I’ve worked for the city almost nine years now. I didn’t think I’d stay long because the money is lousy. But a few years in they made me a manager. That means I mostly take calls from people who don’t know who else to call. Somebody smells gas. Complaints about garbage. A dead deer in someone’s backyard. I tell them to call animal control or the utility company but nothing gets done. One afternoon someone called about a stray dog. They said their kids were playing with it in the yard. When I got there they were playing fetch with a fox. The fox would chase a tennis ball down the street and bring it back every time. I brought out the cage and the catch pole but it was useless. The fox ran off, taking the ball with it. The woman asked me what I could do about getting it back and I told her I’d keep an eye out. Sometimes I feel trapped in this place. Other times I wonder if I could run for mayor one day. Not trapped. Attached. Attached in a way where you could let go but it wouldn’t matter because the attachment is two things each holding each other. It’s not one thing holding another thing. I once made a trip to the drug store to buy a birthday card for a man’s granddaughter. I brought it to his house and filled in a message for him. He signed it himself, Love Grandpa. I told him it should arrive in three days. He called a week later and said he’d run out of shampoo. I just got him something basic. Suave, I think.
