The day had been long and frightening for Larry Buddles. It had started simple enough. Just another day teaching continuing education at the local high school helping the town folks get their long over-due diplomas. Larry had looked forward to the simplicity of teaching. Being in charge, being respected. No more “do this, do that”, just “here’s how to do it”. It would be simple. It would be safe. And away from prying and jugful eyes of the scientific community. Away from the mindset that Larry Buddles didn’t matter. Here he could enjoy knowledge for the sake of sharing it.

He’d long ago released the notion that serving with equals brought with it any respect. All they wanted was to tap into his brain and borrow his ideas. Now he’d moved to a new place where he was smarter than everyone else. Surely, they needed him. He’d be a hero. Well loved, well respected. Or so he thought.

But it was happening all over again, and this time Larry had no one to turn to, no place to hide, no experiments on which to focus. The world was turning on him again and he felt alone. The social scourge had set upon him. He was poison.

Larry sits in a chair with the letter clutched in his sweaty hand. In his eyes, shock, rage and hurt. Mary chats on the phone with the Mr. Jennings, the school principle and Larry’s boss.

“Well, I’m not sure I understand -”

“A number of the faculty and students feel uncomfortable with Larry’s, uh, way of doing things,” the school principle barks back. “He just doesn’t connect with the students. And the hearing thing’s a problem. I’m sorry, we just can’t have him.” Mary’s speechless.

Back in his office, a frustrated Principle Jennings (40s) white, obese, smokes a cigar. Nearby him is an ashtray heaped with ashes, cigar clippings and cigarette butts. He yacks at Mary into the phone. The buttons on his shirt strain at his belly, threatening to bust open. He’s got long hair, and a receding forehead. He’s lost hippie.

Posters cover the puke green walls: Einstein sticking out his tongue, Hemmingway’s “FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS”, Mark Twain, Jimmy Carter campaign poster. Jennings waits for Mary’s response but hears nothing. So, he continues.

He sits behind a big oak desk that’s too large for the room he pretends is his office. But it’s really an old janitor’s closet. Beside him are a set of army green file cabinets with a little row of books on top of it. The walls of the office match the filing cabinet. The whole room is blah green. Whomever decorated it is the epitome of “talent-free.” To his ear he holds the receiver of a black telephone with a ring dial. The cord wraps around him as he twists in his chair, bored out of his mind.

“Mrs. Mary, this is a new life for him, right? Gotta make like a baby and head out into it. No holds barred. After all, no risk, no reward. No pain, no gain. Remember, that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.” He hangs up on her. Satisfied with his wisdom, he puffs his cig, eyes a kid on the other side of his desk. “Let that be a lesson in life.”

Relief washes over Jennings as he shakes off the guilt, replaces it with a nominal sense of accomplishment. He’d finally gotten rid of that retard Larry Buddles. No more complaints. No more trying to figure out what to say to a man who can’t even hear, much less carry on simple small talk. They just had nothing in common. And Buddles didn’t know anybody, didn’t hang out with anybody, and therefore had nothing really to say. All the chat was about physics, math, history. Anything not interesting is what Larry Buddles talked about. And he remembered numbers like a calculator but didn’t look you in the eye when you spoke to him. His eyes just darted around like he’s hiding secrets. No one knew what to say to Larry Buddles. Now they didn’t have to say anything. Everyone should be happy. And Jennings didn’t have to feel weird around Buddles any more.

Back at home Mary doesn’t know what to think. She hangs up, strokes Larry’s thinning hair. But Larry’s furious. “They can’t fire me. I'm a volunteer!” he jumps up. “They don't want me. The principal said - oh read this.” He hands her letter. “I tell ya Mary, nobody appreciates a thing these days!” He yanks out his hearing aids, throws them, tosses his model planes to the floor and heads to the door. Mary shoves the hearing aids into his pocket as he storms out.

Outside, Larry walks down the empty road, pouts. The red beater pick-up races by in a dust storm, makes him madder, same barking dog. Larry shakes his fists. “Pop a tire!”

Merkin watches Larry in the rear-view mirror and laughs. He guns it, skids around the corner of dirt road crossing. At the cross roads Larry stops, rests, looks around. Silent wheat fields surround him like waves in a quiet golden ocean. He puts on a hearing aid, listens to the wind, puts on the second. As he adjusts it, the device whines. It pops out of his ear, comes off the wire and bounces into a ditch.

“Oh darn!” Larry bends down to get it. Blood in the dirt catches his eye. The whining isn’t coming from his hearing aid. He parts the wheat grass and finds a crumpled dog - the one always chasing Merkin’s pick-up. Its legs are twisted and crushed. Bone juts through the skin. Blood drips out. Larry stands, looks around. Empty dirt roads stretches to the horizon. He’s alone.

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Larry yells. “HELP! H E L L L L P!” But no one hears. Larry down, pets the dog on its head. He can’t just leave it here! Larry crawls around behind it, tries to slip his hands under its belly. The dog lets out a yelp. It hurts!

Larry takes off his t-shirt, wraps it around the dog, picks it up, and heads down the road toward the buildings on the edge of the fields. He knew where he needed to go. There was a veterinarian a couple of miles away. He’d seen the sign many times as whenever he took his daily walk. The name was Dr. Thibedeaux Dowie D.V.M.

Larry reaches a white farm house with white paint curling off it’s outer walls. The loose gravel parking lot is empty. Dried mud ripples across the grassless plot. An old rusty sign hangs over the front door. It squeaks and totters in the wind. DR. OF VETERINARY MEDICINE Thibedeaux Dowie. Animal clinic.

“Help!” Larry yells. He struggles up the steps to the door. The dog is heavy. Inside Dr. Thibedeaux Dowie, seven years younger with most of his hair still dark. He hears Larry, goes to the lobby, opens the screen door, finds Larry sub-burned shirtless Larry and the dog, both covered in blood. Dowie jumps into action, runs down the stairs to Larry.

LATER

Dr. Dowie enters the lobby to find Larry Buddle still in his yellow hat standing alone at the window, his back to the room as he stares at the fields. Poor Larry looked is a mess. The little rolly-polly scholar in a clean shirt Dowie had given him, his arms bloody up to the elbows.

Dowie taps his shoulder. Larry adjusts his hearing aids. Dowie loud, tells him the news.

“I’m sorry about the dog Dr. Larry.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s an absolute tragedy. What can you do for it?”

Dowie realizes that Larry doesn’t get it, tries again. “Well, not much really. We can make him comfortable.” Larry nods.

“Say, how long will it take him to heal?” Larry asks. Dowie tries another approach.

“I'm afraid we'll have to put the dog down.” Shock washes over Larry.

“Put it down? You mean kill it!”

“There’s nothing more I can do. None of the animal's legs can be saved.”

“Nonsense. You can’t throw away a perfectly good dog just because it has no legs!”

“But Dr. Larry –“

“Why it’d be an absolute shame to do such a thing. Save the dog and amputate its legs. Leave as much of the stump as possible. It’s as simple as that.” Larry’s undaunted. Dowie’s incredulous. The vet shrugs, tries another approach. Maybe he can scare off Larry if it sounds expensive.

“It'll be costly. Upwards of two thousand dollars.”

“I'll pay it. As long as it has a good mind it’s perfectly workable,” Larry says confidently. He rubs his chin, paces, points a finger in the air. Dowie is stunned. No one in his right mind would do such a thing. “The calculations are easy,” Larry rants. “The designs simple. I'll work on it during the surgery. Now let me see . . .” He babbles to himself, “Pounds per square inch times velocity and gravity is one atmosphere of pressure of . . .” Larry’s voice fades into mumbles. His eyes get distant. He traces his finger on the wall, circles the room, mutters.

Trudy, one of the gossips at the salon, enters in a nurse apron. She sees Larry, jumps behind Dowie. “Uh, very well Dr. Larry” Dowie says, “I'll fix the dog.” He whispers to Trudy. “But I can’t fix this. Better call his wife. Keep the dog alive for now.” The nurse nods, leaves.

In the back room, Trudy confronts her boss. “Are you crazy?” Dowie shrugs, “But I can’t,” he stammers. “Look at him.” They both watch Larry as his body passes back and forth across the door, mumbling and deep in thought. Empathy overtakes Dowie. He just doesn’t want to cause Larry anymore pain. “Look at his life,” Dowie tells her. “I can’t put the dog down. Not now. He’s a child in a man’s body. He’s,” Dowie rubs his chin, can’t come up with anything else to say. He just can’t do it to Larry. And he doesn’t want to do it to the dog. That’s just cruel. Dowie struggles with his conscious, then decides to throw it to Larry’s wife.

The hours slip away. But Larry’s still there anxiously waiting for news about the dog. Dowie sits, arms crossed, ponders Larry at the window across the room watching the sunset. Mary enters, taps his shoulder. He hugs her tight. Relief washes over Dowie.

“I'll check on the dog. Ring the bell if you need me.” Dowie leaves. Three days later, as dawn sets over Larry’s little yellow house, Larry enters the kitchen, takes what’s in the jar of hearing aid money, leaves fast for Dowie’s Office. An hour later, he’s back at Dr. Dowie’s counting out the cash. Sheepishly, Dr. Dowie watches the bills pile up on the counter. “One thousand and ten, one thousand and twenty . . .”

Dowie frowns at the wad of crumple bills. “Sure you wanna do this?” he asks, somehow hoping that the odd roly-poly man will come to his senses. Larry adds a bag of loose coins, then pulls a paper from his pocket.

“And I have a pension check I can endorse -” Larry offers. Dowie’s eyes bulge. Guilt sweeps over him as he eyes the cash, the check.

“No thanks. This'll do. Senior citizen discount.” Larry grabs Dowie’s hand, shakes it too vigorously.

“Ya don't say? Swell. Thank you. Thank you very much. When can I pick up the dog?” Larry plants his hands in his now empty pockets, rolls on and off of his toes.

“Well, he's ready to go home now.” Dowie says, not sure how things will pan out. Larry beams, points in the air. “Good thing I came prepared.” Dowie looks out the window. There’s no car. He goes in back, down the hall to a room with cages, gets the dog, wraps it in a blanket. He returns to an empty lobby. Then he hears someone whistle. It’s Larry.

“Out here!” Larry says. Dowie opens the screen door at the front of his office, sees Larry with a red child’s wagon full of baby blankets. Painted on all sides is the name DUKE in yellow letters with dried paint drips. Dowie puts the dog in the wagon. The wagon wheels squeak as Larry pulls it down the long road home.

LARRY’S HOUSE – LATER

Larry sits on the back porch. He watches the sunset, the wheat fields, dog’s head in his lap. It lies in a basket beside Larry’s old leather chair. Mary comes out onto the porce, taps Larry’s shoulder. In a loud voice Mary says, “Larry, I’m turning in.” They kiss and she leaves. The next morning Mary, wrapped in a bathrobe, enters the kitchen to get breakfast going. Outside, she finds Larry still in his chair with the dog, both fast asleep.