On my way to the countryside, I pedaled through what’s known as Hollywood, a cluster of shacks at the edge of town. They listed to the side, had gaps between the sideboards and looked almost as if a stout summer breeze could flatten them. It was said some still had dirt floors.

As I approached the place closest to the street, I could see that the yard was a mess of weeds, patches of dirt and concrete yard ornaments broken beyond recognition. There was a mongrel with swollen teats and a guy sitting on a lawn chair. He had a cigarette pack rolled in the sleeve of his T-shirt and appeared to be soaking his feet in an inflatable wading pool. A young girl in a feed sack dress was playing hopscotch by a wash tub at the side of the road. I noticed the man motion to the girl. She nodded and drug the tub toward me.

I stopped, straddled my bike and saw the tub was half-full of slimy water with little green snakes, turtles and a black-and-white puppy submerged to its shoulders. The stench nearly made me retch. The girl asked if I wanted to buy a pet. My first impulse was to get the hell away, but then the puppy whimpered and wagged its tail.

“How much for the dog?”

The girl looked at the man, who held up his hand. She nodded and said the price was five dollars.

I took my wallet from my backpack and fanned a few bills looking for a five or singles. 

The man hustled from his chair, his wet feet becoming muddy as he stomped across the yard. The girl shrank away from him. I saw he had an arm tattoo that read Mother Ducker. He said his daughter had misunderstood and that the dog was fifty dollars, not five. When I told him I didn’t think I had fifty, he said he’d throw in a snake. I counted my money. Thirty-seven. He held out his hand and told me the dog was mine. 

I lifted the pup from the tub, unwound a snake from around his back leg, then put the pooch on the ground to shake off some of the drench. I asked if he had a name. The girl said they called him Lucky Six. I told her the lucky number is seven. She said they called him Lucky Six ‘cause the first five didn’t make it. 

I fashioned a leash from my belt and walked my bike back home. Lucky followed along pretty well except for stopping every few steps to scratch himself to the point of whining.

After a few trips to the vet to get Lucky a clean bill of health, I gave him to my parents, whose 12-year-old Lab had recently died.

Lucky outlasted Hollywood. Three or four years after I got him, the people were relocated, and the shacks were bulldozed for a gas station.

The day the dwellings were razed, a local TV station interviewed a few of the Hollywood people. I think one of them was the girl with the washtub. She was holding a little boy’s hand. The reporter asked the girl how she felt about leaving Hollywood. She looked off-camera, nodded, and complained that the new place didn’t allow pets. The reporter ruffled the boy’s hair and asked the girl if he was her son or little brother. She looked off-camera.

– David Henson

Note: This story previously appeared in City.River.Tree (defunct) on July 14, 2021.