Flash Forward by
H. Turnip Smith
The way we came to have the big problem is this. We d just finished watching something about Palestinians blowing up Jews and were headed out on Long Island to look at some furniture at a garage sale, and as usual Alma can't get off my case.
"Ed, why don't you sell this broken down helicopter, and let's get something that doesn't rattle and make us look like the cutting edge of poverty."
"You think I'm made out of money, Al?" What she doesn't seem to understand is working down at the fishery gives you a powerful odor, but not a hell of a lot of discretionary cash. Them Japs that run the joint are tighter than a warped door, and one guy asking for a raise has as much clout as an '06 Spradling Flyer baseball bat.
Anyway, she leaned out the window to get a better gander at those grassy fields where Manhattan used to be.
"Ain't it hard to believe that five million people used to live on that island, Ed? It's a wonder they didn't all strangle each other being so cramped up and all."
"A lot of 'em did in the big gasoline war, Al," I said. You see American history is not Alma's strong suit. She can't tell World War 6 from World War 3, and she's got this crazy idea that the U.S. of A. got its independence from Mexico. But you ask me that's the fault of the educational system. You take a kid that's just three years old and slap one of those infra-red learning helmets on his head, the next thing you know he's watching dirty movies or dialing in cartoons. Hell, Alma tells me all she ever did in school was watch soap operas and try to work crossword puzzles.
"Ed," she said to me, drawing her head back inside because one of them hot new, two-door Bundry Motor Corp Air Flashes was rocketing on past us with a junked-up teenager behind the wheel, two kinds of blood in his eyes. "Why do let those kids fly so fast?"
"How you going to stop 'em, Al?" I said. "The cops can't just go out and start age-profiling every plane in the sky. If they did, pretty soon us seniors would be getting harassed for being under the speed limit or wearing our false teeth loose."
"Well I don't think it's fair, Ed," Alma said, crossing her arms across that big bosom of hers she got via elective surgery. You ask me that's one of the really great benefits of living in our time. Hell, I hear back when, ugly people used to be stuck being ugly for life. Nowadays if you're ugly like Alma used to be when we met, you can just get a plastic job and fix yourself up. They say the day's not far off that they'll be able to do brain implants to make up for being stupid, but as far as I'm concerned, that's just a bunch of smoke.
"Fair. Fair. Fair, Al," I said. "People are always blowing about what's fair. Nobody ever says look how lucky I am to be able to live for 200 years with a gangbuster's body and replaceable parts. Everybody's always complaining."
Alma stuck her lower lip out.
"Don t change the subject, Ed. If you won't get us some new transportation, the least thing you could do is get us a new talk-a-dog."
"Al," I said, "you know as well as I do that dogs are stuck in an evolutionary funk. They're nothing but problems. Besides I'm allergic to dog hair."
"Ed, stop going around with your head in the ground. These new talk-a-dogs are everything a pet owner ever dreamed of. Why'd they be so much company for me."
I got to thinking about that. If the damn talk-a-dog would do some listening to Alma's yak, that might let my broken ear off the hook once in a while.
"OK," I said, "maybe we'll look at one."
So we landed at this kennel out on the island next to one of those garbage-compacting plants. Flash was the third mutt we looked at. He was a big, brown, belt-high Briard with a nice, innocent expression on his face. Quiet kind of dog too. I took a shine to him right off.
"You sure he talks?" I said to the kennel meister.
"Count on it," the kennel dude said, reading us Flash's pedigree. Well, the mutt had a string of titles a half mile long including Sir Wellington Snead's Prince of Deauville. I knew right then that we wouldn't be getting out of there cheap, this dog being royalty and all. But Alma insisted. So anyway feeling like I'd had my pants stole in broad daylight, I forked over the three thousand internationals, and off we went.
We hadn't been in the air much over fifteen minutes with Alma doing a monologue about what a great decision we'd made and how happy we'd be, when Flash pipes up from the rumble seat, "I'm hungry."
"Oh did you hear that, Ed, he does talk, " Alma gushed. "Isn't this wonderful?"
"Well I suppose you think it's wonderful being dependent on a bunch of blue-collar lunkheads every time you want something to eat," Flash said.
"Did you hear that, Ed? Isn't that great? He's got a sense of humor."
"You call that a sense of humor, Al," I said, turning around to give Flash a dirty look. "You'd better watch your tongue, pal!"
"Now, Ed," Alma said as Flash growled, "he's just nervous getting adjusted to us. What would you like to eat, Flash?"
"Don't call me Flash; my name is Marvin," the dog says. "And I'm going to expect that you make arrangements with a home delivery restaurant to have my food there four times a day. La Cupola has nice steaks. That would do fine."
"Are you crazy or what?" I cried, nearly knocking the tail off a '37 Michigan Wolverine Air Hammer as I whirled around towards Flash. "My wife and I can't even afford to eat like that."
"Your financial situation is not of interest to me," Flash said. "What I'm telling you is I'm a charter member of Canine Rights International, and if you can't meet our contractual specifications, you can expect to be the target of a law suit."
"What the hell kind of black mail is that?" I shouted, but Alma had me by the arm.
"Now, Ed, be nice. Marvin will be living with us for a long time, and we need to get adjusted to his foibles."
"You call that a foible, Alma. I call it a crock of shit!"
"Please," Flash said. "I'm disgusted by the use of profanity."
And that's pretty much how the whole thing came about. Of course Alma is happy with the new mutt. But I mean who cleans up the poop anyhow? I do. All she does is spend hours chatting with Flash in the family room. As for me, I've had to take a second job to cover all the expenses of this marvelous addition to our household.
Not that I mind much working second-shift as a cheese loader down at Grocery Central. After all, it gets me out of the house more hours a day, and with Alma and Marvin chit-chatting about soap operas and what the latest Hollywood heroine wore to the Oscars, I'm damn glad to be gone.
The part that I do mind though is the chair business. It looks to me like a man who's worked over a hundred years to buy a house and get it furnished with air-furniture shouldn't have to surrender his easy chair to a dog. But what am I going to do?
Flash dangles the threat of a lawsuit over my head like the blade of a guillotine. I just wish to hell he'd stop making those long-distance calls to Europe. As far as I'm concerned there's nothing uglier than a dog speaking French.
Background by Angela