Page 15 of Not Just a Trick Play

The dog whines again, and I turn to address its wrangler. “Umm. Can I give your dog some of this?”

She glances up, peering at me with striking green eyes framed by cat-eyed glasses. The woman wields her charges with ease, like a professional canine whisperer. “Sure, but watch it. You don’t want her thinking more will come, or she’ll expect you to take her home with you. She’s a little ho, will latch onto anyone for the right price.”

Now there’s an idea, but I don’t think I’m that desperate quite yet.

Before my hand’s fully extended, the bread’s gone—vanishing with a quick swipe of a pink tongue.

The other two dogs stand and join their mate. One whines pitifully, and the other lays its head on my lap. I scratch behind its ears and tear off a couple more chunks for both. “How long have you had them?”

“Oh, they’re not mine. Well, Luna is,” the woman says, gesturing at Polka Dog, “but likes to pretend she’s an orphan.” She glares at it. “Queenie and Gatz I dog-walk.” She eyes me. “You’re British, right? Visiting?”

I nod. “First time.”

“Cool. What do you think so far?”

“Expensive.” Prices here are appalling. Everything costs more than I’d anticipated, and after that, tack on another ten percent in taxes, and I’m ready for the poorhouse. Wages at the inn weren’t substantial since they were adjusted for room and board and meals.

She grins. “No argument there.”

No one’s been able to get in touch with the Airbnb lady, but Airbnb management will only refund me in two to four weeksif things haven’t been resolved. This pretzel might be my last indulgence, because after I’m done, I’ll be living on a prayer and a tin of Heinz beans, a la Bon Jovi.

I huff out a breath. “I suppose I could have planned my trip better. Been smarter.”

A smarter person would have found a job before crossing the Atlantic. Or at least made sure she had a backup plan. A smarter person would have figured out her so-called boyfriend was seeing someone else. No wonder Ben always wanted to have sex in my room or empties at the inn instead of having me over to his flat. His constant excuse was his place was a mess, even though I must have volunteered a million times to clean it. Should’ve suspected something was up when he refused. What man in his right mind rejects free maid service?

She flutters her fingers dismissively. “Planning’s overrated.”

Squeaking, rattling sounds interrupt us, and I look up. And blink. “Is that a piano?”

The woman glances over at what has to be a figment of my imagination. “Oh, yeah.” Of course. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“It’s real?” Am I squealing?

She grins. “Yep.”

“How? It must weigh five hundred kilos.” I watch in fascination as a man in his forties wheels a battered but beautiful Steinway baby grand to the far side of the fountain.

He plays a few practice scales then launches into the familiar opening bars of “Fly Me to the Moon.” I sit in complete awe. Once he’s done, I clap, then fish out a dollar to drop in his bucket.

“Oh my god, that was amazing,” I gush, plopping down beside the woman again. “I’ve heard of the concerts in the park—I mean, Bob Dylan sang ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ here, and Simon & Garfunkel performed ‘The Song of Silence’ before it became popular. There’s even a video of Madonna from a few years ago.”I glance back at the piano man. “But that was…” I end with a blissful sigh. There. Are. No. Words.

“Those were the good ones. It can be hit or miss sometimes.”

“You’ve seen lots of performances here?” It’s shocking drool’s not coming out of my mouth.

She shrugs. “I’ve caught some. Are you a musician? Do you perform?”

Chuckling, I say, “Ah, no. No, no, no. I wouldn’t subject anyone to my singing. I’m a fan, and that’s about it.”

“Have you checked out other venues?”

“I just arrived.”

“Oh? Done anything exciting yet?”

I huff. “Exciting? Hardly. I’ve spent all day applying to countless jobs I’m qualified for, and quite a few I’m not. Everything is ‘Experience Preferred’ or ‘Degree Required.’ Is a diploma in rocket science truly needed to run a coffee machine?” The only two positions I heard back about demanded references, so I had to fob them off. I’m not about to ask Gran for one since she’s expecting me home soon. And reaching out to Ben is a rock-hard, no bloody way.

I look at her dogs again. Polka Dog is content now that she’s been fed and the largely docile German Shepherd is scratching itself. Perhaps here’s a career choice that I should consider?

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