Good People (6 page)

This is the first time they've been in each other's company since it happened.

The meeting is about a new account and who is going to be responsible for it. The one driving insisted on driving to the meeting, though the one in the passenger seat offered to drive, as well. The one driving told the one in the passenger seat not to worry about it, though the one in the passenger seat wasn't worried. Now that they are actually in the car, the one in the passenger seat is concerned they will get into an accident. He wouldn't want to die this way, in a car accident, next to the one who is driving. He doesn't mind that they are associates at work, one can't help such a
thing, one cannot pick one's colleagues, after all, but he wouldn't want to be associated in death with the one driving. The one in the passenger seat wouldn't mind dying in some other kind of accident, something he was responsible for himself, with his own hands on the wheel, at his own hand even, but not like this, not next to the one who is driving. About this, he is concerned, but he isn't actually worried. Both of them, however, are worried about the meeting. They are worried about what to order for lunch. Both contracted food poisoning from this restaurant and both missed work because of it. The one driving had bad clams and the one in the passenger seat had bad chicken salad.

The one driving woke twice in the middle of the night, once at 1:30 and again at 3:30. He scared his wife on both occasions because when he throws up, he throws up violently, screaming the poison out of him. It sounds like someone being tortured, perhaps with a cattle prod or thumb screws. Or maybe it sounds like an animal dying from a gut shot, he doesn't know. He's never heard anyone tortured and he's never seen an animal die from a gut shot, though this is what he imagines. He also doesn't know why he throws up this way or if other people do it the same way. He has never heard his wife throw up, and for this he is grateful. He does not like to think of his wife in regard to her bodily functions. The first time she told him about her period,
he said, I get this way around blood. In this case, this way meant queasy, it meant he didn't want to know about it. He said it had to do with his father, that once he saw him get punched in the face in a street fight, saw his father drop to the pavement after he was hit, blood pouring out of his nose. He didn't like it that he was sick in front of her.

The one in the passenger seat got sick right there in the restaurant. It was during another meeting with the boss, this one about a new campaign for a new client, something that was important to the boss but not to the one in the passenger seat, although he is good at seeming interested, invested. The one in the passenger seat is adept at feigning team spirit. He will always use the words
we
or
us
or
our
when discussing company business. He is always punctual, courteous. He never complains. The boss considers him his best employee, the most reliable and most dedicated. He is none of these things. He is good at his job, or rather, he is competent, fair, but he never excels at anything, his work is always acceptable and on time, yes, his assigned task or tasks, whatever is assigned to him, he does it, always, but he rarely shows initiative, rarely goes any extra miles. He is wholly without ambition. He has never sought a promotion or raise. He shows up, he does what is required, he leaves. He is there. That's how he was, too, in the restaurant when he got sick. He didn't tell anyone he
wasn't feeling well, didn't mention it afterward, either. The one in the passenger seat knew something was wrong shortly after his last bite of the chicken salad sandwich. He could feel something inside himself, in his innards, something moving itself around, looking for a way out. So what he did was excuse himself to go do what he had to in the rest room. He rose up from the table, clutched the napkin placed on his lap, folded it, laid it down on his chair and said, Pardon me, please. No one paid attention to him as he said this or as he left the table. There was no urgency involved, judging by his demeanor, though he wasted no time walking directly to the rest room. Once there, he acted accordingly and finished without drawing any attention to himself. There were two other men in the rest room, though neither was aware of what was happening in the first stall. He thought this episode was a sign of his good health, of his improving health, that his body so quickly rejected what wasn't good for him. Later, he returned to the table, but skipped dessert.

Neither is keen on eating lunch today, but both realize they have no choice. More than that, though, more than worrying about food poisoning, neither wants the new account and both are hoping the other gets it.

The two of them never interact at work. When they see each other in the hallway or lobby they will sometimes nod. The one in the passenger seat is certain the
one in the driver's seat must think this lack of interaction is related to what happened in the supply closet. The one in the passenger seat is fine with the other one thinking this.

The one who says that pussy is not pussy does not like to hold anyone's hand. Once he had dinner with his mother's neighbor. His mother's neighbor worked as a nurse, was handsome around the face, save some old pockmarks and acne scars, and shaped like a field hockey player. The mother arranged for the outing, said the nurse was perfectly suitable, and instructed her son to pick up the neighbor and walk her to the restaurant. He did this. At dinner, they discussed her job, her background, her plans for the future. He shared nothing of himself, instead asking questions and smiling when he thought it appropriate. On the walk home, she slipped her hand in his. She did this casually. There was no call for such an action, no reason for it. There was nothing about his body language or demeanor or anything he may've said during dinner that would've indicated such a thing would be welcomed. He always sweats when he comes in contact with another person. He sweats, too, whenever he eats or is active for more than two minutes. Every day, he has to change out of his shirt after lunch. He keeps five freshly laundered shirts behind the door in his office. He does not like going to a doctor but promises to do so whenever he
talks on the phone with his mother. His mother worries about him and is correct in doing so.

The walk home with the neighbor was a long one. Still clutching his hand, she prattled on about one of the doctors at work, remarking that one was a letch. The one in the passenger seat said every so often, That's terrible. He also said once or twice, People are different. He wanted to talk about the one who says that pussy is pussy, what he saw in the supply closet. He wanted to know what could be done about it, how he should proceed.

The one in the passenger seat now says, There are different kinds.

The one in the passenger seat rarely leaves his apartment unless it's to commute to or from work. On weekends and holidays, he goes to breakfast at the diner. He eats pancakes and bacon, almost always. He spreads the butter all over each cake, however many pats he is offered, then pours a generous amount of syrup onto the plate. He likes the pancakes drenched but not soggy, and he likes it when syrup gets on the bacon, too. Inside the diner, there are always well-dressed people, people who've come from church, people who are related to one another, families, loved ones. He always finds a table facing away from these people. He doesn't want to listen to their conversations, the righteousness.

The one driving talks about the one in the passenger seat with his wife sometimes. He talks about the shirts behind the door. He remembers when his boss introduced them, how his hand was damp. He points out that he never socializes with people in the office, how he always keeps to himself. He tells his wife he thinks the one in the passenger seat is half a fag. The wife asks why he would think such a thing. He tells her he isn't sure, that he's heard it around the office, that it's the scuttlebutt.

Whenever the wife initiates sex, she likes to ask her husband about his special friend at work. She calls him a fairy because she doesn't like the word
fag
. She wonders if he would like to join them sometimes. The one who is driving feigns anger when she talks like this, but the truth is, he doesn't mind.

The one in the passenger seat almost never discusses his work or his colleagues when talking on the phone with his mother. When his mother presses him, he tells her that everyone is cordial. He tells her they are all good people. He has never mentioned the one who is driving by name to his mother. He did say once that he saw something he wished he hadn't. But when his mother asked what, he told her she wouldn't want to know.

He doesn't tell her that he thinks about quitting sometimes but doesn't know what else he could do
for work. He doesn't tell her that he imagines certain crimes, committing them, things he could do in the workplace, things he could maybe get away with, things that happen all the time, all over the world. He doesn't tell her how bored he is by everything. He doesn't tell her that he visits Asian massage parlors every so often on the way home from work, that he knows which ones are good and which aren't, which try to rob him and which seem like they are genuinely happy to see him, to service him. He doesn't tell her he's visited two transsexual prostitutes during lunch breaks, doesn't tell her that he's touched their parts and that they've touched him and that he wants to do it again. What he does tell her is what goes on in his apartment building. He tells her about the front door, how that the buzzer won't work for weeks at a time, and how that he has to go downstairs to let the deliveryman in whenever he orders dinner.

The two are in the car together.

The one in the passenger seat says, I'll say. He rolls the window down a little.

The one driving did not formally propose marriage to his wife. After several months of misinterpreted conversations and endearing gestures, they found themselves in front of an ordained minister and two paid-for witnesses. The ceremony was simple and
brief, as there was a line out in the corridor waiting to do likewise.

The bridal night included a mutual decision to forgo the threshold ceremony but was otherwise traditional. Once inside their room, the ersatz honeymoon suite, she spent a solid hour in the bathroom while he examined his genitals under the covers. He was hoping they would go twice, once she came out, if she came out. He wondered what would happen if she didn't. Wondered what he'd do if she had done something to herself in there, maybe with pills or a razor. He waited. He thought about them going twice again. They'd gone twice only a couple of times before, once during a memorable evening that involved take-out Chinese. He was hoping she would come out wearing something special, something he hadn't seen before. That is, if she were to come out at all. If she didn't come out, he'd have to go in after her, break down the door, find her like that, dead in the tub. He'd have to call the police and explain the whole thing, the wedding, the witnesses, the threshold. For the rest of his life, he'd be the one whose wife committed suicide on their wedding night. He'd have that story to tell over and over to all kinds of people, all kinds of empathetic women. Eventually she did come out, and when she did, she wasn't wearing anything special. She came out naked
and said something like Are you ready for me? He was, as anyone might expect, devastated.

Afterward there was the standard back and forth, give and take, push and pull.

All of which has led the one driving here, a block or so away from the restaurant. He is looking for an indication from the other one, something that would telegraph his intentions. He wonders if he is about to be blackmailed. He wonders how it would work, if he'd pay. Maybe the one in the passenger seat would demand sexual favors. There is no way of knowing. He likes to think that he could kill the one in the passenger seat instead, if it comes down to it.

The radio news is on and they are about to do the sports and weather. He turns the volume up so he can hear the scores. He cannot account for what has happened in his life, how he's gotten to this point. He remembers playing football with his father once. His father had a rocket for a throwing arm, which surprised him. He didn't think his father would be much of an athlete. He was almost always gone, the father, only showing up once in a while, maybe every five years or so, when he needed money. And now he is married and about to eat lunch at a bad restaurant, hoping to dodge food poisoning, this new assignment, and the forthcoming blackmail.

This morning, he told his wife he wasn't sure about
having children yet. He told her he didn't think he was ready, that he wasn't sure about the prospect, how he would fare. He said they didn't have enough saved, that he needed his sleep, that he didn't have much of an arm. He said they were young, that they had plenty of time. His wife didn't respond to any of this. Instead, she went downstairs, into the bathroom, maybe to fix something, otherwise to kill herself.

The weather this day goes unnoticed. Neither of the good people looks up at the sky or catches that a light rain has started.

The one driving turns into the restaurant's empty parking lot and parks the car close to the entrance. The one in the passenger seat unfastens his safety belt and makes a sound with his mouth. The sound probably means something, but the one driving doesn't hear it. The one driving is busy turning off the ignition and says, This is where you're wrong, man.

Getting out of the car, he says, This is where you're dead wrong.

The Human Cost

S
OMEONE'S COAT IS IN THE MIDDLE
of the floor, which indicates the owner is probably dead by now. We think it's a woman's coat, as it is small and formfitting, or rather, it looks small and formfitting. We haven't picked the coat up off the floor and we aren't planning to, either. The coat is evidence and shouldn't be disturbed. We aren't sure why the coat shouldn't be disturbed, but this is what we've been told. It probably has to do with the investigation and future criminal prosecution. We don't want anyone to get off on a technicality, that much we do know. We also know the coat's owner is probably dead by now, this much seems certain, though everything else remains a question. We think it's a woman's coat due to the size and style, but it could easily be a man's coat. We've all seen men dressed in small formfitting coats, so it is not unusual, and because of this we are
not assuming it's a woman that has been killed for her coat, because it could easily be a man, particularly the kind of man who would wear this kind of small formfitting coat. This is not to say that a man who wears this kind of small formfitting coat deserved what happened to him or had it coming. This man didn't have it coming any more than the rest of us do. But it stands to reason that the kind of man who might wear this kind of small formfitting coat would be targeted for such and an easy mark. Case in point, there are no indications of a struggle. Everything seems exactly as it should be and there are no blood-stains or splatters, nothing is broken. We have had a thorough look around and have been careful so as not to disturb anything. For instance, no one has picked the coat up off the floor and tried it on for size to determine just how small and formfitting this coat is. We aren't doing this so as not to hinder the investigation. We've been told that we must never tamper with evidence. We keep this in mind whenever we happen upon a crime scene, which is about four or five times a week now. So what's important isn't the coat or who owned it, if it was a man or a woman or what. It's not even important that we apprehend whoever it was that perpetrated this particular crime or bring this criminal to justice. Now we must remember the victim. This was a human person who lived in the
world like the rest of us. Someone who ate food and drank water and breathed air and showered daily, maintained personal relationships, exercised regularly, voted in most elections, both local and national. We cannot lose sight of this part of it, the human cost, the loss of life. We remind each other of this as often as possible. We say we have to do better next time, and while we are resolute and determined, it seems we are always too late and for this we are sorry.