Dogpile

Dogpile

by Simon Underfoot

Copyright 2022, All Rights Reserved

Author's Note:

This is a standalone piece quite different from the science fiction I usually write -- I hope you enjoy. Your votes and comments are much appreciated.

Cheers,

Simon

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I've always thought trauma to be an odd thing. I don't mean the trauma itself -- bad things happen, after all -- but the effects that appear later can be really strange. Sometimes a lot later.

When I was little, really little, my mother walked away. I don't know the reasons or details or excuses, because I've always been too afraid to ask. Not afraid of the question, mind you, but afraid of learning something resembling the truth and what it may imply about me. I don't want to have been the reason so I've always left this particular dog stay asleep.

I do, however, often wonder what it would have been like if it wasn't just my Old Man and me.

He was a good enough father, but not really what you would call a Dad. He did the things necessary to help a baby grow into a toddler and so forth, but not much more. He was there to clean me up when I skinned a knee or an elbow, and he took me to the hospital when I fractured my wrist following a fall from a neighbor's borrowed bike, but there was no closeness and very little affection. An occasional "good job" was the best I ever hoped to hear.

If it hadn't been for a particular elementary teacher that took an interest...

Mrs. Howland wasn't even my teacher at first. She had a third grade class -- the one every kid wanted to be in. For the girls, it was because she was young and pretty, with flowing golden hair and a trim waist -- the accessible equivalent of a fairy tale princess. For the boys, it was her smile: the one you earned when you had done something praiseworthy.

I still remember the first smile I received from her, out at recess on a sunny Fall afternoon. I captured a ball rolling loose and tossed it back to the group of kids playing Four Square without being asked. That's it.

As a seven year old, I think I would have done anything for that smile.

So somewhere along the line Mrs. Howland noticed me, the kid always dressed in jeans and a plain sweatshirt, even in Summer. The one standing by himself every recess. The one who aced every math test, but never said anything aloud.

Trauma, remember?

When third grade rolled around I ended up in her class. In retrospect, I think she may have pulled a string or three, but I couldn't guess why, other than professional interest. Or perhaps sympathy.

Sometime during the first half of that year I said something in class -- I don't remember what it was. The kids around me were stunned, but Mrs. Howland didn't seem surprised at all. It did earn me a another smile, and suddenly I had a reason to talk a little more. By the end of the school year, eight year old Andy was actually interacting with his peers, and while I didn't speak a lot, at least the rest of the kids class what my voice sounded like.

In fourth grade I regressed.

I don't know that it was my teacher's fault, but his yellowed teeth and coffee breath made his smiles less reassuring than those of Mrs. Howland. One morning that winter, as I was preparing to walk to school, my father told me that I was to go to the office at the end of class.

It's easy for me to remember the angst I felt that whole day, unsure of the sudden change in routine. I can't readily explain the relief when Mrs. Howland was there to meet me. It seemed she had been engaged as a tutor for me, not in academics, but in life skills. Once or twice a week she was part therapist, part confident, and part grown-up friend. She was more a parent during those times than my mother or father ever were.

In the Spring of the following year -- fifth grade, if you're keeping track -- she had her first child, a beautiful blonde girl with dark, dark eyes. Mildred. I didn't ever think the name suited her, but I certainly never told that to Mrs. Howland.

After Mildred came along I only ever saw my teacher friend at recess. I would greet her kindly and ask after the baby, trying to effect the informal lessons she had imparted, and more often than not, I would receive a smile for my effort. Positive re-enforcement, it's called.

The last day of school that year is the only time I can remember crying throughout my entire childhood. It was as I walked toward my house, having received a good-bye hug from Mrs. Howland, the first genuine affection that had been shown to me in a physical form up to that point in my life.

I gave my father a hug that night, awkwardly, but he just looked at me curiously, so I didn't try again.

So what?

Now twenty-two, I still think about elementary school once in awhile, and more so recently, because so much of what's happened in the last six months traces back to my early years.

I'm in my last year of studies, working toward a degree with a double major in Math and Computer Science at what I refer to as the College of Sciency Stuff and General Nerdery. COSSGN. Not really, but that might as well be the name given the ridiculous airs that the professors don daily. Seriously, it's a public regional university in Bum Fucking Egypt.

At least the other students know what they're doing. I've learned more outside of class than in, so as long as I graduate and know my stuff at the end, who cares which path I took.

The odd thing is that I don't really have friends here any more than I did in primary school. You'd think that after three full years I'd have experienced most of what college has to offer, but not so much. The best I've managed are friendly acquaintances, group members from various class projects, and the occasional short-lived virtual fling with an online troll like myself. For the record, I always checked to make sure they were female and over eighteen, but you know how things go with internet relationships as well as I do. Whatever. At least I was smart enough never to try to meet up. Or to send money. Or nudz.

Anyway, the situation was comfortable for me after so long, but objectively speaking, pretty bleak, which is why I was surprised to get a DM from someone I hadn't seen or heard from since High School.

Hi Andy This is Michelle Rodriguez from Marsden Remember me?

I was sitting in front of my laptop on a Friday morning before class, wearing only a pair of holey boxers and a secondhand t-shirt. I felt a stirring down below and rolled my eyes, then shrugged. Michelle had been okay to me when I knew her. Not friendly, exactly, but nice enough, especially compared to what I experienced from most girls I tried to talk to back in Marsden. It didn't hurt that she was pretty.

Rather than reply, I spent half an hour looking up pictures of models that she vaguely resembled and rubbed one out before class. I didn't actually respond until just before dinner.

Hi Michelle. How are you?

Great!!! I know this is out of nowhere but somebody told me U R at State right?

I rolled my eyes, this time in earnest. 'Here it comes.'

Yep.

Awesome! Can a friend and I crash at your place for a night?

Okay, so not what I expected, but not terribly far off, either. I figured it would be something akin to asking for help with some assignment she didn't know how to do -- wouldn't be the first time. Instead I get, 'Please, Andy, you're such a good guy... can I fuck my boyfriend on your bed and then never see you again?'

Not sure that will work. Sorry.

There was a lull of about five minutes and I stepped away to my kitchenette, satisfied that was the end of it. Friday's grilled cheese and tomato soup night, after all, and that shit doesn't make itself.

I had just flipped my sammich when I heard the ding of my text app.

Video?

Who is this?

Michelle of course. Video?

"How the fuck did you get my number?" That's right - I asked her out loud, which shows just how surprised I was. I don't give out my number. I think I've had a dozen calls since starting Uni, and ten of them were from telemarketers.

Will only take a minute

I could visualize Michelle pouting on the other end of the data highway. "Fuck."

I looked down at my boxers, having already shucked my sweats -- no more jeans for me, thank you very much -- and decided, 'to Hell with it.'

I need five minutes. Just making dinner.

Ooh wha cha eatin?

It was a few minutes until I could reply. Burnt grilled cheese and half a bowl of tomato soup.

Why burnt?

Somebody texted me while I was making it.

She sent me a string of emoticons that somehow portrayed a sincere and humor filled apology. Truly, her command of the non-language of pictograms far surpassed my own.

It's okay. I'm ready now.

Thirty seconds and the call came through. "Hi, Andy." She said it with a smile and added this gorgeous Latina husk to my name that I was sure hadn't been there the last time we talked. I was certain, even at the time, she was just prepping me for her pitch. Didn't matter that I knew, it still stole my voice.

"How are you? You look good."

Her obvious flattery snapped me out of my daze. I ran a hand self-consciously across three days of patchy stubble and then into my only slightly less out-of-control hair. "Hi, Michelle. Thank you, I guess, but we both know that I look like an out of work programmer."

"Which you are," she replied brightly, refusing to be deterred.

I paused, then nodded. "I suppose so." Miracle of miracles, I smiled. "So why does the beautiful Michelle Rodriguez want to crash with a neckbeard such as myself?"

"Right to it, huh?"

"Too direct?" I asked, once again self-conscious.

She shrugged and all trace of the affected accent disappeared. "Usually I shoot for a couple minutes of small talk. It builds rapport, but it's not important since we already know each other."

The look I gave her let her know I was quite skeptical of her last comment. "What?" she asked defensively. "We were in school together since Mrs. Howland's class when I moved in. I'd say that... ten years of knowing each other is enough to ask for a tiny favor."

There was no way she could have known that particular button would bypass nearly all my defenses, but she had pushed it anyway.

I sighed and held up the phone, then slowly turned so she could get a sense of the apartment in which I lived.

Kitchenette, currently covered in a congealing film of processed tomatoes. Reading area with laptop in front of the lone window. Queen bed shoved into a corner, currently disheveled and covered with an assortment of clean-ish clothing. Open bathroom door leading to a chamber of horrors. Front door. Back to me again.

I brought the camera back to my face. "You don't want to stay here for a night. You don't even want to visit, if we're being honest."

She laughed and stood up. The view behind her changed as she slowly twirled, from a nicely decorated breakfast nook to a disaster of a kitchen, filled with pots, pans, and discarded takeout cartons. The trash can at the end of the counter was piled high with who-knows-what and flanked by at least two partially open Hefty sacks, and the fridge door looked like it was duct taped shut.

She finished her virtual tour and sat down, looking smug. "We call the seat I'm in the studio, because it's the only place in this whole house that isn't a disaster."

"Sorority?" I asked.

"Co-op, but close enough. Satisfied you don't have to be embarrassed?"

I shrugged and gave a tentative nod. "But why stay with me? You must know other people here. There's probably at least half a dozen other folks from Marsden around campus."

"You don't want me to stay with you?" she asked with a faux pout.

I shook my head and waggled a finger at the screen. "No, no, no. This has nothing to do with what I want," I said a little more harshly than I meant.

It looked like she was going to argue, then she gave up and sighed in frustration. "I know, and I hate that I'm trying to take advantage of you, but I really have my heart set on seeing my friend."

"But you still haven't answered my question. Why me?"

Pinned down, she folded her arms and looked away. "Because you're safe, and because I know you well enough to be sure that you won't take advantage of the situation." She looked back into the camera. "If my parents find out, they might cut me off, and I'm so close to graduating. In six months I can do what I want."

"Michelle," I admonished, my temper rising, "just rent a cheap room. I'm not okay with you using my bed for some... tryst with a guy you're infatuated with."

I lost whatever her answer was because it was mumbled, but I did notice that her olive skin turned a brighter red than I would have thought possible. "It's not a guy," she whispered fiercely when I pushed again. I felt my eyes widen and sat back, nodding dumbly.

"Oh, okay. Yeah, I, uh, can understand a little better..." My face was probably as red as hers. "So she goes to State, too?" I asked weakly.

Sighing, Michelle nodded. "I met her this past Summer at a networking thing. We hit it off and now, well, now we're together."

My brain was pedaling hard, but the wheel was just spinning, refusing to gain traction and actually move my thoughts forward. "So if you meet her here, I should, like, be gone?"

"Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all, Andy," she replied, looking mortified. "I was just hoping to find a place where Courtney and I could hang out until we're ready to... be a couple for everybody else."

"Sure, fine," I answered, for once ignoring the rational part of my brain that constantly set me apart from everybody else. "Can it not be this weekend? I know you said you don't care, but I feel like I really need to clean up before anybody comes over."

"You doofus," she responded with a smile, "it can be whenever works for you -- it's your place."

"Right, that makes sense. I think I forgot that for a minute. So is next weekend okay for you?"

She smiled brightly and I could see her eyes were wet. "Thank you, Andy."

"No, thank you," I responded lamely, having no idea why.

Nodding, she waved and cut the connection. I guess we'd work out the details later. In the meantime, cold, burnt grilled cheese and semi-solidified tomato paste needed attention.

Fortunately, I have a microwave and am not particularly picky when it comes to what I eat; it's the when that I struggle with.

Double fortunately -- or something like that -- the mess I'd made wasn't as bad as I'd feared. At least in the kitchenette. The rest of the apartment took the entire weekend to clean.

When Michelle knocked on my door a week later, I felt genuine butterflies fighting one another to get out of my middle, as if it was me going on a date. I looked out the peephole and my jaw literally dropped. "No fucking way," I voiced, opening the door before my mind caught up.

Straight blonde hair down to her mid back with a streak of purple on one side. Blue eyes. Slim and stacked. "Courtney."

"Hi, Andy," she replied easily. "May we come in?"

Rather than answer I just stood back, still caught up in my disbelief.

Courtney was the Computer Science department's unicorn. Stupidly beautiful. Ridiculously smart. Annoyingly hard working. She was top of our class, which was both frustrating and fantastic. I had always been in awe of her, especially the ready confidence in everything she did. We had been paired on a project our sophomore year and killed it, earning praise from both our professor and the department head. The work itself had indirectly led to the idea that I turned into an iOS app and then sold -- it was the minor windfall that had allowed me to move off-campus into my own place for my last year.

"Hi, Andy," Michelle echoed with a shy smile. It didn't even register when she raised up on her toes to give me a peck on my cheek, focused as I was on her girlfriend. Until I actually looked at her.

In high school, seventeen or eighteen year old Andy noticed Michelle Rodriguez, but not in an overly focused way. She was a pretty girl in a sea of pretty girls.

College senior Michelle Rodriguez was something else entirely. Shorter than her almost-girlfriend, she was every bit as chesty, and the genuine warmth of her smile just about made me, well, not swoon, but whatever the male equivalent would be. "Jesus Chris," I muttered.

"You shouldn't curse, Andy," Courtney teased as she looked around my now clean-ish space.

I shook my head. "That was a prayer. Something like, 'Deliver me from temptation.' And also, 'Please don't let me have a heart attack just now.'"

Courtney turned and looked at me appraisingly. "You know, I think you've changed since we last talked. You were always so serious."

"Not my fault," I answered with a helpless shrug. "My brain hasn't caught up since you two walked in here."

"Aw, isn't that sweet, Babe," Courtney said to Michelle, who was smiling while watching the exchange.

"I told you he was always a sweetheart."

Her expression serious, Courtney turned to face me fully. "Fun aside, Andy, thank you for sharing your space with us."

Nodding, I marshaled my scattered gray matter as best I could. "You're very welcome. Listen, something came up just before you got here and I need to go out for a while, but please make yourself at home. There's clean sheets on the bed, beer in the fridge, and rum in the cabinet. If you need anything at all, Michelle has my cell."

I turned to my long-time acquaintance. "By the way, how did you get my number?" In response, she nodded back toward Courtney, the brilliant programmer (and apparent part-time hacker), who looked smug. Right -- makes sense. "Anyway, I'll be back in... two hours?"

Michelle rolled her eyes. "It's your place, remember?"

"Not tonight," I replied seriously. "So, two hours?"

"Three hours," interjected Courtney, peeling off her tight fitting jacket to reveal a black halter top.

"Jesus Christ," I breathed while Michelle blushed hard. I shook my head to clear it again. "Three hours," I confirmed, walking over to the table where I deposited my keys. "I'll, uh, knock when I get back. That way you don't have to worry about anyone barging in on you, uh, you know."

As I shut the door, I swear I heard some sort of feral noise from within my apartment -- it only made my burgeoning hard-on harder. "Holy fucking shit," I muttered, then set off down the hall, trying to figure out what I would do for three hours. Why the Hell hadn't I brought my laptop?

It turns out that sipping Rum and Cokes while people-watching isn't a terrible way to spend a Friday night. Who knew? I even managed to have a couple of random casual conversations, one with a guy I recognized from class and another with a random hottie that didn't seem entirely repulsed by the groomed and polished version of Andy that had fled his own apartment.

I'm generally clueless when it comes to women, but even I could see that Stacy was at least a little into me. Our conversation was vague, but came much easier than I would have expected. In hind sight, I think it had something to do with the unexplained confidence that came from knowing two beautiful women were probably fucking on my bed. Why this would bolster my self-esteem I couldn't tell you, but there it is.

So Stacy and I flirted and I genuinely enjoyed myself. A little before midnight -- well past the three hour mark, I would add -- I excused myself for the evening, begging off further adventures with my new friend with the excuse that I needed to act as a good host to my visitors. After earning an "awww" and an affectionate hug, I was awarded her digits for the evening's efforts. Just slightly inebriated, "But I didn't get you anything," almost came out of my mouth -- fortunately, I smothered it just before it could mature.