. Meanwhile, at least a dozen others involved in the incident were arrested, charged with a multitude of egregious offenses, from resisting arrest to assault with a deadly weapon to inciting a public riot and so on.
Following a doctor-ordered overnight stay at County Hospital, another day or two at home in physical and spiritual recovery, forced to fend off a small but vehement army of reporters and outraged animal rights activists, graciously playing host to a slightly smaller contingent of determined protectors of civil liberties who had admirably rushed to his defense, A/W/C Freeman took the El train to the Museum. Upon reporting dutifully back to work he was immediately called into the office of the Director of Protective Services, informed he was being assigned by Corporate a temporary “lateral transfer” due to the past few days' unfortunate publicity.
His new assignment: midnight watch commander at a quiet, little industrial park just shy of the Illinois-Wisconsin state line. Same salary, same benefits, same unlimited potential for rewarding career advancement. Slightly less public contact. Plus, he'd be all on his own, wouldn't have any troublesome subordinates to worry about. Plenty of free time to peruse the plethora of interview offers, book deals and unsolicited ambulance chaser referrals pouring in like . . . an angry mob.
But sadly, his short-lived new love Kirsten, the red-hot strawberry blond Museum tour guide, never did return any of his calls or messages. At least not directly. She did send vague word through the grapevine: Timing just wasn't right. She wasn't looking for a relationship right now. It wasn't him; it was her. Hope we can still be friends. Keep in touch now, okay. The Siren's primary messenger: the most adorable little Latin cutie from Special Events who had just so happened to be admiring A/W/C Goodman from afar since Day One.
Ana Maria Santiago wasn't particularly fond of dogs, herself, though she did lay claim to a testy little calico stray she had rescued from the cold last winter.
The slashed tires, the unprovoked raw egg attacks, the front door flaming dog poop deliveries, the endless prank calls, the anonymous death threats to himself, his family, Gram and Gabby, their poor defenseless kitties from psychotic dog lovers, it all gradually slowed to a laughable trickle a few months after his sister strongly encouraged baby brother to find alternative living arrangements ASAP, kindly kicked him to the curb. Though to her credit big sis did manage to finagle little bro a promising interview for a decent entry-level legal assistant position at her Powerhouse Sears Tower firm, at nearly twice his present salary no less, thus indispensably assisting in facilitating her young charge's ascendant housing situation.
After all, she did have to be most concerned with the safety and well-being of her and Gram's cats, above all else, of course.
Following a doctor-ordered overnight stay at County Hospital, another day or two at home in physical and spiritual recovery, forced to fend off a small but vehement army of reporters and outraged animal rights activists, graciously playing host to a slightly smaller contingent of determined protectors of civil liberties who had admirably rushed to his defense, A/W/C Freeman took the El train to the Museum. Upon reporting dutifully back to work he was immediately called into the office of the Director of Protective Services, informed he was being assigned by Corporate a temporary “lateral transfer” due to the past few days' unfortunate publicity.
His new assignment: midnight watch commander at a quiet, little industrial park just shy of the Illinois-Wisconsin state line. Same salary, same benefits, same unlimited potential for rewarding career advancement. Slightly less public contact. Plus, he'd be all on his own, wouldn't have any troublesome subordinates to worry about. Plenty of free time to peruse the plethora of interview offers, book deals and unsolicited ambulance chaser referrals pouring in like . . . an angry mob.
But sadly, his short-lived new love Kirsten, the red-hot strawberry blond Museum tour guide, never did return any of his calls or messages. At least not directly. She did send vague word through the grapevine: Timing just wasn't right. She wasn't looking for a relationship right now. It wasn't him; it was her. Hope we can still be friends. Keep in touch now, okay. The Siren's primary messenger: the most adorable little Latin cutie from Special Events who had just so happened to be admiring A/W/C Goodman from afar since Day One.
Ana Maria Santiago wasn't particularly fond of dogs, herself, though she did lay claim to a testy little calico stray she had rescued from the cold last winter.
The slashed tires, the unprovoked raw egg attacks, the front door flaming dog poop deliveries, the endless prank calls, the anonymous death threats to himself, his family, Gram and Gabby, their poor defenseless kitties from psychotic dog lovers, it all gradually slowed to a laughable trickle a few months after his sister strongly encouraged baby brother to find alternative living arrangements ASAP, kindly kicked him to the curb. Though to her credit big sis did manage to finagle little bro a promising interview for a decent entry-level legal assistant position at her Powerhouse Sears Tower firm, at nearly twice his present salary no less, thus indispensably assisting in facilitating her young charge's ascendant housing situation.
After all, she did have to be most concerned with the safety and well-being of her and Gram's cats, above all else, of course.
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