that
aw-shucks-can-I-blow-you
look on his face again. I’d have to watch how I worked this kid. “But why golf as allegory?”
“Because I know you play,” he said. “You were captain of your high school golf team.”
“That’s right, I was, wasn’t I? I forgot about that. Forgetting is a skill you’re still too young to appreciate.”
He shrugged. “But you can see the analogy, right?”
“Sure.”
“When we reached the point where we were bored by how good we’d gotten at hitting targets, it dawned on me. I understood. It was like a revelation from the Bible. We were bored because, like with the golf clubs, we were hitting balls into a net. That’s not what handguns are for.”
“No, they’re for killing people.”
“Exactly!”
At that moment, the waitress delivered our food. “Fries with gravy for you,” she said, sliding the plate in front of Jim. “And a burger for you, Professor Weiler.”
She wasn’t as enthusiastic about serving me as she’d been only a few weeks ago. All fame is fleeting. The waitress’s once-pretty face had plumped up and frayed with time. She looked like she’d been squeezed into her polyester uniform by a blind sausage maker. Funny, she’d been working here since the day I arrived in Brixton, but I never really noticed her before. I mean, really noticed her.
“Do you know our waitress?” I asked Jim as she walked away.
“Irina? Sure. Everybody knows Irina. You must’ve seen her in here.”
“But what’s her deal?”
“She was Stan’s high school girlfriend. He knocked her up, made her get an abortion, and then he split for Penn State.”
“At least Stan is a consistent asshole, but how do you know about Irina and him? That had to be before you were born.”
“C’mon, Kip, I haven’t been much of anywhere, but I don’t think places get much smaller than Brixton. Everybody knows everybody else’s business ’round here.”
“Sounds like publishing.”
He laughed, but didn’t know why.
I realized that I had lived in Brixton for seven years and not only didn’t I know the lay of the land, I didn’t know the people. Sure, I knew about Stan Petrovic, but only because he wore his surliness like clown makeup. I didn’t know the place or the people because I hadn’t wanted to know. I held myself apart. I didn’t know anything about the women I slept with. It wasn’t like they didn’t try to tell me. Christ, Janice Nadir would’ve told me the pet names for her vagina had I shown the least bit of interest.
“You going to eat your burger?” Jim asked, stuffing a handful of gravy fries in his mouth. “You seem kinda distracted.”
I bit into the burger only to heave it right back up. The meat was cold and raw. When I looked up, I saw Stan Petrovic, his eyes twinkling, his crooked lips bent into a smug, self-congratulatory smile. I removed the top of the bun from the burger to confirm what my taste buds and gag reflex had already told me.
“What an asshole!” Jim jumped up like he’d done that day in class.
I grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jim. This is my fight.”
As I walked up to Petrovic, I took notice of what a nasty package he really was. The bad knees, the alcohol and bitterness, the fried and fatty food had turned him into a pitiable-looking fat man; but I knew there was an angry, second team All-American linebacker still living inside his blubber suit. By the time I got close to him, he’d swapped his smile for a sneer. He was puffed up, the fingers on both his hands twitching in anticipation. The diner was silent except for the bubbling and hissing of oil in the fry-o-lator.
I’d done a little boxing in college—just enough to know that fights never went the way you expected and to know when I was going to get my ass kicked. Short of a miracle, I was about to get my ass kicked.
“Hey, hero, what you think you’re gonna do to me? I ain’t no college kid with a gun in his hand and there ain’t no SWAT team here to save
aw-shucks-can-I-blow-you
look on his face again. I’d have to watch how I worked this kid. “But why golf as allegory?”
“Because I know you play,” he said. “You were captain of your high school golf team.”
“That’s right, I was, wasn’t I? I forgot about that. Forgetting is a skill you’re still too young to appreciate.”
He shrugged. “But you can see the analogy, right?”
“Sure.”
“When we reached the point where we were bored by how good we’d gotten at hitting targets, it dawned on me. I understood. It was like a revelation from the Bible. We were bored because, like with the golf clubs, we were hitting balls into a net. That’s not what handguns are for.”
“No, they’re for killing people.”
“Exactly!”
At that moment, the waitress delivered our food. “Fries with gravy for you,” she said, sliding the plate in front of Jim. “And a burger for you, Professor Weiler.”
She wasn’t as enthusiastic about serving me as she’d been only a few weeks ago. All fame is fleeting. The waitress’s once-pretty face had plumped up and frayed with time. She looked like she’d been squeezed into her polyester uniform by a blind sausage maker. Funny, she’d been working here since the day I arrived in Brixton, but I never really noticed her before. I mean, really noticed her.
“Do you know our waitress?” I asked Jim as she walked away.
“Irina? Sure. Everybody knows Irina. You must’ve seen her in here.”
“But what’s her deal?”
“She was Stan’s high school girlfriend. He knocked her up, made her get an abortion, and then he split for Penn State.”
“At least Stan is a consistent asshole, but how do you know about Irina and him? That had to be before you were born.”
“C’mon, Kip, I haven’t been much of anywhere, but I don’t think places get much smaller than Brixton. Everybody knows everybody else’s business ’round here.”
“Sounds like publishing.”
He laughed, but didn’t know why.
I realized that I had lived in Brixton for seven years and not only didn’t I know the lay of the land, I didn’t know the people. Sure, I knew about Stan Petrovic, but only because he wore his surliness like clown makeup. I didn’t know the place or the people because I hadn’t wanted to know. I held myself apart. I didn’t know anything about the women I slept with. It wasn’t like they didn’t try to tell me. Christ, Janice Nadir would’ve told me the pet names for her vagina had I shown the least bit of interest.
“You going to eat your burger?” Jim asked, stuffing a handful of gravy fries in his mouth. “You seem kinda distracted.”
I bit into the burger only to heave it right back up. The meat was cold and raw. When I looked up, I saw Stan Petrovic, his eyes twinkling, his crooked lips bent into a smug, self-congratulatory smile. I removed the top of the bun from the burger to confirm what my taste buds and gag reflex had already told me.
“What an asshole!” Jim jumped up like he’d done that day in class.
I grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jim. This is my fight.”
As I walked up to Petrovic, I took notice of what a nasty package he really was. The bad knees, the alcohol and bitterness, the fried and fatty food had turned him into a pitiable-looking fat man; but I knew there was an angry, second team All-American linebacker still living inside his blubber suit. By the time I got close to him, he’d swapped his smile for a sneer. He was puffed up, the fingers on both his hands twitching in anticipation. The diner was silent except for the bubbling and hissing of oil in the fry-o-lator.
I’d done a little boxing in college—just enough to know that fights never went the way you expected and to know when I was going to get my ass kicked. Short of a miracle, I was about to get my ass kicked.
“Hey, hero, what you think you’re gonna do to me? I ain’t no college kid with a gun in his hand and there ain’t no SWAT team here to save
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