My Dog Has Fleas
Spit and Smile
This is from the archives, lightly edited and with a very short video to explain the title. Many of my subscribers and followers have joined since this was posted. Thank you for reading and commenting.
G,C,E,A, top string to bottom. That’s the standard tuning. Sing it: My dog has fleas.
Dad is drunk-learning to play the ukulele.
I shake my nine-year-old head. Golf clubs, fly rods, Sony tape decks, tennis rackets, army surplus walkie-talkies, Louis Armstrong records, Franco Corelli records, desert boots, juggling balls—Whatever strikes his fancy.
A harmonica, Hohner Chromatic, the big one with the slide you push to go up a half octave. He’s good at it, of course. He plays Misty, cupping his hand on the back. Mom clanks the dishes in the sink like she’s angry but I can hear her sing little snippets. …as helpless as a kitten up a tree.
A six-glasses-of-Gallo lecture for my cousin and me about lasers; Atoms and photons. Mirrors that concentrate the beam. Diagramming the whole thing on mom’s shopping list chalkboard. “Uncle Pete is a genius but do you think he’s gonna let us eat dinner soon?”
He builds TV sets, ham radios and stereo tuners from kits—smoking and soldering in the basement with opera and Rheingold.
G,C,E,A, starting at the top. My dog has fleeeas! Ok, listen to this, I’ve got it now. Tiptoe Through the Tulips. Wait, where you going?
I shake my head.
Hey! Saturday, you and me buddy!
I look around to see who he’s talking to.
Yankees, Red Sox! I’ve got tickets!
***
Cement cavern walkways echo Bronx bravado. Dad talks to everyone like he knows them and forgets I’m there. I follow his Inspector Clouseau hat.
The first view of the field from the mezzanine captures me. I hop-drop down the steps toward the cross-hatched dark-green, light-green field, base path Broadways of red clay arms outstretched to embrace hero-walls. Cigar smoke a hovering haze across the scoreboard, the pitcher’s mound a desert island, high and wide, impossibly far from home.
And Mickey Mantle. The actual Mickey Mantle. He smiles and spits and talks to the Boston first base coach and kicks the dirt with his stiff right leg and catches the ball in the throw-around and lobs it back to the pitcher and spits and smiles and talks some more to the first base coach. Third base, Shortstop, Second base, First. Toss to the pitcher. Spit and smile.
***
G,C,E,A. My dog has fleeeas!
I shake my head.
C’mon son, I found you eventually.
Yeah, seventh inning stretch.
All’s well that ends well.
Well, at least I got to hear my name over the loudspeaker.
Sure, you’re practically famous.
And I got to see Mickey Mantle.
Ok, listen to this, I’ve got this now. Take Me Out to the Ball Game.
I shake my head.
Third base, Shortstop, Second base, First. Toss to the pitcher. Spit and smile.
I’ve got this now.
For those of you who might have clicked on this expecting a cute dog story, my apologies.
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Wow, Jim, you get to the bone in every story. Your skillful use of language in this portrait of a father who is obsessed with everything but his son tells the story with beauty and sadness in so few words. Your description of the son entering the ballpark is magnificent. My father took me to see the Yankees play the Kansas City Athletics in the early 60's at the old Municipal Stadium downtown. Mantle was past his prime but played. I'll never forget it.
Prose, poem, lyrics, info, prose, poem.... Yeah, I like this. You go Jim!