Rod, Rex and Rhoda

by Bob Brill

Cashews and Kibble

The sign says Rumex Enterprises Pharmaceutical Division. I know this is nuts, but here I am, Rex by my side. The automatic doors swing open for us and we pass into an enormous ornate lobby with a humongous fountain in the center, flanked by palm trees three stories high. Parrots and mynah birds are flying around under the glassed-in roof, chattering among themselves. The message is clear. Rumex is rich. We lead the industry. We take over the startups that have the best drugs and we own the best congressmen that money can buy.

An armed guard approaches. “Sir!” he says. It’s clear from his tone that the word sir is not intended as a sign of respect. It’s just that he’s been trained not to say hey you. “You can’t bring that dog in here. Animals are not allowed on the premises.”

“Oh, then you better get rid of those birds.”

“Those are not animals. They’re birds.” He places his hand on the side arm in his holster.

“This is not an animal either. It’s a dog. In fact, he’s a medical necessity. I can’t get along without him.”

“You telling me that’s a seeing-eye pug?”

“Not exactly. I just get very stupid when he’s not around.”

“Well, dogs are against the rules.”

“Of course they are. Dogs are against leashes too, but they’ve yet to get the vote.” I feel my hackles rising, and I bare my teeth. I try to turn this into a smile and say, “Who can I see about getting a permit for my dog?”

He removes his hand from his side arm and draws forth a cell phone. I draw my own. He is faster. If these were guns, I’d be dead on the floor. While he places a call to someone with greater authority to deal with nutcakes like me, I call Alphonse Hollister, the man I am scheduled to meet.

Although the guard is faster on the draw, I get a faster result. A person approaches, a suit and tie wrapped around an armature of perfect posture. “Dr. Blass?” he says, spitting out my name as one would a bit of putrid meat.

“Dr. Hollister, I presume?”

“No, Dr. Blass.” He pronounces my name again to rid himself of the last spoiled remnant. “I am Dr. Hollister’s assistant, Jared Pumphrey.”

I totally agree with the universal dislike of my name, but I do like his name. It fits so well his slightly obese figure, the righteous demeanor, the perfect posture and the timid earnest schoolboy I detect behind the pose. “It’s like this, Pumphrey. I’ve been asked to run some tests. I need the dog to assist me.”

That sounds so stupid, but it’s the truth. I don’t know how else to explain his presence.

A parrot lands on Pumphrey’s shoulder. Pumphrey nonchalantly reaches in his pocket, retrieves a few cashews and offers them to the bird, who quickly snaps them up one at a time, then flies off.

Rex barks once. “Oh, you want some too, do you? You won’t like Dodo’s treats. Here’s something better.” Pumphrey reaches in another pocket, pulls out a few pellets of kibble and offers them to Rex, who eats them right out of his hand. I realize then that I prejudged the man, biased by my expectations of a corporate lackey. I not only like his name, I like the man behind the name, suit and all.

“Come along, you two. Dr. Hollister is waiting for you.”

Proceed to Chapter 6...