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It was time to live again.
Charlie stepped into his battered Converse, and stood tall to check his wild curls in the mirror by the door. He felt the unease in his gut swell and intensify.
Geoff had taught him that this unease was a result of Ben’s abuse. It was his body’s way of trying to protect him, because for years, he had existed under threat. No matter what choice he made, accomplishment he attained, or loss he suffered, Ben’s reaction was the same.
Ridicule. Scorn. Usually worse.
So his body learned that it was safer to withdraw. The abuse could be avoided by making himself smaller and smaller, until one day he hadn’t left the apartment in months and the thought of going to the corner shop to pick up oat milk for his tea filled him with such panic that he knew things had to change.
After his epiphany that day, Charlie began the process of choosing himself. Slowly at first, and then all at once, he extricated himself from Ben’s grasp, and through the kindness and love of his closest friends, started building a life of his own.
That’s how he found himself staring into the mirror at half two on a cool Saturday morning in April, feeling a growing panic about leaving the house.
Looking down, Charlie spotted the flyer he set down on the hall table a few days ago, and immediately softened. He had known the panic would come, so leaving the flyer here was strategic. On it, along with the event’s details, was a photo of the most gorgeous border collie Charlie had ever seen. She had intelligent, kind blue eyes and soft chocolate fur. It was exactly the motivation he knew he’d need at this very moment.
“Enjoy your life, Charlie,” he muttered to himself, as he screwed up his courage and stepped out into the sun.
—
The panic started to return as he approached the village hall. People were approaching from all directions: families with over-excited children, elderly couples, and a few singles of all ages, by the looks of it. They were happy, excited, full of energy. He paused on the uneven sidewalk and looked down at his phone, but not at the screen. Peeling the case away from the frame, he took out a piece of paper tucked inside and unfolded it.
On it, was a poem - one of his favorites - that he often turned to in moments like this. “My Symphony” by William Henry Channing. When the bile started to climb up his throat and his stomach cramped into knots, the poem reminded him of who he is and what he wants.
To live content with small means.
To seek elegance rather than luxury,
and refinement rather than fashion.
To be worthy not respectable,
and wealthy not rich.
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently,
act frankly, to listen to stars, birds, babes,
and sages with open heart, to bear all cheerfully,
do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never.
In a word, to let the spiritual,
unbidden and unconscious,
grow up through the common.
This is to be my symphony.
These words had reached off the page and took Charlie by the collar one day, not long after he had left Ben. In that terrifying time, when so much had been defined for him for so long, Channing’s words were like a glass of cold water splashed in his face. Because at one time, he had hopes of his own, and goals, and desires. Somewhere along the way, they had been papered over by Ben’s expectations, but now Charlie had a chance to peel back the layers and find himself again. And that started with remembering who he was before.
Content with small means? Refined rather than fashionable? A life of study, contemplation, and gentleness? That was Charlie. There could be nothing more opposite to Ben’s obsession with status, expensive tastes, and deceptive charm hiding cruelty and abrasiveness.
Channing’s “Symphony” became Charlie’s roadmap. At a time when he was adrift, it was a lighthouse drawing him back toward the things he once valued, and after a while, it reminded him of other things he used to dream of.
Reading the words on that sidewalk in front of the village hall, he felt his cheeks pull up into a small smile. He may never travel the world, or host history programs like Jack Maddox. He probably won’t ever be rich. Love might not be in the cards now. But he could do things bravely. Today, he could let the unbidden grow up through the common.
Charlie refolded the poem and tucked it back into his phone case, next to another piece of paper entitled “Bucket List”. Number one on that list: Adopt a dog.
—
Grasping the worn metal handle of the village hall door, Charlie steeled himself.
Remember what Geoff said: even if a dog doesn't pick you, it doesn't mean you're unloveable.
Directly ahead in the entrance hall was a table with volunteers. They were wearing matching polo shirts for the animal rescue and the smiles of animal lovers who were surrounded by adorable dogs on a daily basis.
Charlie approached the table, but as he drew closer, his chest tightened. Ignoring the volunteers, Charlie focused on calming his nervous system.
Five things you can see: The flickering fluorescent light. The worn linoleum floor tiles. The world’s saddest fake ficus. The wooden top of the folding table with battered corners. The sign-in sheet.
As he continued identifying things by sense, trying to ground himself, a kind voice cut through the haze.
“Are you ok?”
Charlie looked up at one of the polo-clad volunteers. He wore a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Concern peered out from behind a few stray strands of auburn hair.
Freckles. Uh-oh.
“I’m fine,” Charlie replied, quickly stepping forward to the sign-in sheet. He paused for a moment, and with pinking cheeks, apologized.
“Sorry, I moved not long ago, and I haven’t memorized my new address yet,” he said.
“Does your new flat allow pets?” the volunteer asked. “You probably want to be sure of that before one of our pups steals your heart…” Now his face flushed scarlet, and he looked down shyly.
“Oh… uh. Yeah. Yes, I’m allowed pets,” Charlie stammered. This guy sounds so sweet and gentle. “The only animals it prohibits are shitty ex-boyfriends,” he muttered, recalling a decidedly less sweet and gentle man.
Hot Volunteer’s head shot up, but the scarlet flush deepened.
“That’s… good. That’s good. Great. No flats should allow that breed.” He was stammering worse than Charlie now, and the flush shifted toward the purple end of the spectrum.
The anxiety was starting to become too much for Charlie.
“Yeah, uh, that’s true. Thanks.” He managed to reply before stepping quickly around the table and heading for the main hall.
—
The ancient, orange plastic chairs might have fallen out of fashion, but they made Charlie smile. He remembered countless community events in this hall, sitting in these very chairs. Holiday Nativity plays watching his sister refuse to perform. Meetings of adults he never understood, where his parents listened to others talk about tax rates and school curricula. The orange chairs were a constant in a world that had recently been upended, and as he sank into one, Charlie felt more grounded than he had all morning.
Twenty minutes later, he remembered how uncomfortable these chairs actually were.
They were arranged in a semi-circle, facing doors at the far end of the hall that opened into a driveway and loading area. The rescue had staged the animal crates back there. Rather than allowing the attendees to browse the available pets like merchandise, the rescue had asked everyone to be seated as a volunteer released each dog one at a time. They filmed as the dog browsed the available humans and made their selection.
Charlie shifted his weight a little as a chihuahua was released by the staff. It ran toward the group, before skidding to a stop and warily eyeing everyone. Before long, it regained some confidence, and sauntered past the row of chairs.
Jog on, bitch.
Charlie was not here for a little man with a big attitude. In fact, he’d had enough of that for a lifetime. He exhaled a sigh of relief as the dog raised a paw and yipped at a young girl three seats away. She squealed with delight, and lunged forward to pick up her new best friend.
It went on like this for a while, with a sheepdog, a bulldog, and a shiba inu. There were a few mixed breeds that Charlie couldn’t identify. None of the dogs were really speaking to him though. They were all too high-energy, or had strong personalities. Charlie needed a calm friend to snuggle up to with a good book.
The other prospective pet parents fell away as Charlie watched an enormous, shaggy, forlorn looking golden retriever enter with one of the shelter volunteers. This dog was scared and pulling on its lead, trying to bolt for the exit. He must have had a tough go, Charlie thought. A yip of joy from the chihuahua startled the golden, and his deep amber eyes shot toward Charlie, first in fear, relaxing into sadness, and settling on distrust.
Charlie shot daggers at the chihuahua.
Looking back to the golden, Charlie realized it was Hot Volunteer leading him into the hall. He explained that this dog came to the rescue from very sad circumstances, and needed a patient home in which he could learn to trust humans again.
Same, buddy. Same.
As Hot Volunteer slowly led the golden toward the group, he kept talking in a slow, calm voice. “He’s as gentle as a highland cow, so he’d be safe for families with children, but he’s very anxious around other animals, so he needs to be the only pet in the house.”
One by one, Charlie noted the other attendees looking awkwardly around as the golden approached them. They were clearly hoping he’d pass them by. His demeanor and his history were too much for them to handle, and Charlie felt a deep pang of sadness. After all, he knew exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that kind of awkwardness. Most people didn’t - couldn’t - understand what he had been through, and didn’t know how to respond to it.
Charlie was a bit lost in thought, but jolted back into the moment as the golden and his handler paused in front of him. Warm brown eyes flecked with gold looked down at the dog, and then up at Charlie, and a knowing smile bloomed on his face. The golden stepped forward cautiously, and strained every muscle toward Charlie to give him a sniff from the greatest distance possible. His wet nose made the briefest of contact with Charlie’s skin where it peeked out through a rip in his jeans at the knee. Both Charlie and the golden jumped backward as a spark of static electricity popped at the site of contact.
The golden’s face fell, his eyes opened wide and his mouth hung agape for a moment. Then, miraculously, he took a confident step toward Charlie, looked him squarely in the eyes, and rested his head in Charlie’s lap.
—
“Ok, that’s it for paperwork. Congratulations, you’re a dog dad!”
Charlie was still somewhat dazed. After he had been chosen by the golden, he was swiftly pulled into some promotional photos for the rescue, and ushered up to the front table to complete the adoption.
The golden, who previously had been wary of all the humans present, was glued to his side.
Charlie grimaced. “I don’t know the first thing about caring for a dog,” he replied. The anxiety was back, and it was reminding him of all the details he’d neglected to consider. “Oh, god… how much is the right amount of food and water to give him?! I can’t even feed myself appropriately some days!”
As the spiral took hold, Hot Volunteer stepped forward from around the table and guided Charlie (and his new charge) off to the side, away from the others doing their adoption papers.
“Breathe, Char,” he said.
“Char?!”
“Oh, uh… well, I noticed your name was Charlie on your paperwork, and I… uh. Well, I shortened it. Hasn’t anyone ever given you a nickname??”
Charlie’s spiral was instantly broken.
“You know, Charlie’s already a nickname.”
“Right. Yes. Yeah… that’s…” The Hot Fuchsia Volunteer stammered. “Ugh, alright. I’m never calling you that again.”
Before his anxiety could stop him, Charlie replied softly, “No, I like it. It’s cute.”
The golden sneezed wetly.
As though a spell were broken, the most gorgeous man Charlie had ever spoken to continued, “So, I’ve been a volunteer here for a few years. Worked with a lot of dogs in that time. How about I give you my number? That way, you’ll have someone to ask questions as they come up?” His scarlet flush was back, and suddenly he couldn’t look Charlie in the eye.
Is he… No. He couldn’t possibly.
“That’s a lovely offer, thanks,” Charlie replied, smiling and handing over his phone. “One more question, before we go home,” he said, looking down at the golden. “What’s this guy’s name?”
He glanced longingly down at the dog and then up at Charlie.
“Nico,” he said.