Catherine Rossi
I felt a surge of pride as I gazed down at Franklin. Why shouldn’t I? I had found the dog, after all. I was the one.
I was the one who’d noticed him standing in the middle of the road with his leash hanging limply at his side. I was the one who’d put his sudden appearance together in my mind with the frantic lady we’d cycled past a few minutes ago. I was the one who’d told Mike to stay with the dog and follow him if he moves, while I turned back. I was the one who’d biked up and down side streets shouting “Lost Dog Lady” until I spotted her.
I was the one. Not the buttinski lady who now held Franklin’s leash.
I bristled.
That was when it dawned on me that I was George Costanza. I was exactly like George when he bought a big salad for Elaine then became irate when Elaine thanked someone else.
I was George Costanza. And Franklin was the big salad.
Years ago, I’d grown up watching Seinfeld, gleaning more about life from the show than I did from my first adult job. The gang taught me about friendship and apartment living, cluing me in on how to be a young single making my way in the world. Every week, I sat with other newly minted college grads over our 30-minute lunch break to analyze the latest episode, dissecting and deconstructing every scene and phrase.
Without a doubt, Jerry was our favorite. We envied his fully furnished apartment, his ability to always have a date. We craved his perpetual casual Friday attire as we sat in our white shirts and power ties or our wool skirts with matching jackets. Not yet in our mid-20s, we already coveted his non-traditional job while we put in our 8-to-5 plus mandatory overtime.
We nodded knowingly each week as Elaine chased after a new guy only to discover his glaring faults on the first date. We laughed at Kramer’s over-the-top antics, his odd-ball inventions. We debated whether incorrect punctuation or eating peas one at a time were good enough reasons to break up. (Yes and no, respectively.) We evaluated each other secretly to determine who among us was sponge-worthy.
And then there was George, though with him we were careful not to mock too much. With George we cautiously stayed away from ridicule. Kramer was different. He was a caricature, a cartoon. But George was real.
I could already relate to George, to being afraid to ask my boss the details of a project, delaying as long as possible in the hope that I’d figure it out. I could relate to worrying that my worlds would collide if I mixed my friend circles. I could relate to weighing the best line to reply to a bully, then encouraging the bully to insult me so that I could use it.
But it was the more self-destructive George behavior — quitting in a fury then pretending not to, napping under the desk, sleeping with the office cleaning staff — that I feared. It took just one lapse of impulse control, and I could be him. In a single moment, I could be the one ruing a reckless choice made out of rage or jealousy or insecurity. In a single moment, I could be George, left to suffer the weighty consequences of my mistake.
And so I held my breath and crossed my fingers, hoping that would never happen to me. Hoping George would never happen to me.
I was surprised to find that Dad loved Seinfeld too. We watched together, perhaps in newly similar ways since I had joined him in the working world. Maybe the show was his silent way of communicating what life was about. Or maybe it was just funny. Either way we watched out of the eyes of Mom, since she emphatically did not like the show, unwilling to encourage its bad influence on either of us.
“He’s such a great actor,” Dad said once as tears of laughter rolled down his cheeks.
“Who? Jerry?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Jerry’s not acting. He’s just playing himself.” He pointed at the TV. “That guy. George.”
I nodded, accepting his wisdom out loud. But I knew he had it wrong. George’s character didn’t require acting either. He was every one of us.
Fast forward 35 years to our little ensemble waiting for Franklin’s owner to arrive, and it was George that sprang to mind.
I was George, because I still stood next to Franklin, watching his goldendoodle curls shining in the sunlight. I was George, because Franklin was in capable hands without me. Mike and I could continue our bike ride and leave them be. But instead, we stood there while I waited for my acknowledgement, my thank you.
I watched Franklin’s mom hurry toward us, her face still harried and upset. I watched as the stranger lady handed over the leash, receiving a hug in return. I watched as the owner embraced Franklin while he wagged his tail in glee. All while I waited off to the side, forgotten.
I wanted to say something. Say that I was the one. Say that I deserved the credit.
Didn’t she know we didn’t have to help? Didn’t she know we could have just cycled on, much like we did when we first saw her, slowing our bikes only marginally for half a block before speeding back to our normal pace? Didn’t she know we took time out of our workout, all the while messing up our miles-per-hour and heart rate stats? Didn’t she know we deserved some recognition?
I glanced at Mike for signs of the same thoughts, the same frustration, ready to elbow him and whisper, “Did you see what just happened?”
But his smile made me wonder. Why wasn’t it enough that I contributed to the reunion?
As I stared at the relieved couple, I realized how often I was guilty of not thanking others. How frequently I’d been blind to another’s effort. How many times I was too caught up in myself to notice when someone went out of their way to help me.
What was my reason for hesitating anyway? Did my thank you give that person some power? Was I saving the recognition for a bigger moment?
Certainly, I could stand to be more observant, more grateful. There was no need to be stingy, no lifetime maximum of thank yous. I have a choice to not be Elaine, just like I have a choice to not be George.
I bowed my head, embarrassed, glad I hadn’t said any of this out loud.
Maybe the real lesson from watching Seinfeld years ago was we learned to not take ourselves so seriously. See Mom, it was good for me after all.
Franklin’s happy bark took me out of my reverie. And so, with my George back in hiding and my Elaine held at bay, I nodded to Mike and we saddled up to continue our ride. But as we pushed off, a voice called out. “Thank you! I’m so grateful for what you did.”
I turned and waved. “No thanks needed,” I said, then pedaled down the street with a content heart.
I was not George. At least not today.
Given that her parents met in a library, it is no surprise that Catherine Rossi owned a library card at age 4. After graduating from the University of Michigan, she had a lengthy tech career, where she wrangled words and people as frequently as code and data. She frequently writes about strong single women, inspired by decades of bad dates. Her work is published in The Hooghly Review, Raw Lit, and Midstory Magazine.
Read more about her at https://catherinerossi.com, on Bluesky @catrossauth.bsky.social, or on X @catrossauth.
Featured photo: A scene from Seinfeld, “The Big Salad” S. 6 Ep. 2
