BoBo by Sara Paracka

When my father’s dog died, I hid in his closet. As a small child, I often retreated there, creeping into my parents’ room to the oddly placed door that began two feet above the orange shag carpeting. Inside, his dress pants hung from wire hangers that swayed against each other, gently clanging together. Inside, a pile of feather quilts made by my grandmother lay on the floor. Inside, a nest waited to comfort or conceal me, depending on the circumstances.

BoBo was killed by the German Shepherd that lived down the street. Always at odds, the two snarled at each other whenever their paths met, which was not often. My father walked BoBo as far from that end of the block as he could. Standing in our backyard, weaving flower vines through the cracks of the red picket fence, I heard them begin their final battle. My father raced out the gate, began to run up the street, yelling at BoBo to get away from there. I headed to his closet, terrified.

Buried in blankets, no dogs could frighten me. Beneath that makeshift wind-chime of metal and pressed cotton, no harm could come to me. Had I been taught about God, I likely would have prayed there. Raised by two agnostic parents who allowed me to hide in their closet, I simply believed that I was safe, that my father and BoBo were not.

When the muffled sounds of fighting dogs had long since ceased, I heard someone enter the room. It was my father. I could hear him crying. Sitting in silence, I listened to him weep from my closet-nest until the walls began to close in on me. Sitting so long on the down quilts had flattened them. Looking up, I saw the hems of his pants, dangling high above my reach. I pushed the door open and peered out over the ledge.

Turning his head toward the sound of the creaky door, his shoulders slumped, his eyes red, his face wet with tears, my father asked me if I wanted an orange coke. Dumbfounded, I nodded. We got into his car and drove.

Just as he finished his second cigarette, my father pulled off into the dirt parking lot of Pi’s. Rusty aluminum siding covered the one-story building, smaller than a trailer-house. Inside, the wooden bar dominated the space. What area was left was crowded with a pool table, bar stools and a bowling game from the Seventies that cost only a dime.

Ordering an orange coke and a Budweiser, my father helped me in my struggle to climb onto a stool. Pi, the Italian bartender, with bags as big as saucers beneath his eyes, moved about slowly, struggling to control the five hundred pounds of his body while pouring beers. My father made small talk with the other men at the bar, who smiled at me until I felt my cheeks flush. Pi asked the men if they had ever seen pictures of his pride and joy. The question was met with groans. Pulling his wallet from behind the bar, Pi flipped to a picture of two bottles, one of Pride and one of Joy. I smiled and laughed, too young to understand why the men did not find this funny. Opposite the picture was Pi’s Woodstock ticket, which he let me admire. I understood Woodstock; my mother had been. I could not comprehend, however, how this obscenely fat man had danced in a field like my mother. Pi could barely turn around to make change at the cash register without having to catch his breath.

Into my second orange coke, I let my gaze rest on a wire rack of snacks that stood at one end of the bar. Small bags of potato chips were hung by clothespins, and at the top, bags of nuts were fastened in place with paper clips. Cashew nuts, my father’s favorite and therefore mine as well, were an essential element of this place. When I had dislocated my shoulder and been taken out for an orange coke, there had been cashews. Looking to my father, I saw that he was busy talking with the man sitting beside him. They got up to play pool, my father handing me a dime to play the bowling game.

Scampering to the end of the bar and around the corner, I approached the machine. Flashing colored lights greeted me as I slipped the dime into the slot. Suddenly, instead of a small wooden ball, a flash flood of dimes appeared, pouring out of the machine. My hands filled, the dimes spilling over onto the rough, wooden planks of the floor. I raced back to my father, who shook his head. The machine was broken. I couldn’t keep them. They were Pi’s.

Going back to pick up the trail of silver coins, I felt an incredible sadness. So many bad things in one day. BoBo was dead, my papa was crying, the bowling game was broken. I returned another handful of dimes to Pi, emptying them from my fat little hands into his fat big one.

Smiling, Pi placed ten dimes on the bar, face up, and pushed them toward me. Looking to my father, I opened my eyes wide, ignoring the smoke that had begun to sting them. Could I have them? Were they really mine? My father nodded, told me to order another orange coke, went back to playing pool.

Spinning on my stool, I sipped my third orange coke and counted the remaining dimes: one-two-three-four-five. On the wire rack, bags of cashews hung from paper clips. Over my shoulder, my father sunk the eight ball. I reached for one of the small, blue bags. Mr. Peanut, dapper in his top hat, pulled away from the rack in my hand. Pi’s eyes studied me as I coyly pushed the dimes across the bar to him. Gathering them up, he slipped them into the register drawer.

Placing his empty bottle on the bar, my father’s eyes fell on the cashews. He looked at me disapprovingly, then at Pi, asking how much we owed him. Charging my father for his beers and my first two sodas, Pi explained that I had paid for the cashews. I handed the nuts to my father, explaining that they were for him, for BoBo. In that instant, my father’s face changed. At first he seemed angry, the dim lights shadowing his eyebrows, reflecting his teeth biting at his lower lip. Avoiding my gaze, he threw some bills down on the bar, took the cashews in one hand, mine in his other. We ate the nuts on the drive home, to the house where BoBo was buried in the backyard and a little girl was buried in the quilts of her closet-nest.