"Your dog just did what no man can do"

It began last night.

Around midnight- Electricity: surge off, surge on, surge off, surge on...

I heard a scuffling in the breaker room.

Julio.

I opened the door to the hallway: black. I turned back to the utility drawer. I tested each flashlight. Nothing. Fade out. Nothing. Good news.

I went back to the hallway.

"Julio? Julio? What are you doing? That's not working. You're just turning my power on and off."

Julio mumbled something incomprehensible. Julio's speech patterns are difficult enough when he's not intoxicated. He staggered a bit, caught himself with the door.

"Julio! Please-"

A voice from up the stairs corrected me, "We have no power. He's trying to fix it."

--
The next morning. Why am I cold? Why am I so cold?

I snapped out of bed. Placed my hand on the heater. The metal stung with a chill.

I pulled on sweats, moccasins. Opened the door: black.

I stepped outside with Pilgrim, dialed Julio while I walked him.

" (Insert incomprehensible speech) Three or four hours (undetectable words) God Bless!"

At a loss for what to do, I couldn't focus. The wind. The cold. The pug couldn't get on his snow legs. I called Vadim. Put a sweater on the pug. Called 311. Dialed ConEd. No one had reported this. Cute, no?

The day progressed. The people at ConEd are nice, did you know? They're quite friendly. I learned to navigate their website. I agreed to have someone dispatched by 311 to gauge the temperature in my apartment. I learned a little more about legal issues in New York City.

--

The post work: electricity on, but still no heat. After a series of hours, a few escapes to Barnes & Noble, Rachel's Taqueria, a glass of red- I called Julio again. He came over. He did little, but teach my dog to "dance." Pilgrim lost interest soon after realizing that Julio did not have a treat.

-I packed my bags for Seattle, yanked some cash from the ATM, caught a cab to Grand Central.

After getting my peak/offpeak tickets for the Metro North, I shimmied with three duffels and a LongChamp bag to the center of the station, to check the track number. Pilgrim resisted when I began to turn to track 23, I looked down.

The telltale pose.

I stood: half in horror, half in amusement.

A collection of people turned to stare. A few snapped photos. A cop approached. He handed me a single Starbucks napkin. An Indie looking guy in glasses approached, "Your dog just took a shit in Grand Central Terminal. Your dog did the unthinkable. Your dog did what no man can do."

"It seems that he did," I smiled crookedly.

Another girl approached, "Do you want a bag?"

"Thanks, sure," I reached out to her.

Her friend perked up, "I have more napkins."

"May I borrow one?"

"Well, you can have it. I don't want it back."

"Right. Thank you."

The Indie guy interjected, "You want me to take that shit and throw it away?"

"No, thank you. I'll handle my own dog's shit.