"Do you want to. Got a cute name. Goliath. Goli for short. He's like a lion. Sorry he tried to get you. But he doesn't know you yet. Goliath say good morning to Mr.
Smith, that shadow behind the glass, go on, Goli, Mr. Smith isn't going to bite you."
That Monday George Smith stood aloof and aghast. Humming. Whispering up to Jesus Christ is there no justice. As Miss Tomson sensed the sorrow of the sheepish shadow.
"Mr. Smith, you didn't think I was going to bring Goli to work with me every morning, did you."
"Miss Tomson, I have a vivid imagination, likely to believe anything."
"Well why didn't you say so Mr. Smith. Goli is just on his way to the boarding kennel. Didn't have room this morning. Raw steak is his dish. Rump. Thought you wouldn't mind. It's going to be your first time away from me, Goli, and you mustn't eat Mr. Smith. Our new boss."
Again aghast that Monday. Mostly because Miss Tom-son's tender reference caught me in the breast. Tuesday Goliath was chained in the boarding kennel one hoped with his dish of rump. Wednesday he had his checkup at the Animal Medical Center and as I passed that place in the morning I fancied I could hear his growl as he chewed up other little doggies. And confess I chuckled at this tasty vision. Growling hysterically myself further on as I stepped straight into dogshit. A half hour on the park bench digging it out of the corrugated soles I wear for nonskid agility.
That midweek morning Miss Tomson had been quick to notice the lurking stink. She sniffed, and fanned herself with a sheet of typing paper, and cleared her throat. When Saturday afternoon arrived I sat lonely collapsed and futureless, staff gone home, cigar store across the street barred and dark. I went and looked on Miss Tom-son's desk. The bleak expanse. Picked up her pencils and memorized the brand over and over. I repaired the electric plug of her lamp, battening the wires good-o with a screwdriver thinking of the juice that would go through these very copper threads to give her light. God forbid the passing risqu6 thought as I slipped in the male plug for die electrical connection.
And a later Monday after a little shopping at the haberdasher round the corner on the previous Saturday, I came in wearing a narrow brimmed hat.
"That's better."
"What do you mean, Miss Tomson."
"That hat. Ifs a slight improvement. Don't ever wear that other thing again, Mr. Smith, it just doesn't suit you or anything you're trying to be."
"O."
"And if you don't mind, just let me give you a tip. Don't take this wrong. But don't wear that green tie with that green shirt, but that's not bad what you're wearing, not bad."
"Thanks."
"Sure."
Uncontrollably I rushed into my office. Stood there behind the door. Taking a deep breath. Unable to catch it. Then sitting at my desk with the hat on as the first letters and papers come in.
"Hey Air. Smith that hat. Is it for real, really. Or on approval."
"We could discuss that later Miss Tomson."
"Osure."
I locked the door after her. Being bullied by good taste is not exactly my dish. When we get to know each other better, let's see the underwear, Smith. The hat was only to take off in a situation where there was nothing else to do. Chap in the shop said this is what they're wearing. Who are they. Awkward to say I am not them. But the burning words, anything you're trying to be. I took my paper shears and dumbfounded by my own dexterity, reduced the hat to pieces and parts. Packaged it neatly. Addressing it elsewhere. And had to let Miss Tomson back in to mail it.
"Mr. Smith just one more thing, if you don't mind. I've got an interest in you, I want to see you make it Don't get the idea I'm trying to meddle in your affairs but the shoes. The color is definitely too light."
But as well in those initial weeks of Miss Tomson's employ she was reassuring over some of the letters which shook George Smith's timbers with intimidation. Miss Tomson would take one look at them and say they're kidding.
"Besides, Mr. Smith, they couldn't do this to you even though they tried. You've got to know when people are bluffing, don't get the idea that because you tell the truth so are they. By