Hall of Small Mammals by Thomas Pierce Page A

dribble.
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    Walker’s Alan Gass calls with what he can only describe as amazing news—news that he won’t share over the phone. Walker agrees to meet him at a pizza buffet called Slice of Heaven.
    They sit across from each other in a red vinyl booth that squelches under their butts. Aside from two dumpy women at a table on the other side of the restaurant, they are alone. Walker has already eaten lunch and doesn’t plan to stay long.
    Alan is distracted. He wants pizza. A certain kind of pizza. He’s waiting for the waitress to bring it out on a tin tray. When she does, at last, dropping it on the buffet at the center of the room, Alan is up in a hurry. His body pressed hard to the sneeze guard, he loads his plate with one slice after another. He comes back to the table and takes a large bite. The pizza is yellowish and drizzled with a translucent pink sauce.
    â€œWhat is that?” Walker asks.
    â€œStrawberry cheesecake. Try a piece.” He slides the plate across the table, still sticky from the waitress’s rag. Walker declines and asks about the news that couldn’t be shared over the phone.
    â€œBe patient. You’ll find out in”—he checks his wristwatch, digital with an orange Velcro strap—“about ten minutes.”
    Walker takes the tape recorder out of his bag, slides it across the table to Alan.
    â€œDid it work?” Alan asks.
    â€œI’m letting it go. Like you said, some dumb fantasy.”
    Alan smacks on pizza and dabs the strawberry sauce from the corners of his thin pink lips. Though a wiry man, he has the look of physical inactivity. He has a curved back, flaccid arms, and probably a poor heart. Something about this pizza buffet—the quality of the light or the greasy floor tiles, perhaps—makes Walker feel exhausted.
    â€œUntil you came to see me,” Alan says, “I’d never really thought about there being other Alan Gasses in the world. But that got me thinking. Somewhere out there is the best possible Alan Gass.”
    â€œAnd somewhere else is the worst.” Walker motions to the waitress.
    â€œI’d like to think I’m somewhere in the middle. Most Alans are. Statistically speaking.”
    The waitress waddles to the table, her stockings tan as crust, her eyes green as bell peppers. Walker asks for a coffee.
    â€œOver the last few days I’ve been digging around online and making some phone calls,” Alan says. “To other Alans.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThere’s an Alan Gass in Utah who runs a ranch. There’s an Alan Gass in New York who travels the country selling baseball cards.”
    The waitress brings over a mug and a hot pot of coffee, its steam thick with the smell of burnt peanuts. Walker dumps three creamers into the cup, turning the liquid a cardboard brown.
    â€œOh, good, you’re here,” Alan says to someone behind Walker.
    Walker turns. A heavy man in a blue polo shirt with eyebrowsso dark and thick they look like two black holes in his flat face smiles at them. His short hair is parted neatly down the middle.
    â€œWalker,” Alan says, “I’d like to introduce you to
Doctor
Alan Gass.”
    The man shakes Walker’s hand firmly. His knuckles are hairy. Alan makes room for the other Alan on his side of the booth and explains that the second Alan lives only an hour north of here and when he discovered he was a doctor, well, he thought Walker might be interested in that.
    â€œDoctor of what?” Walker says.
    â€œOf religion,” the man says, and grabs the menu from behind the napkin holder. “Mainly Eastern philosophy.”
    â€œYou gotta try a piece of this,” the first Alan says. The second Alan says no, thanks, he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. He’s going to have a calzone.
    â€œThere’s another Alan Gass two hours from here,” the first Alan Gass says.