Gus the dog pulls up in his Lambo to take us all away—deus ex machina. At night, he reads aloud "Where are you going, Where have you been?"
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 29, 2014
Gus the dog feeds us rice, keeps the water for horchata after dinner. Cinnamon, sugar. He cradles us with his soft, mud-crusted paws.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 29, 2014
Gus the dog's house is a bundle of twigs, the door creeks on its leather strap hinges. He cries softly, a lullaby of howls.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 29, 2014
Gus the dog tells us, as our eyes close, "Tomorrow, assignments." Rain blankets the pitch roof, dripping on our noses. We roll over, again.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog places metal pails to catch the drips. They ding all night, like a slow steel drum. The drips shrink, a music box ritardando.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog, come morning, metes out moldy muffins, stale scones—tells us, "Put on these overalls, this bandana, these boots. Eat up, kids!"
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog dispenses machetes, rakes, shovels, says, "Vamanos." He leadeth we beside still waters. He restores our soul. We sweat so soon.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog has us climb cacao trees, chop coffee beans, dig for gummy worms. One slices his leg, hacking agave. Gus licks the wound clean.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog leads us in spirituals as we work. We sing, "Gus the dog, Gus the dog," to the tune of Purple Rain. He says, "I am that I am."
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog gives us one thimble of coconut milk at noon, not enough, asks, "Want your old lives?" We shake heads, cinnamon-flavored sweat.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog sits in the shade, licking the sap of a freshly tapped maple tree. We work like dogs until charcoal midnight. He leads us home.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog gives each one a crouton before bed, says no animals were injured making it each time. We snarl a little, then snore four hours.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog wakes us at the first sign of light, serves no breakfast, sends us to work. He stays to smooth things with Chinese officials.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog sells kiwis and Kalashnikovs to the North Koreans, contras, amazons, soviets. Yeah, he has enemies. Do you call that a good guy?
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog makes us excavate an entire baseball diamond. Underneath we find crates of contraband Fruit Loops. Sometimes we miss the office.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog shows up at the job, finds us napping under a spruce, says, "Y'all have only been here four months and you're already useless."
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog sips mescal and says, "I bet you miss scanning, fax machines, quarterly reports, spreadsheets, the office refrigerator. I bet."
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog is omnipotent. We work hard. Our sweat tastes like alum, until there's none left. Gus barks out a laugh beneath his shade tree.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 30, 2014
Gus the dog sees how we hunger for a solitary ritz cracker, thirst for a medicine cup of sprite. This is a marshy desert, rainforest plains.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) July 31, 2014
Gus the dog calls our fieldwork penance, "Like tracing the stone labyrinth at Notre Dame de Chartre on bloody knees. Whine less—sweat more."
— James Figy (@JAFigy) August 1, 2014
Gus the dog holds a convocation on the edge of the clearing. When he hears one mutter, "Bologna," he loses it, forces everyone to work late.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) August 1, 2014
Gus the dog interrupts our clanking of stones, planting, and irrigating at 4 a.m. Our bodies slump to the dirt, saggy stew and cumin stench.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) August 5, 2014
Gus the dog has us where he wants us. He screams he'll devour everyone—we must flee, go, go. We crawl, pathetic, sobbing. He stays still.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) August 5, 2014
Gus the dog could catch us, doesn't even try. We sleep in the corn fields for 20 hours, then wake up one-by-one and start plotting revenge.
— James Figy (@JAFigy) August 5, 2014
James figy 