sure if I like Ed’s tone just this minute. It’s…” He struggles for the appropriate word. “It’s…”
“Sour?”
“No.”
“Unappreciative?”
“No.” But he’s got it now. “Worse—it’s disrespectful.” The last word is spoken with quiet, complete disdain. He looks directly at me as he speaks. His eyes warn me more than his mouth. It makes me suggest internally that I should break down and cry, begging them not to hurt my coffee-drinking dog.
“Please,” I finally say, “you didn’t hurt him, did you?”
The hard eyes flatten.
He shakes his head.
“No.”
The best word I’ve ever heard.
“He’s a useless guard dog, though,” says the one still finishing his pie, dunking it in the sauce on his plate. “Do you know he slept through us breaking in?”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Even when he woke up he only came in here wanting food.”
“And?”
“We gave him a pie.”
“Cooked or frozen?”
“Cooked, Ed!” He seems offended. “We’re not savages, you know. In fact, we’re quite civilized.”
“Are there any left for me?”
“Sorry—the dog got the last one.”
The big bloody greedy guts! I think, but I can’t hold it against him. Dogs will eat anything. I can’t argue with nature.
In any case, I try to catch them out.
I fire.
One quick question.
“Who sent you?”
Once in the air, my question loses its pace. The words float, and gingerly I stand and sit at one of the vacant kitchen chairs. I’m feeling a little more comfortable, knowing this is all part of what happens next.
“Who sent us?” The other one takes over now. “Nice try, Ed, but you know we can’t tell you that. Nothing would give us greater pleasure, but we don’t even know that ourselves. We just do the job and get paid.”
I explode.
“What?” It’s an accusation. Not a question. “No one pays me ! No one gives me—”
I’m slapped.
Hard.
He then sits down again and resumes eating, dipping the last crust of pie in the big pool of sauce on his plate.
You overpoured, I think. Thanks a lot .
He calmly eats the crust, half swallows, and says, “Oh, do stop whining, Ed! We all have our duties here. We all suffer. We all endure our setbacks for the greater good of mankind.”
He’s impressed his mate and himself.
They’re agreeing with each other, nodding.
“Nice,” the other one tells him. “Try to remember all that.”
“Yeah, what was it? The greater good of…?” He thinks hard but can’t come up with what he wants.
“Mankind,” I answer, too quiet.
“What, Ed?”
“Man kind .”
“Of course—you got a pen I can borrow, Ed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“This isn’t a newsagent’s, you know.”
“And there’s that tone again!” He stands up and slaps me even harder, then sits back down, casual.
“That hurt,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He looks at his hand—at the blood and the dirt and the smear. “You’re in a pretty awful state there, Ed, aren’t you?”
“I know.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I want a pie.” I swear—and I’m sure you can back me up on this from previous actions—I’m definitely like a kid at times. A giant pain-in-the-neck kid. Marv’s not the only one.
The one who slapped my face imitates me in a childlike voice. “‘I want a pie….’” He even sighs. “Would you listen to yourself? Grow up, for God’s sake.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s the first step.”
“Thanks.”
“Now where were we, anyway?”
We all think.
Silently.
The Doorman walks in, looking guilty as all hell.
I s’pose a coffee’s out of the question? he brings himself to ask me. The neck of him!
All I do is glare at him and he walks back out. He can tell he’s in the bad books.
All three of us in the kitchen watch him make his exit.
“You can smell him coming, can’t you?” one says.
“Damn right.”
The slower eater of the two even stands up now and begins rinsing the plates in the
“Sour?”
“No.”
“Unappreciative?”
“No.” But he’s got it now. “Worse—it’s disrespectful.” The last word is spoken with quiet, complete disdain. He looks directly at me as he speaks. His eyes warn me more than his mouth. It makes me suggest internally that I should break down and cry, begging them not to hurt my coffee-drinking dog.
“Please,” I finally say, “you didn’t hurt him, did you?”
The hard eyes flatten.
He shakes his head.
“No.”
The best word I’ve ever heard.
“He’s a useless guard dog, though,” says the one still finishing his pie, dunking it in the sauce on his plate. “Do you know he slept through us breaking in?”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Even when he woke up he only came in here wanting food.”
“And?”
“We gave him a pie.”
“Cooked or frozen?”
“Cooked, Ed!” He seems offended. “We’re not savages, you know. In fact, we’re quite civilized.”
“Are there any left for me?”
“Sorry—the dog got the last one.”
The big bloody greedy guts! I think, but I can’t hold it against him. Dogs will eat anything. I can’t argue with nature.
In any case, I try to catch them out.
I fire.
One quick question.
“Who sent you?”
Once in the air, my question loses its pace. The words float, and gingerly I stand and sit at one of the vacant kitchen chairs. I’m feeling a little more comfortable, knowing this is all part of what happens next.
“Who sent us?” The other one takes over now. “Nice try, Ed, but you know we can’t tell you that. Nothing would give us greater pleasure, but we don’t even know that ourselves. We just do the job and get paid.”
I explode.
“What?” It’s an accusation. Not a question. “No one pays me ! No one gives me—”
I’m slapped.
Hard.
He then sits down again and resumes eating, dipping the last crust of pie in the big pool of sauce on his plate.
You overpoured, I think. Thanks a lot .
He calmly eats the crust, half swallows, and says, “Oh, do stop whining, Ed! We all have our duties here. We all suffer. We all endure our setbacks for the greater good of mankind.”
He’s impressed his mate and himself.
They’re agreeing with each other, nodding.
“Nice,” the other one tells him. “Try to remember all that.”
“Yeah, what was it? The greater good of…?” He thinks hard but can’t come up with what he wants.
“Mankind,” I answer, too quiet.
“What, Ed?”
“Man kind .”
“Of course—you got a pen I can borrow, Ed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“This isn’t a newsagent’s, you know.”
“And there’s that tone again!” He stands up and slaps me even harder, then sits back down, casual.
“That hurt,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He looks at his hand—at the blood and the dirt and the smear. “You’re in a pretty awful state there, Ed, aren’t you?”
“I know.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I want a pie.” I swear—and I’m sure you can back me up on this from previous actions—I’m definitely like a kid at times. A giant pain-in-the-neck kid. Marv’s not the only one.
The one who slapped my face imitates me in a childlike voice. “‘I want a pie….’” He even sighs. “Would you listen to yourself? Grow up, for God’s sake.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s the first step.”
“Thanks.”
“Now where were we, anyway?”
We all think.
Silently.
The Doorman walks in, looking guilty as all hell.
I s’pose a coffee’s out of the question? he brings himself to ask me. The neck of him!
All I do is glare at him and he walks back out. He can tell he’s in the bad books.
All three of us in the kitchen watch him make his exit.
“You can smell him coming, can’t you?” one says.
“Damn right.”
The slower eater of the two even stands up now and begins rinsing the plates in the
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