"Oddities, that's what they're looking for," Peter said. He held the video camera in his lap.

His brother, Arty, was driving, leaning over the wheel looking for house numbers. He glanced at his sibling and remembered how not too long ago he would've given Arty a crack in the side of the head for taking so long, fumbling up on the directions. They had been brawlers, the two, since they were young-gut punches, shots in the eye, practiced in the fierce purple-face turning art of headlocks, quick raps in the back and the kidney. Busted through drywall, the brothers, tore doors off hinges. They battled well into their twenties, until they recently called a truce, of sorts, since their father passed,  mom staying up in her room. Mom started to cry all over again when Arty countered an attack, threw Peter on the ping-pong table in the garage and it buckled and slammed to the floor. Peter grabbed the six inch green net and had it wrapped around Arty's neck, his eyes bugling when mom flung open the door and shook her head. She didn't tell them, like she had done, ‘just wait till their dad gets home.’ Instead, she cried.

   "This has to be the house," Arty waved for the car behind to pass. "The lady said she lived in a blue house, up on a hill."

  "This one's more grey than blue to this one, and it ain't much of hill. That's all she said?"

    "There was barking in the background when I called. 45 Red Oak Road--but there's no house numbers."

    "How could it be in the background? She doesn't have any dogs. That's the whole thing. She's the ones that barks."

   "Maybe she throws her voice." Arty could tell Peter had his fist balled.

He stiffened, backed away to the window almost expecting to be sucker punched. "When I said we were documentary film makers the yelping got even louder. I think she said blue, on a hill."

"Get your sound equipment," Peter took a deep breath. "Let's knock on the door and see what happens."

    The few steps were covered with wet autumn leaves. The place looked kept-up, except for the leaves. Lacy white curtains in the windows. A rocking chair on the porch, paper pumpkins with smiling faces taped to the front door. A shiny brass lion head door-knocker.

    "Wait," Peter said. "I'm thinking this might look more contrasting in black and white." He reached into his fishing vest and took out a film cartridge. "Do a sound check. I want that knocker to sound like a fucking cannon."

    "Hey," Arty said. "The lady hears you cursing, she's gonna think we're hoodlums, scare her off." Arty switched on the backup battery pack, adjusted the calibration until the red needle jumped. "I told her we're film students."

    "Well. That's what we are. We're students until we sell something." It was rough not whacking him. "Nobody's got a barking lady. This is cable stuff, I'm telling you, an HBO special, maybe even 60 Minutes."

   "I'm ready."

    "Knock."

    Barking, growling, scratching at the inside of the door. A racket as if there were a pack of Dobermans let loose. The brothers took a step back. It sounded real, and like there were a lot of mean dogs aching to get out and rip into their legs.

    Peter looked out from the lens. "How can she bark to make it sound like more than one dog?"

    Arty saw the white curtain at the nearest window part. A decent looking woman in her thirties, short hair, hoop earrings, a tight sweater tucked into jeans held up her hands as if to say, "Yes, can I help you?" Crazy dog barking still at the door. Arty nudged Peter's elbow to point the camera at the window.

    "Film makers. I called." Arty tried to smile, pulled off the sweatshirt hood from his head.

    The lady made a face like she couldn't hear, turned and wagged a scolding finger toward the inside of the door.

    Peter hit the zoom to get a close-up. There was a reflection from the big orange leaf tree on the window glass. It sounded like dog bodies lunging at the back of the door. The lock looked as if it would give way. The lion head knocker lifted, fell, lifted. The paper pumpkin drifted to their feet.

    "Great Danes," said Peter. He reached in his vest pocket for a filter.

    "Pit bulls, Shepherds." Arty looked around the porch to see what he could climb up on if these were real dogs. He was thinking he had the wrong house. The house to his right, on the other side of the hedges was kind of blue too. Forget the dogs, there would be a hell of a battle, between the brothers if he was wrong. "Five thousand dollars, remember," Arty edged close to the window where the woman was waving her finger. "Odd Videos, the TV show, we're submitting films for that."

    "Oh," the woman nodded her head.

    "You told her we're going to pay her?" Peter asked. He held the camera steady, but had his fist ready for a kidney punch if Arty got closer.

    The woman smiled and put up her finger, asking the brothers to give her one-minute. The barking got lower, as if the dogs were being dragged to a back room. Then the door opened. The young woman edged out and slammed it behind her. She picked up the smiling pumpkin from the porch deck and taped it back to the door.

    "It's not a good day," she said. "Sally," she grinned into the lens, "is in heat."

    "Ah," Arty flipped his notepad of interview questions. He felt a kick, from Peter, in the ankle, that stung like a son-of a bitch. He managed to raise the microphone to the woman's face. "Yes, and ah, who is Sally?" Another heel jab in the same spot. Arty cringed and dropped the notepad. "You fucking A-hole." He turned and clocked a good shot into Peter's head, the camera bucking off his other shoulder. Peter wobbled against the porch rail and then flung his arms from the camera straps, set the still running video on the wood deck. He lunged at Arty with an upper cut to the jaw and two rapid blows to the gut. Arty buckled over. Peter put him in a headlock.

    "Siberian Husky," the woman said, then rushed inside the house and bolted the door.

    The brothers tumbled in tandem to the ground and rolled, Arty's head still clamped, Peter taking tight, fast liver punches, down the hill. They didn't stop until they slide over the wet leaves on the steps and crashed to the sidewalk.

    "If I let you go," Peter was gasping, "will you stop?"

    A stronger tightening around the Adam's apple got Arty, reluctant for truce, to finally wheeze his accent.

    They parted, chests heaving, bruises the color of scarlet and purple leaves falling in the autumn afternoon. Grated skin on their faces, theirs hands; their hairs plastered with sweat, eyes red; Arty's pants torn; Peter's large vest pockets, curly-cue stitching dangling loose. Peter crawled to the first step of the blue house on the hill and sat with his elbows on his knees. Arty crossed his legs as if he were doing yoga on the sidewalk.

    "We promised, ma." Peter rubbed at the sore spot on his back.

    "You hit first," Arty dabbed at blood in the lip corners.

    "I was born first."

    "But Dad isn't here anymore, the competition is over."

    They heard the garage door to the house open and saw a car backing down the steep driveway. The young woman who answered the door drove. In the backseat they saw an old lady, head down, kerchief over her hair and knotted under her chin. She looked up, just for a minute and smiled at the brothers. Then she opened her mouth and gave them a silent-- ruff, ruff.

    "That was her," Peter said, "the woman who barks."

    Arty held his back and groaned when he lifted himself from the sidewalk. "Screw this oddity shit."

    Peter blocked his way and won't move over from the first stoop. He thought about giving Arty an opened gut punch. "Then what?" he asked. "How we going to break-in and sell a film?"

    "Look," Arty pointed. "The camera on the porch. The red eye is on. We have more film footage of our fights than anything."

    "Yeah," Peter smiled. He knuckle-rapped Arty right under the rib cage.

    Arty buckled over, pretended like he was winded, so he could get close and catch Peter with a downward elbow to the shoulder. "Ma will understand." He followed with a sharp upper cut to Peter's nose. "And think how proud dad would've been." He smashed down on Peter's toe. "We are in our own documentary, man. We're fucking living it."

    "Yeah, there's nothing like it. We'll take it to Sundance, Cannes." Peter retaliated with a shot to the shin. "Brotherly Love, that will be the title."

    They moved back up onto the lawn, the autumn leaves wet and slippery under their feet. Whack, crack and the twist of bones-they went at it-never knocking the other from the view of the camera again.

Copyright © 1999 Michael Largo All Rights Reserved

M. Largo lives in a scheduled part of the Everglades. He has published two novels, Southern Comfort and most recently, Lies Within.