Short Prose Shaggy Dog Monologue Alan Girling shaggy-dog story (noun): a long-drawn-out circumstantial story concerning an inconsequential happening that impresses the teller as humorous but the hearer as boring and pointless; also: a similar humorous story whose humor lies in the pointlessness or irrelevance of the punch line. —Merriam-Webster So I'm down in Gastown. I work down there, in one of those tacky souvenir shops that are always empty. Well, mine is. I'm going to quit soon, it's so boring. Could you stare at totem poles and Cowichan sweaters all day with no one to talk to? Anyway, I was walking in the square—it was my lunch, and a nice day—where they have that big, crooked copper statue of Gassy Jack. You know why he's gassy, don't you? Not what you'd think, hah. No, it was the gift of gab, verbal diarrhea. Should've called him Gabby instead, eh? He owned the whole street, I guess you know. Wasn't called Gastown, then; that came after. It was Moodyville or some shit. But can you believe it? They name the place after him, and his hotel then was pretty much a whorehouse! You know, for the loggers and the fishermen, I mean fisher people. So our great founding father's a pimp! Hah, hah. Typical, eh?           But right next to him—the statue, I mean—I see another statue, it wasn't there before. It's steely grey, not like Gassy Jack. Christ, Gassy's all streaked with green and bird crap, like he deserves it. I guess he does. This one's just grey and clean and standing flat on the cobblestones, not even on a barrel like Jack. Those cobblestones, they put 'em there for the tourists like they're so authentic, real "heritage", hah, hah. So I guess it's somehow bolted to these stones, but I'm guessing someone's going to come along eventually and just pull him right out, stones and all, and put him in their living room for a conversation piece, like, "Here's our houseguest, Mr. Grey, please include him in the conversation. He's a quiet one, but a good listener. You'll enjoy his company, he's always smiling."           That's the funny thing, this grey guy, he's real thin, wearing a suit, bow tie, and bowler on his head. And he's smiling. A wide, dopey kind of smile, and I'm thinking who is he supposed to be and who is he next to Jack there and should I know this Smiley Joe who doesn't talk, and what's City Hall thinking with their nouveau hoity-toity "art"? I'm beginning to think he's kind of mocking me, and everyone. I mean, he's a statue, right, and Jack doesn't talk either, but at least he's big and imposing and a big blowhard pimp who'd laugh and drink and shoot the shit with anybody. I don't know. It was kind of creeping me out, like I'm supposed to get a message or something from him.           But you'll never guess what happens. No, don't, let me tell it. I'm standing there, I don't know how long, hypnotized or something. Maybe some dumb tourist thinks I'm a statue, too…like the wax museum, hah, hah. Ever go to the wax museum? It's long gone now, but tourists latch on to anything, they're so dumb: "Ooh, Mabel, look at how realistic the statue of that man in the maple leaf t-shirt is. Is that the Canadian flag? Take a picture, Honey."           So this dog comes trotting along, all by himself, no leash, a big, shaggy sheepdog sort of thing, you can't even see his eyes. No, no wait, let me, will ya? Anyway, I don't see an owner, and we're talking downtown here. Big violation, but nothing compared to pimping, eh? Who cares, right? The dog trots right up to Joe Smiley there, and lifts his leg. I know, I know. It's hilarious. I mean, here I am getting sweaty 'cause a statue is smiling at me and a dog comes along and pisses on him. All down his pant leg and over his shoe, hah, hah. Soaked. And right away the dog's off down the street.           And right away, I think, "Right on," and the statue is, well, he's a good ol' boy, now, you know? Like 'initiated', eh? Next'll come the birds, and I'm almost ready to forgive City Hall! But then, you know what? I look at my watch and I know I've got to get back so I turn to go, but I catch something out of the corner of my eye and I look back at Mr. Smiley and I look at his face, and you know what? The smile's gone, that's what. It's upside down now, a damn circus frown. You guessed it. A mime guy. Ain't that a kicker? "Fooled ya!" Yeah, right, like I'm impressed. The things people'll do for the dumb tourists, eh? I didn't give him any money, not on the wage I get. No way, no how. (Alan Girling lives and writes in British Columbia, Canada. His stories have been published or are forthcoming in Lovewords, The Aquarian, FreeFall Magazine, lichen literary journal, Buzzwords (UK), as well as broadcast on CBC national radio.) Design: c j leg