ALWAYS BE CLOSING C.A. Childers ====================== So, this book, this one right here, it's not poetry. It's not a collection of short stories or dissertations. It's not even a novel. This book, it's just one scene. It's one scene retold thirteen times. It's lunchtime at a greasy spoon. Two salesmen talk shop. Time stands still. Probabilities play out. ====================== (c) 2003, C.A. Childers. Some rights reserved. cachilders@apeinfinitum.net http://www.apeinfinitum.net/pub.html First ASCII Text Edition This work is governed by the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike license. To view a copy of this license, visit: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/1.0/ Under the above license, you are free to copy, distribute, display, and perform this work. In addition, you are free to produce derivative works from it. To the point, such behavior is encouraged. There are, however, a few rules which must be observed. First, you must give the original author credit. Second, you may not use this work for commercial purposes. Third, if you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under a license identical to this one. ====================== === ONE === The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. You lost the sale, sure, but then you walked away." The younger man looked up from the gray meat on his plate. "What should I have done?" "Well," the old man said, "I would have kicked the door in on that bitch-pass the salt-I would've kicked it in and stabbed her in the neck with my ballpoint." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I guess I dropped the ball on that one." "Damn right you did." The sound of the old man's chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "You could hike up that skirt a little, give us a shotta that squirrel you're hiding down there." She returned a grin of her own. "How 'bout a warm-up on your coffee?" "How 'bout I bend you over that counter and screw you 'til you remember your daddy's face?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "Sure thing, sweetie." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I feel like a thief. They see me as a thief from the minute they open the door, and me trying to sell to them, sell them anything, just plays into that notion." "But you hafta eat, kid. It's you versus them, winner gets the cash." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee. A childlike smile consumed the old man's face. "Speaking of eating," he said to the waitress, "why don't you take me to the ladies' room. I'd like to get a taste of your sweet stuff before we hit the bricks." "Sure thing, stud, just let me get your check together." Once again, she walked away. "You versus them, kid. If they don't buy, you kill'em until they do. Cotton?" "Yeah," the younger man replied, "I know. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this." "Fuck that, son. Just take my word for it. Kill one of these bitches that says no, just one. Stab her in the neck with your ballpoint, just like I said. Then go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of milk. Then go to the bathroom and take a piss. Your nerves should be calming down by then. Once you've got yourself collected, find some money-cash, jewelry, stamp collection, it doesn't fucking matter. Then you just ditch the scene, forget all about it. You won't get caught if you forget it ever happened. After that you'll always have the upper hand. They'll know a wolf when they see one." He took a slow sip of his coffee before adding, "Wolves, kid, they're the kings of this business." "Maybe you're right." "Sure I'm right. Sure I'm right." The waitress returned with the check. "Here you go, boys." The old man snatched it from her. "I got this one." He winked as he spoke, though not to anyone in particular. With a lilt in her voice, the waitress said, "How 'bout it tiger, you still want a taste?" The old man dropped a ten on the counter before responding. "Sure thing, miss, lead the way." Then, to the younger man, he said, "Finish your coffee, sport. Think about what I said. Maybe we'll swing back by Westmore, let'cha take another stab at that sale." The old man disappeared with the waitress. The younger one remained to sip his coffee and stare into his plate. === TWO === The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. Let me see your ballpoint." The younger man looked up from his plate and began to fish through the pockets of his coat. The older one held out his hand, palm up, fingers rubbing together impatiently. When the pen was presented, he snatched it and began to draw upon the back of his placemat. He drew a large square, then a rectangle that connected to the right side of the square and extended down toward the bottom of the mat. "That's the driveway," he said, pointing to the rectangle with the pen. "And this," he continued as he sketched a pair of meandering lines from the bottom of the square to the side of the rectangle, "is the approach." The younger man eyed the drawing. The old man drew several more figures: the homeowner's car, as well as the one in which they'd arrived; a number of trees and shrubs; a sidewalk and a street; a child on a bicycle-all viewed from overhead. He then drew a ridge that spanned the entire sheet of gravy-spotted paper, just behind the house. He tapped the void of white on the other side. "Now," he said, "what's out here? It's only twenty yards from the front door, kid." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I guess I dropped the ball on that one." "Damn right you did." The old man crammed a spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "The name of the man that cooked my lunch, miss. This is heaven on a goddamn plate." She returned a grin of her own. "His name's Merv, hon, and I'll be sure to pass that along. Now how 'bout a warm-up on your coffee?" "I served with a commie sympathizer who went by the name of Merv. He had weak stomach, you know, loved to recite the poems he wrote about his wife. He got his head blown off in a French whorehouse." The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "Sure thing, sweetie." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I feel like a thief. They see me as a thief from the minute they open the door, and me trying to sell to them, sell them anything, just plays into that notion." The old man watched as the waitress whispered something into the cook's ear. The cook looked over and gave a polite nod. The old man began to scowl. His face took on a deep, red tone. "I'll be damned if that ain't commie-lovin' Merv Hess." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee. Her hand shook as she poured. The old man stood up and shouted at the cook, bits of potato and gravy flying from his mouth, "You got what you deserved, you commie motherfucker!" The waitress scurried away. "Sure thing, pop," the cook called back, "now why don't you take it outside." "Why don't I take you outside and finish what that bullet started!" "You better get the hell outta here, old man. Get out before I call the cops." The old man sat down and turned to the younger one. The red was leaving his face. "You versus them, kid. If you don't sell, you don't eat. Cotton?" "Yeah," the younger man replied, "I know. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this." The waitress picked up a phone near the cash register and began to dial. The old man dropped a ten on the counter. "Bullshit, son. It's a tough business. If it wasn't, everybody would do it and there wouldn't be any money left. You fucked it up this time, so what. Just remember what I told you and you'll be alright." The old man stood to leave, the younger one close behind. All eyes followed the two to the door, where the old one stopped, turned to the cook and the waitress, and spoke. "I've seen a lot of things, Merv, but I've never seen a commie that could cook as good as you. It's a shame they didn't kill you back then, but it'd be even more of a shame to live in a world without a man of your talent. So I'll leave you to it, old friend. But know this, if I ever see you again, I'll stab you in the neck with this ballpoint until you die." The old man held up the pen and weakly stabbed it into the air. Merv said nothing. The waitress spoke quietly into the phone. Time stood perfectly still for a moment, disturbed only by the sizzling of hamburgers on the grill. "We should be going," the younger man said. The old man nodded, and with that, they were gone. ===== THREE ===== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. Say, for instance, she had taken the bait. Say she'd invited us in. What then?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I suppose I would have tried to close the sale." "What sale?" "I don't follow." "What sale?" the old man repeated, "From where I'm standing there was no sale. How can something be closed that hasn't been opened?" "I still don't follow." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket, removed a small notebook (top-spiral bound) and a ballpoint pen, and began to write. He paused after a moment, took a sip of his coffee, and continued. The younger man surveyed the diner. He stared for a moment at a couple in a booth near the door, but quickly looked away when the woman's eyes met his. He returned his attention to the pale, gray meat on his plate. "There," said the old man, "have a look at this." He laid the open note pad on the counter and slid it toward the younger man. It was a poem. The younger man read it, silently mouthing the words as he did. there will be dogs and there will be cats breaking broken bobble heads deadly doorbell mats heaven on a toasted roll eat this and eat that just don't you ever forget jesus was a cocksucker The younger man stared at the older one. "Well?" Asked the old man. "I don't think I understand," said the younger man as he slid the poem back to its author. "What's there to understand, kid? Jesus was a cocksucker-end of fucking story. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you'll understand this business. You couldn't close your eyes, let alone a sale. You like milk?" The younger man nodded. "You like titties?" The younger man blushed. "Eat your steak, kid. Chew it good and think about everything you don't know. I think you'll see that that's just about everything. Ask yourself why you didn't key that turkey's car after she slammed the door on you. Ask yourself why you didn't have the balls to conjure up the image of a sale, let alone close one." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I guess I dropped the ball on that one." "Damn right you did." The old man crammed a spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "No thanks, miss." She returned a grin of her own, and then addressed the younger of the two. "How 'bout you, hon?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "Sure thing, sweetie." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I feel like a thief. They see me as a thief from the minute they open the door, and me trying to sell to them, sell them anything, just plays into that notion." The old man's face twisted into an angry ball as he listened. He waited for a moment to speak after the younger man had finished. "Here's an idea," he eventually said, his teeth clenched tightly, "why don't you go home and tell your wife that you don't love her enough to do your job. Tell her that you're too much of a whining faggot to put food on the table. I'm sure she'll understand." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee. The old man stood up and shouted at the younger one, bits of potato and gravy flying from his mouth. "Get a real job, you sorry piece of shit!" The waitress scurried away. "But," the younger man said timidly, "I don't have a wife." The old man sat down. The red was leaving his face. "Yeah, well, sorry to hear that, kid. Like I said, Jesus was a cocksucker. Point is, in this business, it's you versus them. If you don't sell, you don't eat. Cotton?" "Yeah," the younger man replied, "I know. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this." The waitress picked up a phone near the cash register and began to dial. The old man dropped a ten on the counter. "Bullshit, son. It's a tough business. If it wasn't, everybody would do it and there wouldn't be any money left. You fucked it up this time, so what. Just remember what I told you and you'll be alright." The old man stood to leave, the younger one close behind. All eyes followed the two to the door, where the old one stopped, turned to the cook, and spoke. "You cook a mean potato," then to the waitress he added, "and you pour a mean cup." "We should be going," the younger man said. The old man nodded, and with that, they were gone. ==== FOUR ==== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. For instance, the capitol of Colorado is Denver. Have you ever been to Colorado? Have you ever been to Denver?" The younger man looked up from his plate and shook his head. "Nor have I," said the old man. "But I've seen pictures. There was a time when there was no Colorado, let alone a Denver. It's hard to believe, isn't it?" The younger man shrugged. "The truth is, I too find that pill hard to swallow. No Denver, can you fucking imagine? But what if I were to tell you that there was always a Denver, always a Colorado? More to the point, what if I were to tell you that they always were, simply because they've never been." "I don't follow." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a small notebook (top-spiral bound) and a ballpoint pen. He then slid them along the counter toward the younger man and asked, "You ever seen a picture of Colorado?" "Sure." "You ever seen a map of Colorado?" "Maybe. I can't remember it if I did." "Perfect," the old man said, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. "Now open that notepad and draw Colorado, best as you can remember it. Then draw a star where you think Denver is. Label the first drawing Colorado, making sure to place the label within the outline; then label the second Denver." The younger man did as the older had asked. He opened the notepad, but found writing on the first page, mathematical calculations of some sort. He flipped through several more pages of the same before coming to a short poem. He read it, silently mouthing the words as he did. jesus was a cocksucker jesus was a cocksucker cocksucker cocksucker jesus was a cocksucker Embarrassed, the younger man flipped quickly to the next page. It was blank. With a shaky hand he drew a large circle, making only the most superficial of attempts at state-like irregularities. He overshot his calculations and failed to connect the ends smoothly. He then drew a lopsided star in the center of the circle. Next to the star, in small letters, he wrote the word Denver. He then, to the north of Denver, wrote the word Colorado in larger letters. He smirked at the poor quality of the drawing as he returned the pad and pen to the older man. The old man eyed the drawing with suspicion. With a mouthful of gravy soaked potatoes and peas he muttered, "Not much of a state, is it." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I guess I dropped the ball on that one." "Damn right you did." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Sure do, miss. You wouldn't happen to have an atlas behind the counter, something we can borrow for a second?" She returned a grin of her own. "Sure do, hon. Anything else?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "No problem. I'll be right back." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I can't remember a single thing from Geography. I've never been good with that sort of stuff." The old man laughed. "From the look of this," he said, dipping his eyes toward the notepad, "there's quite a bit that you've never been good at." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and a large atlas of the United States. She handed the book to the old man with a wink, who, in turn, returned a wink of his own and thanked her. She then set about pouring the younger man's refill. The old man began to flip through the atlas. When he arrived at the header for Colorado he said, "There you go, kid." The younger one looked at the open page. It was Colorado, a large, circular state that matched his drawing precisely. Yet, where there had been only white space in the notepad, the cartographers at the atlas company had inserted topographical references and a spiderwebbing of state and interstate highways. At the center was a red star, this one more regular than his. To the upper left of the symbol was the word Denver. The younger man scratched his head. "I don't get it" "Nothing to get," The old man said. "Seems we're not in tangible space, that's all. That's my point, really. I can't see how it could have mattered whether or not you were able to close that sale, you know, considering Colorado." "Yeah," the younger man replied, "I think I see what you're saying." The old man dropped a ten on the counter. "Sure you do, kid, but regardless, the day's not over yet." The younger man nodded and took a sip of his coffee. After a brief silence the two stood to leave. "How'd you know that would happen," the younger man asked as they made their way to the door. "I still don't know if it did," the old man said with a shrug, and with that, they were gone. ==== FIVE ==== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. Did you know there are trees that can eat cars?" The younger man looked up from his plate and shook his head with a smirk. "It's true," said the old man, "though not in the traditional sense. They don't metabolize the cars, bicycles, axes, swings, and whatnot. They consume those things and make them a part of the larger thing that they're always attempting to become. There's a lot being said by that, wouldn't you say?" The younger man shrugged. "There's an inevitability to the way they draw things into themselves. They don't fight the cancers of our world, kid, no way. They adapt with unending patience, and in that way they can't be said to come up against adversity any more than they can be said to overcome it. They simply grow." "I don't follow." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "Trees are slow water, kid. They crash around things in rough waves, but they never recede. They just keep spreading out until there's nothing left at the source. Thing is, and this is my point, really, you can never see it happening as it's happening. You could stare at a tree for a week, a month, even a year, and you'd never see the consumption underway. Cotton?" "Sure," the younger man said, "I suppose." "You either get it, or you don't." "Then I guess I don't." The old man dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and took a bite of the mash on his plate. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "You can't do sales. It's not something you do. You have to be sales. You have to be sales so much that people have no idea they're being sold to." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I think I see what you mean." "We'll see." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "No thanks." She turned to the younger man. "How 'bout you?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "No problem. I'll be right back." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I can't help feeling like I'm stealing from people." The old man laughed. "Close a sale," he said, "then we'll discuss the way selling makes you feel." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and set about pouring the younger man's refill. Before leaving, she leaned close to the old man and whispered, "Boss wanted me to let you know this is a no smoking restaurant." The old man leaned forward with a smile. "Tell the boss," he whispered, "to go fuck himself." The waitress scurried away. The younger man surveyed the diner. He stared for a moment at a couple in a booth near the door and smiled timidly when the woman's eyes met his. She smiled back, just a little, before looking away. He then returned his attention to the pale, gray meat on his plate. After a brief silence, the cook called over to the old man, "Hey, pal, you got something to say to me?" The waitress was standing just behind the cook, as if he were shielding her. "Nothing I haven't said already," replied the old man. "Yeah," said the cook, "then I think you better be moving along." The old man stood to leave, the younger one close behind. All eyes followed the two to the door, where the older one stopped, turned to the cook, and spoke. "You know what," he said, "You are one hell of a piece of shit. It'll be a miracle if you don't get stabbed next time I see you." "We should be going," the younger man said. The old man nodded, and with that, they were gone. === SIX === The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. I used to build houses, after the war. Some of the biggest goddamn houses you'd ever see. Thing is, every house I built had another way in, you know, other than the front door. They were secret ways, shit you couldn't see unless you knew how to see it. Anyway, I used to sneak into some of'em-jerk off on the sheets, shit like that." The younger man looked up from his plate and laughed uneasily. "It's true," said the old man. "One time I even took a shit in a baby's crib." The younger man winced. "So there was this one night. My wife had left me earlier that week and I was showing the dog in the worst way. I was leaving the bar, and it was early, so I snuck into one of those old houses. It'd been ten or fifteen years since I was in there last. So I'm walking around, and everything's different-different furniture and pictures, different people. I go up to the bedroom and find this lady sleeping in there. Let me just stop and say this: this lady, she's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. The way she's laying, I can just make out one of her titties through her nightshirt. Her nipples, kid, they're hard as asphalt, and I'm not gonna lie, at this point, so am I." "I don't think I want to hear any more of this." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "Give me a chance, kid. I'm just getting to the best part." "Sure," the younger man said, "go ahead." "So I'm looking at this lady, and all I want is to rub one off. But as much as I want to do that thing, I don't. Instead, I get the hell out of there, quick as I can. Here's the thing, though. I come back a week later. I come back in the middle of the day and I work that bitch over for the sale of the century. I fleeced her, kid, because I had the upper hand. I knew her. I knew her, and she knew it. Cotton?" The younger man shrugged. "You either get it, or you don't." "Then I guess I don't." The old man dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and took a bite of the mash on his plate. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "Wolves and sheep, kid. You can't act like a wolf. You have to be one." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I think I see what you mean." "We'll see." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "No thanks." She turned to the younger man. "How 'bout you?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "No problem. I'll be right back." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I can't help feeling like I'm stealing from people." The old man laughed. "You should," he said, "you're stealing bread from their table for yours, period." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and set about pouring the younger man's refill. Before leaving she leaned close to the old man and whispered, "Boss wanted me to let you know this is a no smoking restaurant." The old man leaned forward with a smile. "Tell the boss," he whispered, "that I know all about Paris. Tell the boss-" The waitress pulled back, but the old man grabbed her by the wrist and held her close. "Tell the boss," he continued, "that I know all about his little red book." The waitress broke free and backed away. Her eyes were shaky and confused. The woman in the booth near the door laughed as her boyfriend read to her from his journal. The words fell apart as they crossed the room, blending in with the sizzling sounds of the grill and the mumblings of the patrons, but the laugh had a strange quality that protected it from the same fate. The younger man turned and stared at her for a moment, and when she looked up and her eyes met his, he smiled. She smiled in return, tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, and looked back to her companion. After a brief silence, the cook called over to the old man, "Hey, pal, you got something to say to me?" The waitress was standing just behind the cook, as if he were shielding her. "Nothing I haven't said already," replied the old man. "Yeah," said the cook, "then I think you better be moving along." The old man stood to leave, the younger one close behind. All eyes followed the two to the door, where the older one stopped and turned to the cook, as if to speak. The cook took a step toward the counter. The old man did the same. The waitress lifted a phone near the register and began to dial. The cook took another step forward. "We should be going," the younger man said. The old man nodded, and with that, they were gone. ===== SEVEN ===== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. You like pictures?" The younger man looked up from his plate and shrugged. The old man produced a Polaroid photograph from his coat pocket. "Take a look at this," he said as he laid it on the counter. The younger man eyed the photo suspiciously. The image was blurred and dark, but discernable. It was a picture of a drawing, a drawing of a naked woman with bizarre proportions-tiny head, massive breasts, miniscule waist, rotund hips, and legs that stretched off to either side and ended in dagger-like points. Between those legs was a large, black circle, or rather, a series of sloppy circles laid over one another until the circle was the only aspect of the drawing that exhibited gravity. Below the hole was a disembodied penis of gargantuan proportions, at least two thirds of the size of the woman. A line had been drawn between the tip of the monstrous phallus and the circular gape, one that ended in an arrow pointing toward the latter, as if to illustrate the proper and impending motion. "So there was this one night," began the older man. "I was out on the road and I had to take a serious leak. I was gonna do it in a ditch off to the side of the shoulder, but then I saw this construction site. They were building a sharp, three-story number, a family house. So I pulled in, thinking I could drop a load in the basement while I was at it, but then I saw one of those port-o-potties. Fancy digs, and the privacy couldn't be beat. I had to bring a flashlight, as dark as it was, and while I was doing my business, I saw this, big as the Texas sky, drawn right there on the plastic door." He tapped the photograph. "In that light, on that cold September night, this bitch was as near to an angel as I could ever hope to see. I must have jerked off to that thing three or four times, right there in that outhouse." "I don't think I want to hear any more of this." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "Give me a chance, kid. There's only a little bit left to say." The younger man shrugged. "When I was done, when there just wasn't anything left in me, I wiped my ass, went out to the car, grabbed the old instamatic, and swiped this copy here. Fuck Michelangelo and Da Vinci. Fuck'em in a boat with two Mexican hookers. Those two shit-birds haven't got a thing on the guy who drew this." "I don't think I follow." "Nothing to follow, sport. I like dirty drawings, big titties, that sort of thing." "Oh." The old man laid his cigarette on the side of his plate and took a bite of his mash. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "Wolves and sheep, kid. If you don't love pussy, you got no business in this game." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "maybe I don't." "First smart thing you've said all day." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "No thanks." She turned to the younger man. "How 'bout you?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "No problem. I'll be right back." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I can't help feeling like I'm stealing from people." The old man laughed. "Who gives a fuck how you feel?" The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and set about pouring the younger man's refill. Before leaving, she leaned close to the old man and whispered, "Boss wanted me to let you know this is a no smoking restaurant." The old man leaned forward with a smile, grabbed the waitress by the wrist, pulled her closer to him, and began to whisper. "They'll erase my pencil," he said, "they'll erase my pen, but the shithouse bandit strikes again." The waitress broke free and backed away. Her eyes were shaky and confused. The woman in the booth near the door laughed as her boyfriend read to her from his journal. The words fell apart as they crossed the room, blending in with the sizzling sounds of the grill and the mumblings of the patrons, but the laugh had a strange quality that protected it from the same fate. The younger man turned and stared at her for a moment, and when she looked up and her eyes met his, he smiled. She smiled in return, tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, and looked back to her companion, who, in turn, looked toward the counter to see who she'd been smiling at. "Like what you see?" he called to the younger man. The younger man looked away. After a brief silence, the cook approached the old man. "Did you just grab this woman?" He pointed to the waitress. The old man grinned. "Maybe. What of it?" "I think you better be moving along, pal." The old man nodded and stood to leave. All eyes followed as he crossed the room. The younger man followed close behind, but paused for a moment to look once more at the woman in the booth near the door. She gave him a nervous smile; then looked quickly to her boyfriend. The boyfriend's rage was unmistakable. "We should be going," said the old man. The younger man nodded, and with that, they were gone. ===== EIGHT ===== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. A quarter would be a whole if there weren't a dollar for it to be a quarter of. Same with a ten, it'd be a one if not for the smaller units of which it is considered to be composed. Still, cutting a dollar into four equal parts does not produce four quarters; no more than a similarly divided ten would yield ten units of monetary ones. A ten is a projection of ones, a symbol for an aggregate thing. That thing is its own atomic It. Study ten one-dollar bills for twenty-four hours and you'll come to no greater understanding of the gestalt thing that is the ten-dollar bill. Furthermore, if the cent is the core unit of this scheme, what exactly is a cent? Cutting it apart will not only fail to yield understanding, but it'll also devalue the cent entirely, killing the very essence of the thing you set out to understand." The younger man looked up from his plate and curled out his bottom lip in a show of strained confusion. The older man continued. "The problem with the cent," he said, leaning toward the younger man for emphasis, "is that we've grown so accustomed to its symbol that we imagine them to be one-in-the-same. The cent is an idea, a very successful idea, but still just an idea. The coin is only a projection of that idea, a placeholder of sorts, so the overtaxed intellect never even has to consider the originating form in all of its imaginary splendor. There never was a cent. It was always a symbol, one that petered down from the symbol of precious metals to the more portable one we call money. To dig down below the cent, to break it down any further, you'd have to look inward, and even then you'd never find the source. You'd only discover a parade of lesser symbols claiming to be atomic truths. Get it?" The younger man shrugged. The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "The point is, there's no point trying to figure out what went wrong. You'll only ever be dissecting a projection, and that can only ever result in more projections. Every aspect of that pitch, in your brain, has already been idealized to the point that it bears no similarity to the fact of what actually happened. " "I don't think I follow." "Nothing to follow, sport. Nothing to think about at all. That's what I'm saying, kid. You think too damn much." "Oh." The old man laid his cigarette on the side of his plate and took a bite of his mash. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "You like titties?" The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I like titties." "And I bet they never had to sell you on that, did they? You never had to stand in a doorway while titties tried to convince you of their merit and desirability." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Yeah," he said, pointing at the cook, "what's that red fuck calling himself these days." She leaned in close and said, "He calls himself Merv, hon, and I don't think he'd cotton to being called red." The old man grabbed the waitress by the wrist, pulled her closer to him, and began to whisper. "Tell you what," he said, "go tell Merv that Les Goodwin knows. Say it just like that, sweetie, 'Les Goodwin Knows'." The waitress broke free and backed away. Her eyes were shaky and confused. The woman in the booth near the door laughed as her boyfriend read to her from his journal. The words fell apart as they crossed the room, blending in with the sizzling sounds of the grill and the mumblings of the patrons, but the laugh had a strange quality that protected it from the same fate. The younger man turned and stared at her for a moment, and when she looked up and her eyes met his, he smiled. She smiled in return, tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, and looked back to her companion, who, in turn, looked toward the counter to see who she'd been smiling at. There was a look of pure rage in that man's eyes. "Like what you see?" he called to the younger man. The younger man looked away. The boyfriend stood, in spite the girlfriend's protest, and approached the counter with a series of heavy stomps. When he reached the younger man, he laid his palm on the counter and leaned down. His face was bright red, but when he spoke there was a softness to his voice. "I asked you a question." The younger man replied without turning toward his aggressor. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't mean anything by it." The boyfriend stood tall and took a step back, puffing out his chest as he did. The old man laughed. "Get a look at the ape." The boyfriend poked a finger toward the old man. "Shut your face, asshole. This is between me and your friend, here." Without moving, the younger man spoke to the older. "I think we should be going." The old man laughed again. "Fuck that, kid. I want a taste of this pussy." The boyfriend laughed. "You gonna turn around, asshole, or do I have to drag you off that stool in front of your grandad?" The old man reached into his coat pocket and produced a ballpoint pen. "I think we should be going," the younger man repeated. "Yeah," said the boyfriend, "maybe you should be moving along, you fucking faggot. It's nickel blow-job day behind the free clinic. I bet you could really clean up if you staked your spot early." The girlfriend shouted something incomprehensible at the boyfriend and stormed out of the diner. The boyfriend called after her, but she was long gone. "Today's your lucky day," he said, before rushing outside in pursuit of his lady. After a brief silence, the cook approached the two men. "You boys," he said, "are bad for business. I think you've had enough to eat." Then, to the older man, he whispered, "I don't know who you think I am, but I ain't him. What's more, if I see you in here again, I'll finish what that bullet in Paris started." The old man nodded and walked toward the exit, the younger man close behind. When they reached the door, the old man turned toward the cook and stabbed weakly at the air with his ballpoint pen, pantomiming a stab to the cook's guts. The younger man opened the door to leave. The older one gave the air another limp stab, and with that, they were gone. ==== NINE ==== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. It's like violence. Some people say that violence, sudden violence, is an end result of some root cause. This or that thing, these people claim, stunted this or that other thing, and the end result is a salad fork in some guy's gut. Happens all the time. One minute everything's cool; the next, the cops are taking snapshots of bodies. Root causes are nice ideas, but they ignore the subtleties of the experience of living." The younger man looked up from his plate and curled out his bottom lip in a show of strained confusion. The older man continued. "I say sudden violence is a result of the cage-like persistence of every moment endured. Because, if time is some misunderstood and wholly integrated aspect of space, then each moment that occurs is just a geographical facet of some incomprehensible landscape. Moments persist, feeling no more compulsion to move forward than a mountain or a bus stop, fading only through erosion, the vibrations left to play out unseen probabilities until the moment itself becomes so changed that it can no longer be considered a moment at all. By then, it's only an indistinguishable aspect of the background field against which all other moments are observed and measured." "I don't think I follow." The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "Love at first sight, instant dislike, sudden violence, spontaneous combustion-all that shit-none of it has anything to do with anything. For every love at first sight there's an equivalent stabbing that could've taken place. Same goes for sales, kid. The worst salesman closes sometimes, and every good salesman has his bad days. The minute you think you've got a handle on things, that's when you should be most certain that you don't." The old man dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and took a bite of the mash on his plate. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "I'm not gonna shit on you and say nothing you do matters. You sure as shit wouldn't have closed if you'd shown up in a bathrobe and clown shoes. Everything makes a difference. That's the point, I guess. One or two or thirty things can't have anything close to total control of any situation-there's just too much going on for that to be true." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "I think I see what you mean." "We'll see." The old man crammed another spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Yeah," he said, pointing at the cook, "That guy over there, you know if that guy was ever in the service?" She leaned in close and said, "I think he was, hon. Why?" "No reason," he said, "I thought I might've recognized him. That's all." "Anything else?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "Sure thing, sweetie." The old man set down his fork and stood. "Be right back," he said. "Gotta drop off some friends at the pool." Then, with a laugh, he smacked the younger man on the back and made his way to the restroom. The woman in the booth near the door laughed as her boyfriend read to her from his journal. The words fell apart as they crossed the room, blending in with the sizzling sounds of the grill and the mumblings of the patrons, but the laugh had a strange quality that protected it from the same fate. The younger man turned and stared at her for a moment, and when she looked up and her eyes met his, he smiled. She smiled in return and tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. The boyfriend turned when he saw that he'd lost her attention. He followed her eyes to the younger man at the counter. "Like what you see, asshole?" The younger man looked away. The boyfriend stood, in spite of the girlfriend's protest, and approached the counter with a series of heavy stomps. When he reached the younger man, he laid his palm on the counter and leaned down. His face was bright red, but when he spoke there was a softness to his voice. "I asked you a question, Winston." The younger man replied without looking up. "Yes." The boyfriend stood tall and took a step back, puffing out his chest as he did. "Yes what, asshole?" "Yes," said the younger man, turning now to face the boyfriend, "I did like what I saw." There was no pause, no space, between the period in the younger man's sentence and the punch from the boyfriend that followed. The younger man nearly fell off his stool, but was able to catch his balance just before he did. The girlfriend shouted something incomprehensible at her boyfriend and stormed out of the diner. The boyfriend called after her, but she was long gone. "Today's your lucky day," he said, quickly pointing a finger at the younger man. He then rushed outside in pursuit of his lady. After a brief silence, the cook approached the younger man. "Take a hike," he said, "you can wait for your dad outside." Blood had begun to flow heavily from the younger man's nose. He made no attempt to stop it as he responded. "That man," he said, "he's not my father." "Look, punk, I don't give a good goddamn who he is. Just get the fuck outta here." The younger man nodded and walked toward the exit. When he reached the door, he turned toward the cook and said, "The food you serve here, it's inedible." He then wiped his face with his palm, rubbed the blood on his pant-leg, and exited the diner. === TEN === The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to-" The younger man looked up from his plate expectantly. The older one stared blankly at an order of eggs and toast as the waitress carried it to a customer at the far end of the counter. "You OK?" Asked the younger man. The old man offered no response. He continued, instead, to gawk at the plate of eggs, leaning toward them as he did, as if under the sway of some weak force. After a moment, the customer became uncomfortable and moved to a booth in the far corner of the diner. The old man continued to stare. "Like what you see," the customer shouted, "you prick? It's a goddamn Number 6. Order it and mind your own fucking business." The old man stood and approached the customer's booth. The customer stood as well, anticipating a row, but the old man paid no attention. He drifted right passed the customer, his eyes shallow and focused, and sat down before the man's plate. He then lifted the customer's fork and knife, and began to eat. The customer stared down at the old man, as if dumbfounded. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" The old man looked up and grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of eggs that remained. "I'm the Apple Pie Private Eye. Why, who the fuck do you think you are?" The customer lunged at the old man, his fists tight and raised. The old man, without much consideration or drama, raised his fork and caught the customer in the neck with it. There was a sound, a wet pop, but no blood. The old man released his grip on the fork and returned his attention to the eggs, which he began to shovel into his mouth with his fingers. The younger man stood, dazed by the violence of what he'd seen. He took slow steps toward the customer, who'd begun walking in small, precise circles beside the booth. There was a scream from someplace near the door, and the sound of people rushing out, but the younger man hardly heard. He held out his arms to catch the customer, but he couldn't keep him still. The man's feet just kept walking, independent of his eyes, which had rolled up and gone completely white. The waitress was shouting into a phone near the register, but her words were difficult to understand. The cook rushed out from behind the counter and called to the customer. "Sam! You OK?" The customer said nothing as he continued along his precise, circular path. The cook pushed the younger man out of the way and grabbed the customer by his shoulders. "Sam! Can you hear me?" The customer's feet resisted, forcing the cook to lean more weight into him. The old man eyed the spectacle. "Can't stop a train with wind. You should know that." The cook spun around, releasing the customer to pursue his mindless circles. He slammed his palms on the old man's table and said, "I know you." "Yeah," said the old man, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "lots of people know me. I'm the goddamn Apple Pie Pee-Eye. You'd do well to remember that." The cook grabbed the old man by the wrist and pulled his arm toward him. He pushed back the old man's coat-sleeve and examined the forearm beneath. There was a scar, about three inches long. It started off near the wrist, at about an inch in width, but tapered down to a quarter of that as it approached the elbow. Beside the scar was a little tattoo in blue ink, faded from too many years in the skin. It depicted the outline of a three-pointed star; at the center, a tiny dot. "It's a map," the old man said, "a map of God's country-Colorado." The cook replaced the sleeve and released the old man's wrist. He looked at the floor, and then at the customer, whose circles had begun to widen, whose pace had begun to slow. "Get out," he said to the old man, "get out before the cops show." "Wish I could, sport, but I'm on the job." The cook looked frustrated. He approached the younger man and whispered, "Get your dad out of here, man. I don't care if you've gotta drag his ass, but get him the fuck out." The younger man couldn't remove his eyes from the customer. "That old man," he said, "he's not my father." "Look, punk, I don't give a good goddamn who he is. Just get-him-out-of-here." The younger man walked slowly toward the older. "I think we should be going," he said. The old man nodded, stood, and followed the younger to the door. Once there, he turned to the cook and respectfully tipped his imaginary hat, and with that, they were gone. ====== ELEVEN ====== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is right here." The younger man looked up from his plate and watched as the older one fished through his coat pockets. "I've never shown this to anyone," said the old man as he held out a folded sheet of paper, "but I think it might help you." It was soft and yellow, and by the look of it, it had been in that pocket for twenty years. The younger man set about the ginger act of unfolding it, careful not to pull too hard or from the wrong angle. The ink was difficult to read, and what he could make out made no sense. It was a mess of boxes and numbers and coded references. "What is it?" He asked. The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "DD-214, kid, walking papers. It's twenty-two years, everything I ever did, and, frankly, it's more than most." "Military stuff?" "You're a fucking genius, aren't you? Yeah, military stuff." "So what does it have to do with anything?" "Just think about it." "I'd rather not." The old man laid his cigarette on the side of his plate and took a bite of his mash. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "Suit yourself, peckerhead." The younger man dropped the document on the counter and returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. The old man said something under his breath, something about a cocksucker, but the words were hard to hear over the din of the room. "Sorry," said the younger man, "I didn't catch that." "I said," the old man replied, "that you're a cocksucker." "I see." The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Yeah," he said, pointing at the cook, "tell that bastard that my friend's coppin' joints at a nickel a pop, swallows and everything." She laughed uneasily and turned toward the younger man. "How 'bout you, hon. Can I get you something?" "Yeah," he said, "how about something edible." "Like what," asked the old man, "a big juicy dick?" "Sure," the younger man replied, "that sounds delicious. One big and juicy dick, miss, if you will." The waitress scurried away. The old man pointed at the younger. "You are one grade-a piece of shit." "Fuck you." The woman in the booth near the door laughed as her boyfriend read to her from his journal. The words fell apart as they crossed the room, blending in with the sizzling sounds of the grill and the mumblings of the patrons, but the laugh had a strange quality that protected it from the same fate. The younger man turned and stared at her for a moment, and when she looked up and her eyes met his, he smiled. She smiled in return, tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, and looked back to her companion, who, in turn, looked toward the counter to see who she'd been smiling at. There was a look of pure rage in that man's eyes. "Like what you see?" he called to the younger man. The younger man stood, anticipating a row. The boyfriend stood, as well, in spite the girlfriend's protest, and approached the counter with a series of heavy stomps. When he reached the younger man, he spoke slowly, in a measured tone. "I asked you a question." The younger man only smiled. The boyfriend took a step back, puffing out his chest as he did. The old man laughed. "Get a look at the ape." The boyfriend poked a finger toward the old man. "Shut your face, asshole. This is between me and your friend, here." Without moving, the younger man spoke to the older. "Yeah, go fuck yourself." The old man reached into his coat pocket and produced a ballpoint pen. The boyfriend shifted from foot to foot, clenching his fists tighter and tighter with each sway. "Take it back," said the old man in a low and angry voice. The younger man took a quick look toward the older one. It lasted less than a second, but that was all the boyfriend needed to land a punch across his cheek. The younger man swayed a bit, his head cocked unnaturally sideways. He kept his feet though, and, upon steadying himself, spoke to the boyfriend. "Nice one." He wiped some blood from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now," he asked, "what was your question?" There was no pause, no space, between the question mark in the younger man's sentence and the punch from the boyfriend that followed. The younger man fell back against the counter, dropping down between a pair of stools and smacking his head against the kick-panel. The girlfriend shouted something incomprehensible at the boyfriend and stormed out of the diner. The boyfriend called after her, but she was long gone. "Today's your lucky day," he said, pointing down at the unconscious man. He then rushed outside in pursuit of his lady. The cook came around the counter to inspect the damage. He knelt down beside the younger man and grabbed him by the chin. "You alright, kid." The younger man said nothing. From his stool, the old man addressed the cook, "Leave him be, cookie. He's just shit-brickin'." The cook looked up. "Hey," he said, "I remember you." The old man stood. "Les," said the cook. "Les Goodwin. That's it, isn't it? I never forget a-" Without warning, the old man began to stab the cook in the neck with the tip of his ballpoint pen. A few of the customers were able to pull the two apart, but by the look of the violent sprays of blood from the holes in the cook's neck and the emptiness of his eyes, they were too late. The old man continued stabbing at the air with his pen until he was struck in the face by one of the men restraining him. After a moment, the bleeding slowed and the cook emitted a low, gurgling sigh, before falling into the lap of the younger man. ====== TWELVE ====== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to pretend it doesn't exist, to bury your head in the ground and wait for the train to pass. The noise, the noise of the whistle and the engine and the wheels and the track, is just the cost of being." The younger man looked up from his plate. "I don't think that's true," he said. "I never said it was," replied the old man. "So we're not on the train?" "Nope." "Then why bother?" The old man looked frustrated. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He shook one into his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag, his eyes rolling up a bit as he did, and as he exhaled a thick cloud, he spoke. "Who fuckin' knows? Ego?" "No," said the younger man, "that's not it." "Then what?" "There's a word, a perfect one. It's right on the tip of my tongue." "Compulsion?" "Not quite." The old man laid his cigarette on the side of his plate and took a bite of his mash. With a mouthful of food he muttered, "It doesn't make any difference, really." The younger nodded and returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. The old man said something under his breath, something about a cocksucker, but the words were hard to hear over the din of the room. "Sorry," said the younger man, "I didn't catch that." "I said," the old man replied, "that you're a cocksucker." "I see." The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Yeah," he said, pointing at the cook, "ask him to come over here for a minute. Tell him Les wants a word." The waitress shrugged. "Sure thing," she said. Then, to the younger man, she asked, "How 'bout you, hon. Can I get you anything?" "Yeah," he said, "I could use a warm-up." "No prob," she said with a smile, before scurrying off to deliver the old man's message. The old man pointed at the younger. "Do you really wanna know why you blew that sale?" "Sure," the younger man replied with a smirk. The old man laughed. "Fine, kid, forget it. Why don't you go fuck yourself." "No, no, I really wanna know. Was it my technique? My approach? The way I knocked on the goddamn door? Please, enlighten me, you nowhere jackass. I'm dying to know." "Alright, I'll tell you, but only because you asked. The reason you didn't close that sale is a simple one. You didn't want to." "Simple as that?" "Simple as that." The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and set about pouring the younger man's refill. The cook arrived as she was leaving. He laid his palms on the counter and leaned down to take a closer look at the old man. "Goodwin," he said with an amused smile. "Long time no see." The old man looked down for a moment, then back to the cook. "I know it was you," he said. "I've always known. I'm not sore on it anymore, but I wanted you to know. I think I know why you did it, and if I'm right, I'm sorry for that. Jeannie was a-" The cook stood tall and took a step back, puffing out his chest as he did. "I didn't have anything to do with it, Les, but right now, the way I feel, I wish I had." The old man stared solemnly at his plate, but soon began to laugh. It was just a little at first, but the sound grew, and as it did, the old man leaned farther and farther back on his stool, his chest heaving and his shoulders bouncing with each exuberant cluck. "Of course it wasn't you," laughed the old man as he wiped a tear from his eye, "you never had the balls for that sort of thing." The cook scowled at the old man, who continued to laugh with violent enthusiasm. "So," he said, "you think it's funny?" The old man, tears streaming from his eyes, nodded. The cook grabbed a knife from the prep bench behind him. "So," he repeated, "you think it's funny?" The old man only laughed harder, nodding all the while. The cook hurled himself across the counter and crammed the knife into the old man's chest, down to the wooden handle. "How 'bout that," he said, "funny?" The old man was perfectly still, frozen in mid-guffaw. His eyes rolled white and the tears stopped coming. There arose from his mouth a low, gurgling sigh before he fell to the diner floor, his head striking the tile with a soft crunch. There was a scream, followed by the sound of feet rushing for the door. The younger man stared blankly at the waitress as she dialed the phone near the register. He hardly heard the cook, who spoke to him in a gentle and measured voice. "Sorry about your dad." The younger man looked down at the older one. The knife handle looked strangely appropriate, as if it completed the man's shape. "He's not my dad." "Oh." There was a brief silence before the cook spoke again. "Maybe you could step outside. I'd like some time alone, you know, before the cops show." The younger man nodded absently and walked toward the exit. When he reached the door, he turned toward the cook and said, "The food you serve here, it's inedible." And with that, he exited the diner. ======== THIRTEEN ======== The old man poured a thick coat of red gravy over his potato and pea mash. "The key to all of this," he said, as he set the gravy dish on the counter, "is to understand it in context. You did good today, kid." The younger man looked up from the gray meat on his plate. "But I lost the sale." "Yeah," the old man said, "you did lose the sale. Maybe you'll do better next time. It's a numbers game, plain and simple. More doors, more sales, period." The younger man returned his attention to his plate. He had no intention of eating anything it held. "Yeah," he said, "you're probably right." "Sure I'm right." The old man shoved a heaping spoonful of mash into his mouth. The sound of his chewing, sloppy with that dense gravy, was inescapable. "It's just-" The waitress interrupted, "You boys need anything?" The old man grinned, his mouth full. He made a quick effort to swallow, but didn't hesitate to speak around the mess of potatoes that remained. "Some pepper would be nice. Ours is empty." "Sure thing," she said. Then, to the younger man, she asked, "How 'bout you, hon. Can I get you anything?" The younger man looked up from his plate. "I could use a warm-up." "Sure thing, sweetie." "It's just," the younger man continued as the waitress walked away, "I feel like a thief. They see me as a thief from the minute they open the door, and me trying to sell to them, sell them anything, just plays into that notion." "That's natural, I guess. Maybe you should look at it this way. They're not gonna give you anything they don't want to give you. Sure, they may regret it after the papers are signed, but that's hardly your fault." The waitress returned with a pepper shaker and a fresh pot of coffee and set about pouring the younger man's refill. The old man continued, peppering his mash as he did. "I think most people wanna be sold on something, anything. Maybe it's wrong to take advantage of that. I can admit that much. At the same time, though, you hafta eat. Simple as that, really. If it wasn't you, it'd be somebody else." "Yeah," the younger man replied, "I know. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this." "Piss on that. Just take my word for it. Give it another couple weeks. Cut your teeth on these bullshit neighborhoods, and you'll be ready for war by the time you land a choice territory. If you don't like it after a few weeks, find something else, but I've got a hunch you'll do alright." "Maybe you're right." "Sure I'm right. Sure I'm right." The waitress returned with the check. "Here you go, boys." The old man snatched it from her. "I got this one." He winked as he spoke, though not to anyone in particular. With a lilt in her voice, the waitress said, "Mister Big Spender." The old man dropped a ten on the counter before responding. "What can I say; I'm a sucker for charity." Then, to the younger man, he said, "Finish your coffee, sport, and think about what I said. I need to stop off at the head before we hit the bricks." The old man disappeared into the restroom. The younger one remained to sip his coffee and stare blankly into his plate. ======================