Vexation Lullaby by Justin Tussing

nuts.”
    â€œI don’t do that sort of thing. JCC is the site of record.”
    â€œThat’s what makes it’s a prank !” He says this loud enough that I’m afraid his neighbors will hear.
    I open my laptop and press a few keys.
    â€œYou do it?”
    I shake my head.
    Gene snatches the computer from me. “Where is it?”
    â€œSorry.”
    He grabs the collar of my coat. I feel his hand at my neck. “Where’d you put it, Arthur?”
    â€œI erased it.”
    Now he’s shaking his head. “Why would you erase it?”
    â€œI’m going to go to sleep now.” I hold my hand out toward him.
    â€œYou’re a sociopath, Arthur, seriously.”
    Carefully, I put both hands on the laptop. He releases it to me.
    â€œDo you remember what was on there?”
    â€œYou were probably right. It was dated.”
    Gene is raking the top of his head with his fingers, scratching furrows into his scalp. “You’re a fucking loon.”
    I thank him for dinner.
    â€œI wanted to hit you in the worst way.”
    â€œBecause I wouldn’t go along with some asinine prank?”
    Gene grabs the decanter and lurches toward the stairs.
    I see him start to fall forward, but he seizes the railing with both hands, catching himself. There’s a high and final noise as the vessel detonates on the garage’s cement apron.
    â€œYou okay?”
    He looks over his shoulder at me. “I didn’t mean I wanted to hit you tonight. I wanted to hit you when we first met.”
    How can anyone understand another person? I go into the apartment, locking the door behind me. I fill a glass with water that smells like rubber cement, then I lay on top of the bed, feeling horrible, and knowing I’ll feel much worse.

20
    Peter had almost reached home when he received a text from Martin Vinoray inviting him to get a burger near the hospital.
    The economic shift that eliminated so many of Rochester’s working-class jobs had failed to shutter the working-class bars. In their humble design, those squat brick structures seemed the perfect counterpoint to the gothic churches that were their ubiquitous neighbors. The bars had names like Oasis, the Wet Lounge, and Mitch’s Tap. Whenever Peter ventured into these places, he felt like he was going undercover.
    Inside, half the TVs showed the Yankees battling Tampa Bay, while on the other sets stone-faced college dropouts in sunglasses and Ed Hardy shirts sat around a poker table bluffing away millions. The green of the infield and the green of the felt were indistinguishable.
    Martin sat at the end of the bar. He wore blue scrubs. With his index finger he stirred a highball glass while with his other hand he picked over a plate of calamari. The key fob to his ninety-thousand-dollar Mercedes glittered on top of a stack of small bills. The only clue that he played rock and roll: the midnight-black ponytail that nearly reached his belt.
    Peter mounted the adjacent stool.
    â€œHail the conqueror.”
    â€œIt was a big misunderstanding, that’s all.”
    â€œWell, that was a neat little trick you pulled this morning. I wish I could have been in the room.”
    Peter said, “What trick?”
    â€œFirst Ogata crawled up the administration’s ass. Then, when they squirmed, Cross’s attorney threw a haymaker—”
    â€œKopp is my attorney.”
    â€œYou don’t have the juice to put that homunculus on a plane.” Vinoray made an upside-down V with his fingers and staked them to the bar, signaling the bartender to deliver two more drinks.
    â€œâ€˜Homunculus’?”
    â€œThat’s what Cooper called him. He said sitting across from that midget made his balls retract so far he had to stick a finger in his navel to scratch them.”
    Why did Peter feel such satisfaction? He’d almost walked into that room alone. Even if Peter had managed to keep his job, he’d have