“Monster Monster” by Jeff Bond

There was a beautiful man who lived in the same building as me, on the same floor—he in the one-bedroom across from the twin elevator banks, I, two doors down, in the corner studio. I’d already been there a year when he finally noticed me. I was in the laundry room struggling with a fitted sheet, and he graciously came over and showed me the best way to fold it.

“Nest the corners and fold the unsightly parts to the inside.”

His name was Aaron. Somehow or other, our conversation turned to a certain television show he’d never seen; I told him it was my favorite and invited him over to watch. It became our standing date. Soon we added other shows to the watchlist, devouring episode after episode over take-out, usually at his place, sometimes mine. 

I was thrilled. It’s not that I wanted to be boyfriends. Aaron and I would never be that. But I hadn’t had a “best” friend since sixth grade. I figured there was no reason we couldn’t be each other’s “go to” for nearly everything. I even thought about asking him to go with me to my cousin’s wedding a year off. But we weren’t a couple. I mean, it couldn’t have been more obvious. For one, I was at least a foot shorter. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not calling anyone shallow, but for gay men, being more or less the same height and shape as your partner is like parents of small children having the same last name: it’s not required but there’s just so much less to explain.

Enter Max. Max was strong, with a sleek neck and green eyes, and an impossibly tiny waist—you know the type: unsurprised to find the world at his feet. Aaron met him in New Jersey, coming back from his twice-annual visit to his sister’s in Cherry Hill, and within twenty minutes he’d asked Max to come home—to live.

“You never said anything about getting a dog,” I said. Yet here was Max: a 45-pound bloodhound/French Bulldog mix, approximately two years old. I’ll admit he was a good-looking animal. But then, Aaron was a good-looking man, so it made sense. Pets are a reflection of our self-esteem, no? I’ve always thought so. Then again, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a pet was a cactus.

“I’ve always wanted one,” Aaron cooed. He and Max were sitting next to each other on the couch; I was relegated to sharing a bamboo bench with a fern. The apartment was covered in dog toys, half of which had already been destroyed. “They said he’d been abandoned by his family. They couldn’t handle him. Can you imagine? Who gives up a face like that?” Aaron tried to bury his own face in Max’s but their faces didn’t quite fit together and he ended up burying himself in the dog’s neck. “Max, you are too much!”

I hate when people baby-talk their pets, but I didn’t begrudge Aaron his new relationship. I didn’t think it would change anything between us. Max could do “doggy” things with him—slobber on his face and cuddle with him on the couch—and I could do human things, like eat cold noodles and make fun of people on TV. I didn’t see any reason for Max to dislike me. That’s why I was surprised by what happened when Aaron invited me over to watch the latest episode of Trailer Park Royalty: Redux. 

Max met me at the door. I reached down to give him a pat on the head and he recoiled. I must have made some kind of noise, because Aaron called out from the kitchen, where he was plating fried dumplings. “What’s wrong?”

“Max doesn’t like to be touched?”

There was a longish pause. “Be a good boy, Max,” he said at last.

“Has he not been being a good boy?” 

“He’s fine,” Aaron said. Something in his clipped tone suggested this wasn’t exactly true. I stepped into the apartment awkwardly—Max was taking up most of the entryway—and shut the door behind me. “If you ignore him, he’ll leave you alone.”

“I don’t want him to leave me alone. I like dogs. Dogs like me.”

“Just ignore him, Peter.”

There was no way I was going to relax in this apartment if I didn’t make friends with the dog who’d basically taken over the place, so I crouched down and looked him in the eyes. “Hey Max. Do you like treats? Should I bring some the next time I come over?” I smiled, showing my teeth. I read somewhere that smiling evolved from the way our ancestors showed strangers they didn’t have fangs. I have no idea if that’s true, but in this case, showing Max that I didn’t have fangs was perhaps a tactical disadvantage. He opened his mouth. I thought he was going to bite, but instead he put his face right up to mine and said, quite clearly, “Je vais te tuer”—I’m going to kill you.

*

I managed to get through Royalty: Redux and even a couple of episodes of Rehab Breakout: Celebrity Edition, before I made an excuse and left. I felt a bit shaken—why would this dog want to kill me? Also, and maybe this was because he said it in French, but I didn’t immediately rule out that he might be onto something. Not that I deserved to be killed, but maybe put on notice that there was a new sheriff in town or something. Had Aaron and I become too dependent on each other? And why did the threat sound so much more authoritative in French? My French teacher in high school, Monsieur Ickes, used to read French poetry to us. He kept a filled water glass in his hand, constantly dipping his tongue in to keep it wet. I have a complicated history with the French language.

A couple of days later, I rang Aaron. The logical part of my brain had taken over and said it was ridiculous to be held hostage by a dog.

“Hey. Wanna watch Daddy Doctors later? At my place? There’s a new episode. The hot one performs an appendectomy.”

“Do you get SlagTV?”

“No.”

“Then come here and let’s watch Fashion Wars: Regime Change.”

“I don’t want to watch that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like that show.”

“It’s the premiere. You’ve never seen it.”

How could I get out of it? I manned up and went over. I told myself that, logically, though Max said he would kill me, he didn’t say when. He hadn’t said, Je te tuerai bientôt, or Tu ne vivras pas pour voir demain. There was no reason for me to feel frightened on this night in particular.

When expected, I usually walked right into Aaron’s apartment. But I didn’t want to surprise anyone so I rang the bell. 

“Hey,” Aaron said when he answered. His clothes were drenched in sweat. I could see Max behind him on the couch. “Max and I just went for a run. What you got there?” He pointed at my fist.

“Just some treats. For the dog.”

“Okay. But don’t give him any, okay? He wasn’t feeling well last night. I want to be careful.”

“What do you mean, he wasn’t feeling well?”

“He was pacing.”

“Pacing where?”

“All over the apartment. For like an hour. I thought maybe he was gonna throw up, but then he just went to bed.”

“Nothing else?”

“Like what?”

Like, did he mention my name? 

“So I can’t give him a treat?” I said. “I want him to like me.”

“Max likes everybody.” Aaron took off his shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.

“Where you going?” I heard him turning on the shower. He didn’t close the door all the way. If I leaned forward I could see him checking out his butt in the mirror.

Max lifted his head off the couch and gave the air a little sniff, then looked at me. “I brought you some treats, Max. But Aaron says I can’t give you any. Papa a dit non.”

The dog just stared.

*

I survived the evening. I didn’t dare join them on the couch. Aaron made a throwaway comment that I smelled like barbequed chicken—“Did you have that for lunch?” I didn’t, and I didn’t smell like I did, either. But if Aaron thought so, Max might too, and dogs love the taste of chicken so why take chances?

I needed to come up with a way to avoid them, so the next day I texted Aaron and said that work was crazy right now. Crazy at the poster gallery? he texted back. Yes. Also I’m coming down with something. Talk next week.

The “it’s crazy at work” and “I think I’m coming down with something” routine wouldn’t work forever. I saw an ad saying that the Natural History Museum was staging a triceratops exhibit. I thought it was the perfect opportunity to do something with Aaron, outside—away from the dog. It wasn’t a secret that I love dinosaurs, and Aaron knew my debilitating social anxiety would prevent me from going alone. I had a collection of dinosaurs, in fact, and Aaron had commented on them the first time he came over to my place. “Wow,” he said, “you sure have a thing for plastic dinosaurs.” With someone else, I might have been embarrassed, but Aaron had sounded impressed. He’d whistled when he saw the mini-ecosystem I’d carefully created on my kitchen stove, using rosemary and dried bay leaves for foliage. “Don’t they melt when you turn the oven on?”

“I’m more of a take-out kind of guy.” 

“What about when you reheat the leftovers?”

“What are leftovers?”

*

When I was six, both my mother and father got me the same present for Christmas: an animatronic T. Rex that walked and snapped its jaws when wound up, with a voice box in its belly that made a tinny roar. Not much by today’s standards, but back then it was a technical marvel. My parents separated right after I was born, but dad was allowed to come by on Christmas morning if he was bringing a present. When he saw that he’d gotten me the same thing mom did, he tried to take it back, but I was having none of it. Besides, it wasn’t the same thing at all. This one was pink. I’d already named the first one “Monster” so the pink one became “Monster Monster.” Monster and Monster Monster faced off over and over in battles to the death. I loved them both dearly but usually found myself rooting for Monster Monster. It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to understand why a six-year-old gay kid would root for the pink one. But Monster Monster was an underdog in other ways, too: one of his tiny forearms kept coming detached and I kept having to glue it back on.

I guess I’d been avoiding Aaron for longer than I’d realized because my invitation to the exhibit was met coldly with a one-word response: Can’t. Next weekend? Cant. No apostrophe. This line of inquiry was producing diminishing returns. I needed to find someone to go with, but the only person I could even think to ask was Luis, a guy who worked with me at the poster gallery. He said he didn’t believe in dinosaurs; they were against his religion. Colleen, who was in charge of acquisitions, overheard.

“Why’s a sixty-year-old man going to a kid’s exhibit, anyway?”

“It’s not a kid’s exhibit.”

“It’s a kid’s museum.”

“Science is for everybody.”

Colleen rolled her eyes. 

*

The exhibit would be up for a couple of months, so I still had hope of going with Aaron. I tried to run into him. I spent six straight evenings in the laundry room washing the same towels and sheets. I rode the elevator from the lobby to the sixth floor and back again until the doorman suggested I was “disrupting the organic flow of traffic.” Finally I worked up the nerve to knock on his door. If needed, I would say I smelled gas in the hallway and wanted to be sure he (and Max) were okay. If he thought I was having olfactory hallucinations, so be it. It was worth it to save the friendship. 

I got to his door and I heard voices inside. Aaron and another man were arguing. I couldn’t understand all of what they were saying, but I made out a few things.

“You’re using that dog as a dick magnet!”

“Who says that? Dick magnet?”

“That’s what it is.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yeah? Where do you go? On your ‘walks’?” I could hear his use of air quotes. 

“I’m taking the dog out. What do you think I’m doing, Martin?”

I’d heard enough. I tiptoed back to my studio.

*

I saw him, briefly. Martin. The boyfriend. He was a little younger than Aaron, maybe twenty-eight, but basically the blond version of Aaron. I knew it was him when I heard the lobby attendant say cheerfully, “Have a good day, Mr. Martin!” I was walking out, too, and I barely got a nod. (Did the lobby attendants ever thank me for my Christmas checks?) I saw Aaron a few times, with the dog, thankfully always on the other side of the street. I felt fortunate not to be noticed. My biggest hope was that Max would forget he’d ever met me.

Yet I couldn’t help wondering if it was true—was Aaron using the dog to attract sexual partners? And if he was, what did it mean that Max wanted me out of the way? Was Max afraid of Aaron becoming attracted to me? Aaron was aware of our age difference—as was I—but perhaps, to a dog, a decade or two (plus change) in human years wasn’t all that significant. Perhaps Max saw me as a threat.

The whole thing put me in such a state of distraction that I turned to the apps. I only do that when I’m feeling desperate. Still, I put in effort: I always try to create a thoughtful profile—which I’m sure no one bothers to read. There’s never any conversation on these things, just one-word nonsense going back and forth. ‘Sup? Into? You? Are we cavemen? Still, because one of my goals was to find someone who might go to the exhibit with me—I wasn’t here just for sex—I named my profile “DinosaurLover.” Before I could select a good profile picture I was deluged with messages from older men—my age, if I’m being honest. My inbox was crammed with leathery faces, all demanding my visage in return. I couldn’t get a pic uploaded fast enough; I was denounced as insincere. That’s a polite way of putting it, actually.

Six-and-a-half minutes. That’s how long I lasted. That might be a record low.

*

I was back at work when Colleen told me she’d bought two tickets to the triceratops exhibit, for herself and a ten-year-old niece who forgot she had swim practice that day. “You like that shit, don’t you, Peter? We might as well go. It’s better than me being out thirty bucks.” Colleen turned out to be more fun than I’d expected. She’s such a dour presence at the poster gallery, but at the museum she really loosened up. She told me that she goes two-stepping every night she isn’t bowling. “You should come. There’s some cute boys there, Peter. You’d do well. Though you’ll have to pretend to be disabled if you want to get a parking space.” I promised to try to make it but it would have to wait till I was done with the true-crime podcast I’d become addicted to. For the time being, my evenings were spoken for.

When I looked at my phone later that night, there was a text from Aaron.

Hey. Call me. Important.

I hedged—was I to jump on command?—but curiosity got the better of me.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Hey. I’m glad you called me back.”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Listen. I need a favor. I’m in Connecticut.”

“What are you doing in Connecticut?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to walk Max.”

I said nothing.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m gonna be gone for, like, two days, max.”

Two days. Max.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“So can you do it?”

I said nothing.

“Seriously? He knows you, Peter, and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a fucking emergency.”

I found my voice at last. “Um… Can you get someone else?”

“No, Peter, I can’t. I can’t get anyone else. Why do you think I’m calling you.”

Ouch. That hurt. Almost enough to make me angry. Why did I never get angry? More importantly, why did I never get angry at Aaron? I looked over at my dinosaur collection on the stove. The museum exhibit had made me realize how poorly my small world was connected to prehistorical reality. Anachronism after anachronism, from a coexisting brachiosaurus and styracosaurus to a nocturnal velociraptor relaxing next to a diurnal pterosaur—or was it the other way around? Oh yes, and a pink T. Rex. I made a promise to wind up Monster Monster and set him loose on the stove. He would make quick business of all that nonsense, even with his missing forearm.

I asked Aaron if he could at least tell me what’s going on.

“Fine,” he snipped. “Martin’s sister had a relapse—” (did Aaron think he’d already told me about Martin?) “—and his parents blamed him and they’re threatening to cut him off, so he went to Connecticut to talk to his sister’s ex-boyfriend and when he got there he had a panic attack and…”

Honestly, I was sorry I’d asked. He sounded like such a whiny bitch. How had he ever loomed so large in my mind?

I told him I’d walk the dog. If for no other reason than just to shut him up. He thanked me. I think it was the first time I’d heard him say it: thank you. After I’d given him my PlexusPlus password so he could watch Dress or Sack? without me and let him use my GoGoodies Platinum account. He used it once after our last contact—presumably to buy dinner for himself and Martin.

I went down to the lobby to get the key from the doorman. It wasn’t until I was back upstairs that I realized what I was doing—I was about to be alone with a dog who’d threatened to kill me.

I pushed the door open. I hadn’t been in Aaron’s apartment for weeks. Things were thrown about—pillows, books. Wine spilled on the counter. A jug of milk left on the table to spoil. “Max?” I called.

A creak came from the bedroom. I went over and nudged the door open. The blinds were down and it was dark, but I could see that the bed was unmade and clothes were tossed about recklessly.

“Laisse-moi tranquille. Laisse-moi mourir en paix.”—Leave me alone. Let me die in peace.

I recognized the flat tone. “That’s a bit dramatic, no? Max? Comment le dis-tu dans ta langue… Très dramatique, non?”

“Pourquoi parles-tu français?”

“What? Oh. I…”

“Laisse-moi mourir en paix.”

“Listen, Max, I don’t know what’s going on but I’m here to take you for a walk. Your daddy asked me to.”

“Aaron est un imbécile.” 

I could just make out Max’s shape on the bed. “Can you tell me where your leash is? Did he leave water out for you?” I went to the walk-in closet near the front door. Max’s leash was hanging on a hook next to a row of tarnished cookware. I brought it back to show him. “I’ve got your leash, Max. Can I take you out now?”

Max let out a heavy sigh. “Si tu dois le faire.”—If you have to. “Quel galère.”

Max’s leash was one of those complicated harness things. I didn’t know if I could figure out how to put it on him.

“Do you know how this goes, Max?” I tried to put it over his head, but that didn’t seem right. The dog wasn’t helping. He was dead weight. “Max… a little assistance, here?” 

He looked up at me with empty eyes. I should have killed you when I had the chance, he said—“J'aurais dû te tuer quand j'en ai eu l'occasion.”

“Yeah, well… you snooze, you lose.”

*

After a dozen tries, I got his leash on and dragged him out of the apartment. He perked up a little when the elevator opened and out popped a neighbor Max recognized, an older man—even older than me—in a tweed suit and a bow tie. Max received much praise for sitting on command, as well as a small cookie from the man’s jacket pocket. Once we were out on the street, though, he was back to his curious ways.

“Ma vie est une série d’humiliations.” 

 “Careful, Max. Someone will hear you.” No one was paying any attention to the sad guy and the dog he was dragging behind him, however. It seemed almost impossible that this was the same dog I’d met on that first day. Had Max spontaneously aged ten years? Or was he always this old, and Aaron fudged the numbers so everyone would think Max was younger? That seemed like something Aaron would do.

“Au début, la vie est belle. Ensuite, tout va mal.”

“Is there a special place you like to pee, Max?” We got halfway around the block before he finally managed to relieve himself. He looked pathetic. He dropped his leg well before he’d finished, and by the time he was done, his front legs were covered in urine.

“Ma vie est une série d’humiliations.” 

 “Yes, you used that one already. Are you running out of things to tell me?” I wondered if perhaps Max was merely repeating things he’d heard, if he were interspecies—half canine, half parrot or something. “Come on, let’s go. Let’s pick up the pace, dog.”

“Au début, la vie est belle. Ensuite, tout va mal.”

I chose to ignore him. 

*

I dropped him back at his apartment and dusted off my hands. “You’re welcome, Max.” I filled his bone-dry water bowl. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Au début, la vie est belle. Ensuite…”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. I’ll be back to give you dinner. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Okay? Can you hang on till then?”

“Je suis entouré de flatteurs et ‘yes-men.’”

I left, slamming the door. I waited in the hallway, listening. For what? I had no idea. But it was quiet in Aaron’s apartment, so I went back to my studio.

I turned on my true-crime podcast. I tried to follow the story. I gave up and went back to Aaron’s apartment, gathering up a few of the least-destroyed chew toys and an enormous sack of kibble. I brought it back to my place. I put all of my plastic dinosaurs in a pillowcase and shoved them in a closet, then moved the plants that were on the floor to the top of the stove so there’d be room for the dog’s things. I went back for Max.

“Let’s go, dog.”

He seemed to understand. He pulled himself up and grudgingly followed me back.

“Do you like true crime?” I asked. The lights were off and the moonlight cast an eerie glow on my bed—the pillows looked like soft stalagmites. “I’m six episodes in but we could start over. Everyone probably thinks the bookkeeper did it, but my money’s on the disgraced librarian’s second husband.”

Max looked at me, exasperated. I figured he might be thirsty, so I filled a plastic storage container with water and put it down in front of him. He turned away, repulsed.

“It’s the same tap, Max,” I said. “Same pipes, same water. What is it you want?”

“Mon bol,” he said quietly, refusing to meet my eyes. I nearly felt bad for him. Back in Aaron’s apartment, I cleaned his filthy metal water bowl in the sink. “Max” had been etched across the bottom in a flowery font, but the letters had already started to wear away and were almost illegible. I took one last look at Aaron’s apartment. I’d loved so much about it—the minimalist furnishings, the sweeping view, the high-end appliances. It was, in a word, aspirational. Now it just felt depressing. It occurred to me that bringing home a sleek, strong dog—one deserving a personalized water bowl—was aspirational, too. With Max, Aaron had been trying to make a statement about himself. I’ve already noted that pets are a reflection of our self-esteem. Maybe it’s inescapable that they end up revealing some less-appealing truths, too.

On my way back to my studio, I ran into that neighbor who liked to give Max treats. He was waiting for the elevator. He eyed the water bowl in my hands. “Is everyone getting a dog now?” he said witheringly. I was about to tell him to mind his own business when I heard a commotion from my studio. I hurried inside to see that Max had recovered from his malaise. Apparently, I hadn’t fully closed my closet door. I saw with horror that the pillowcase of dinosaurs was dangling from Max’s mouth. Before I could make a move, Max ran with it deeper into the room, disappearing on the other side of my bed and then leaping up onto it. He shook his head violently. The pillowcase opened. Dinosaurs were everywhere. When he was finished, he began attacking the bedspread.

“Max!” I shouted. “What’s going on here?” It was obvious what was going on—the dog was ransacking my apartment—but I wanted to say something that sounded commanding. He jumped off the bed, knocking me to the floor as he raced to the kitchen, where he took the bag of kibble in his jaws and ripped it in half, sending kibble pellets scurrying like cockroaches under the fridge and the stove. I tried to get up, losing a shoe as I did. When I stood, the arch of my foot made the acquaintance of the armored spine of a two-inch stegosaurus. 

I didn’t know what to do next. I grabbed Monster Monster from where he’d ended up, facedown on the bed. I held him in the air like he was a hand grenade and I’d just pulled the pin. Visually, I triaged the space between me, Max, and the apartment door. I weighed how much time it would take, with one shoe and a throbbing foot, to make it into the hall against how quickly I knew the dog could pivot. If I didn’t make it, my biggest regret would be missing the inevitable true-crime podcast detailing my own mortifying demise.

It was useless, but what choice did I have?

Our eyes met. I think Max smiled.

“La vie est une série d’humiliations.” 

“Tell me something que je ne sais pas.”