The Wetback and Other Stories by Ron Arias

Author:Ron Arias
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arte Público Press
Published: 2016-12-07T16:00:00+00:00

Canine Cool

That evening the artist gathered his friends to eat, drink and talk about his works, which filled the big living room. Paintings and sketches of German Shepherds adorned the walls and easels or hung from wires and sticks as mobiles made of stiff tortillas emblazoned with images of canine heads. In the center of the room stood a large, painted terracotta figure, looking relaxed in khaki slacks with razor creases, white tank top and black suspenders loose on the hips. Surrounded by a group of smaller statues, the big Shepherd looked magnificent with its upright ears, attentive eyes, closed jaw and a black nose with a crackle surface that looked moist.

At first everyone praised the paintings, especially the variety of scenes: leaping high to snatch a Frisbee, behind the wheel of a low-slung, vintage car, eating at McDonald’s, sleeping in a hammock, smoking in noir settings with a trench coat collar pulled up, even one pooch with a captain’s cap piloting an airplane.

“Cool stuff,” one friend said.

“Way cool.”

“Órale, check the dude in the lowrider.”

“Almost looks like . . . a bear?”

“A dog, man.”

“Yeah? Maybe a wolf.”

“Yo, dog, it’s a dog!”

“It’s art, man,” another friend said. “It’s whatever you think it is.”

The artist entered from the kitchen with a big tray of cold, opened beer bottles and two bowls of mixed nuts. A young woman dressed in a black top and torn jeans turned away from a painting, grabbed a bottle, stepped around the little dogs and stood next to the big statue. The snout was level with her eyes.

“What’s it made of?” she asked.

“Clay,” the artist said.

“Everything?” she said, stroking the head.

“Everything.”

“He looks so real.”

“Suppose to.”

Another friend, a thin, older man popping a walnut into his mouth, suggested the big figure resembled a homey of his.

“Can I touch it?”

“Sure.”

The man petted the nose. “Feels cool, smooth.”

“Reminds me of those Colima dogs,” the woman said.

“No way. Those are little and fat. This guy’s big and he’s got class.”

The guests drank more beer and wine and after a while ate from a pile of steamy tiny tamales, corn husks off.

A bearded man drew deeply on the stubby remainder of a joint, slowly exhaled and asked, “Why so many dogs?”

“Why not?” his neighbor said. The two shared space on a sprawling bean bag cushion. “He likes dogs.”

“Well, I like the homey in the middle,” said the woman who had mentioned the dancing Colima dogs. “He’s a fine specimen.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know, of doghood, manhood . . . easy confidence, something like that.”

“Like they’re all the same. I mean, like, like . . . it’s all dogs.”

“So?”

“Same kind of dog.”

“Yeah.”

“Like clones.”

“Maybe that’s what he’s saying.”

The artist and his wife didn’t seem to pay attention to the comments; they were busy setting out bowls of beans, rice, chicken mole, salsas and guacamole on a kitchen counter. Soon the friends lined up to fill their porcelain plates and headed out to sit, eat and drink. In this part of the city the house could be

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