  True Enough To Tell by William Doreski   Matt and Fred met for beer every Wednesday. Weather permitting, they sat outside at a table shielded by a huge mushroom of a Coors umbrella, though neither would touch Coors beer. Matt always drank Guinness, claiming that he liked to “eat his beer with a spoon,” while Fred, with dogged New England loyalty, preferred Long Trail Ale. The waitress, a smiling pastel confection, called them her “surly old dears,” and always brought them taco chips. They knew they were supposed to flirt with her, but they were usually too lazy and content to bother.  On one overhung September evening with thunder rumbling some miles to the north, the talk veered toward animals. Matt and Fred both loved cats and dogs, but couldn’t resist funny if cruel anecdotes. Fred told a Truman Capote story: “A guy arrived at his date’s apartment on the twentieth floor of a Manhattan building. She told him to play with her dog while she got dressed. The dog, a brisk little terrier, brought him a red rubber ball. The guy threw the ball a few times. Then it bounced out of the window, which was wide open and had no screen. Without hesitation, the dog leaped through the window after it. A long silence followed. The woman appeared in her going-out duds and they left for dinner. The guy was quiet during dinner, and the woman was puzzled. It was their first date, and he had seemed so eager to court her. Now he seemed to have lost interest. When the taxi got back to her building he didn’t even get out but begged off, saying he had a headache. He never called her again.”  “Wow,” Matt said,” I wonder how long it took her it figure out where the dog went. I hadn’t heard that story, but I know the other one.”  “The other one?”  “The other Truman Capote story.”   The waitress brought two more draughts. Matt sipped the thick brown Guinness and continued.   “Truman was driving somewhere in upstate New York when a blizzard hit. He couldn’t see to drive so stopped at a farm and asked if he could shelter there for a while. ‘Sure thing,’ the farmer said. ‘Sit in the living room and I’ll make us some coffee.’ Eventually they got into a conversation about animals. ‘I like cats,’ Truman said, ‘and have a couple in my apartment. They’re good company.’ ‘O yes,’ the farmer said, ‘I like cats a lot. I have dozens of them.’ Truman looked around. He hadn’t seen a cat since he’d arrived. ‘So where are they? Are they barn cats?’ ‘O no,’ the farmer said. You wanna see ‘em?’ He led Truman down a hallway, then down into the basement. Truman looked around. ‘Here,’ the farmer said, and lifted the lid of a large freezer.”  “Oh geeze. I hope that one isn’t true,” Fred snorted. “But I guess the one I told didn’t really happen, either. I mean she would’ve missed the dog before they left. She would’ve checked to make sure the dog was OK before going out for the evening.”  “Yeah,” Matt said, “but it’s a good story. Good stories don’t have to be true. They just have to be good.” The thunder didn’t sound quite so distant, and the sky had dimmed enough to reflect diffused lightning flashes, but even if the storm drifted their way it wouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. Besides, the indoor safety of the pub yawned four steps away.  Jake, their electrician friend, dropped by their table for a quick one. “How you guys doin? Business lookin’ up? Nice out tonight.” The three of them talked for awhile about the prospects for local contractors. Matt, the master plumber, and Jake could fill in with small jobs until the big ones picked up, but Fred, a carpenter and painter, had been hampered by a damp, drizzling summer with few indoor jobs and most outdoor work stymied. In the last couple of weeks, though, he’d been able to paint two big houses and finally pocket a couple of decent-sized checks. Jake downed a glass of Sam Adams and belched like a steam engine. This mating call attracted one of the blowsy regulars, a heavy and aggressive blonde who shoveled him toward the main pub room for a confab. “See you in the unemployment line, guys,” Jake waved as he disappeared into the crowd.  “Well,” Matt drawled, “now that we’ve solved Jake’s love life, let me tell you my dog story. But you have to believe it, no matter what.”  “I’ll try,” Fred said. He understood that Matt had needed time to work this one up, embellish it, and try it out on himself a couple of times. “Go ahead.”  “I was visiting a friend who’d just gotten divorced. He was lonely and feeling sorry for himself, so he went to the humane society and got a dog. A big brown-and-white lop-eared mutt. When I came in it barked wildly and lunged at me, but Rob, my friend, caught it by the collar and said ‘Friend. Friend.’ The dog smiled at me, but I knew it wasn’t impressed. Sure enough, as soon as Rob left the room to get beer the dog sprang and bit my leg. He tore my pants and scratched but didn’t really break the skin. Still, I wasn’t putting up with that shit. So I grabbed the dog by the neck, and knelt and bit its ear—hard. Tore right through it. You never heard a louder yelp. When I let go, the dog ran out of the room, out of sight. ‘What happened?’ Rob asked when he came in with the beer. He’d heard the yelp as he opened the refrigerator door, but he had his priorities, and got the beer before running back to the living room. So I told him, ‘Your dog bit me, so I bit him back. He might need an ear patch for a while.’ Rob just looked at me like I was nuts. But from then on, whenever I went to Rob’s house the dog would hide. He wouldn’t wait till he saw me—he’d hear my truck, and run and hide. Rob couldn’t figure it out—the dog wasn’t afraid of anything else, and once even chased a fair-sized bear out of the yard. But he never forgot who bit his ear.”  “Ears and nose—the soft parts of any dog.” Fred had expected a story he wouldn’t have to believe, but looking at Matt’s satisfied grin he thought this one probably was true. Why not? Matt was used to handling animals, and would know how to defend himself. He certainly wouldn’t be spooked by a mutt. When he had worked at the wild animal park in Sugarfield, a lion cub had attached itself to his knee in front of an audience of little kids, and rather than show any pain or upset he’d walked away with the cub hanging on and had gently detached it offstage. Not the kind of guy to panic over a dog bite, but very much the guy to teach that dog a serious non-lethal lesson.  Thunder crumpled like someone crushing an oil drum. One big rain drop splattered on the umbrella. Matt and Fred leaned into their draughts, drinking to the bottom so that rather than slopping all over themselves they could carry empty glasses inside. But the rain wouldn’t get serious for a few more minutes. Hardly any traffic moved down Grove Street now. The street lights cast pale orange pools on the asphalt. At the table behind them a laughing couple buried their faces in each other’s shoulder. Matt nodded and left a ten on the table. He never said goodbye, but always departed like a secret agent on a final mission. Fred wondered about that story about biting the dog’s ear. Probably true, right to the last detail. That was Matt all the way. The rest of us, Fred thought, make them up as we go along, but not Matt. He’d repeat stories other people made up, but whatever he said had happened to him always had. Not just the gist of it, but every last shading, every word. At last with a shudder the storm broke, and Fred rose and stepped into the pub with his empty glass held high.

True Enough To Tell
by William Doreski

Matt and Fred met for beer every Wednesday. Weather permitting, they sat outside at a table shielded by a huge mushroom of a Coors umbrella, though neither would touch Coors beer. Matt always drank Guinness, claiming that he liked to “eat his beer with a spoon,” while Fred, with dogged New England loyalty, preferred Long Trail Ale. The waitress, a smiling pastel confection, called them her “surly old dears,” and always brought them taco chips. They knew they were supposed to flirt with her, but they were usually too lazy and content to bother.

On one overhung September evening with thunder rumbling some miles to the north, the talk veered toward animals. Matt and Fred both loved cats and dogs, but couldn’t resist funny if cruel anecdotes. Fred told a Truman Capote story: “A guy arrived at his date’s apartment on the twentieth floor of a Manhattan building. She told him to play with her dog while she got dressed. The dog, a brisk little terrier, brought him a red rubber ball. The guy threw the ball a few times. Then it bounced out of the window, which was wide open and had no screen. Without hesitation, the dog leaped through the window after it. A long silence followed. The woman appeared in her going-out duds and they left for dinner. The guy was quiet during dinner, and the woman was puzzled. It was their first date, and he had seemed so eager to court her. Now he seemed to have lost interest. When the taxi got back to her building he didn’t even get out but begged off, saying he had a headache. He never called her again.”

“Wow,” Matt said,” I wonder how long it took her it figure out where the dog went. I hadn’t heard that story, but I know the other one.”

“The other one?”

“The other Truman Capote story.”

The waitress brought two more draughts. Matt sipped the thick brown Guinness and continued.

“Truman was driving somewhere in upstate New York when a blizzard hit. He couldn’t see to drive so stopped at a farm and asked if he could shelter there for a while. ‘Sure thing,’ the farmer said. ‘Sit in the living room and I’ll make us some coffee.’ Eventually they got into a conversation about animals. ‘I like cats,’ Truman said, ‘and have a couple in my apartment. They’re good company.’ ‘O yes,’ the farmer said, ‘I like cats a lot. I have dozens of them.’ Truman looked around. He hadn’t seen a cat since he’d arrived. ‘So where are they? Are they barn cats?’ ‘O no,’ the farmer said. You wanna see ‘em?’ He led Truman down a hallway, then down into the basement. Truman looked around. ‘Here,’ the farmer said, and lifted the lid of a large freezer.”

“Oh geeze. I hope that one isn’t true,” Fred snorted. “But I guess the one I told didn’t really happen, either. I mean she would’ve missed the dog before they left. She would’ve checked to make sure the dog was OK before going out for the evening.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “but it’s a good story. Good stories don’t have to be true. They just have to be good.” The thunder didn’t sound quite so distant, and the sky had dimmed enough to reflect diffused lightning flashes, but even if the storm drifted their way it wouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. Besides, the indoor safety of the pub yawned four steps away.

Jake, their electrician friend, dropped by their table for a quick one. “How you guys doin? Business lookin’ up? Nice out tonight.” The three of them talked for awhile about the prospects for local contractors. Matt, the master plumber, and Jake could fill in with small jobs until the big ones picked up, but Fred, a carpenter and painter, had been hampered by a damp, drizzling summer with few indoor jobs and most outdoor work stymied. In the last couple of weeks, though, he’d been able to paint two big houses and finally pocket a couple of decent-sized checks. Jake downed a glass of Sam Adams and belched like a steam engine. This mating call attracted one of the blowsy regulars, a heavy and aggressive blonde who shoveled him toward the main pub room for a confab. “See you in the unemployment line, guys,” Jake waved as he disappeared into the crowd.

“Well,” Matt drawled, “now that we’ve solved Jake’s love life, let me tell you my dog story. But you have to believe it, no matter what.”

“I’ll try,” Fred said. He understood that Matt had needed time to work this one up, embellish it, and try it out on himself a couple of times. “Go ahead.”

“I was visiting a friend who’d just gotten divorced. He was lonely and feeling sorry for himself, so he went to the humane society and got a dog. A big brown-and-white lop-eared mutt. When I came in it barked wildly and lunged at me, but Rob, my friend, caught it by the collar and said ‘Friend. Friend.’ The dog smiled at me, but I knew it wasn’t impressed. Sure enough, as soon as Rob left the room to get beer the dog sprang and bit my leg. He tore my pants and scratched but didn’t really break the skin. Still, I wasn’t putting up with that shit. So I grabbed the dog by the neck, and knelt and bit its ear—hard. Tore right through it. You never heard a louder yelp. When I let go, the dog ran out of the room, out of sight. ‘What happened?’ Rob asked when he came in with the beer. He’d heard the yelp as he opened the refrigerator door, but he had his priorities, and got the beer before running back to the living room. So I told him, ‘Your dog bit me, so I bit him back. He might need an ear patch for a while.’ Rob just looked at me like I was nuts. But from then on, whenever I went to Rob’s house the dog would hide. He wouldn’t wait till he saw me—he’d hear my truck, and run and hide. Rob couldn’t figure it out—the dog wasn’t afraid of anything else, and once even chased a fair-sized bear out of the yard. But he never forgot who bit his ear.”

“Ears and nose—the soft parts of any dog.” Fred had expected a story he wouldn’t have to believe, but looking at Matt’s satisfied grin he thought this one probably was true. Why not? Matt was used to handling animals, and would know how to defend himself. He certainly wouldn’t be spooked by a mutt. When he had worked at the wild animal park in Sugarfield, a lion cub had attached itself to his knee in front of an audience of little kids, and rather than show any pain or upset he’d walked away with the cub hanging on and had gently detached it offstage. Not the kind of guy to panic over a dog bite, but very much the guy to teach that dog a serious non-lethal lesson.

Thunder crumpled like someone crushing an oil drum. One big rain drop splattered on the umbrella. Matt and Fred leaned into their draughts, drinking to the bottom so that rather than slopping all over themselves they could carry empty glasses inside. But the rain wouldn’t get serious for a few more minutes. Hardly any traffic moved down Grove Street now. The street lights cast pale orange pools on the asphalt. At the table behind them a laughing couple buried their faces in each other’s shoulder. Matt nodded and left a ten on the table. He never said goodbye, but always departed like a secret agent on a final mission. Fred wondered about that story about biting the dog’s ear. Probably true, right to the last detail. That was Matt all the way. The rest of us, Fred thought, make them up as we go along, but not Matt. He’d repeat stories other people made up, but whatever he said had happened to him always had. Not just the gist of it, but every last shading, every word. At last with a shudder the storm broke, and Fred rose and stepped into the pub with his empty glass held high.