Russell Banks - Continental Drift

Bob says nothing.

Eddie grunts and leans down to the pitcher beside him and refills his glass. “Okay, let’s hear it. Let’s hear why you’re here on a Friday night at seven thirty-five instead of at the store. I know it ain’t because your wife had a baby last night, because you’re here, where I live, not at the hospital, where your wife and new kid are. And you’re not at home, where you and your other two kids live. So there must be some other, some very fucking good, some really extraordinary reason why you’re here and not at the store. Right?” He speaks through clenched teeth, his blue eyes cold and angry. “And I suppose that when you plopped that gun in front of me, like it was catshit or something, I suppose that has something to do with why you’re here and not at the store on a fucking Friday night, where you could be selling a thousand bucks’ worth of booze for me, which right now happens to be very important to me and therefore in the long run should be very important to you too, asshole, since your livelihood depends very much on my livelihood.”

“Don’t call me an asshole anymore, Eddie.”

“‘Don’t call me an asshole, Eddie,’” he says, mocking him. He’s speaking more and more rapidly now, his face red with anger. “I really love it, Bob — no shit, I really love it. The way you go around with a long face all the time, like you got worries or some kinda hair across your ass, when all you got to do, for Christ’s sake, all you got to do is get up in the morning and get to work on time and come home and drink beer in front of the fucking TV screen till you get sleepy and then go fuck your wife for fifteen minutes and pop off to sleep. I really love it. You come in here like you got fucking troubles, and I’m supposed to sit here and hold your hand and listen sympathetically and say, ‘Aw, Bob, it must be tough out there at the store, having to think about keeping a gun around in case the niggers want to rob you again. Gee, it really must be a burden on you.’”

“No, Eddie, that’s not it. It’s just, I gotta keep the gun away from me. That’s all.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t hafta understand. It doesn’t matter. It’s like I’m afraid of heights, that’s all, so you stay away from heights when you’re scared of ’em. It’s not a burden to me, like you said. And I’m not complaining about my life or anything. The job’s fine. It’s just, I got to keep the gun away from me.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Bob, let me tell you something, okay?” His voice is calmer now, and his face has returned to its normal shade of parchment brown. “I got problems, Bob. Real problems. Not like this candy-ass shit you’re talking about. I mean, what the fuck do I care about you gotta keep a gun away from yourself? What do I care you’re scared of heights? Save that shit for your wife when she gets outa the hospital. Save it for a shrink. I gotta run a business. I gotta do a certain volume every week, week after week, or one of these mornings you’re gonna find me sleeping in the trunk of my car and my car’ll be in Tampa Bay. I mean it. You, all you gotta think about is taking care of your mouth, your prick and your asshole. Me, I gotta come up with a certain amount of money every fucking week, Bob, or I won’t have any mouth, prick or asshole to worry about. You understand what I’m telling you?”

Darkness has fallen on them like an attitude. The two men sit across the round, glass-topped table from each other and watch each other gradually get absorbed by the darkness, as if they are backing away in opposite directions, and their words to one another drift aimlessly into space, unheard, unattended, unconnected.

“Is it because of the guys you’re working with in these housing projects?”

“Your trouble is you think all I do is sit around counting my money and playing with my toys, like that boat. You think the difference between us is that you’re unlucky and smart and I’m lucky and stupid, so you mope around all the time feeling sorry for yourself and pissed off at me. Well, let me tell you, Bob, I’m not lucky. And I’m not stupid. And you’re not unlucky. And you’re not that fucking smart. Things are a hell of a lot different from what you think they are.”

“I’m not really complaining about the gun, Eddie. I just figured I could leave it with you, since you owned it anyhow, and take my chances down at the store, you know?”

“If I don’t come up with a very definite amount of cash every fucking week, the next week after that I hafta come up with twice as much again, and so on down the line, until the only way I can meet my fucking obligations is go out and rob a fucking bank. Do you think Sarah understands any of this? Do you? Fucking broad. She thinks money comes from heaven. She thinks credit cards are money, for Christ’s sake. You think I can go to a bank with this and take out a loan? Everything’s paper, Bob. Everything.”

“See, if I don’t keep that gun away from me, I’m afraid I’ll end up shooting someone. Not someone robbing the store, but someone else, a stranger, maybe. I don’t trust myself anymore. I think I may be a little crazy or something. I don’t know how it’s happened, but I think sometimes I lose control of myself. Especially when it comes to women, you know? I get so pissed off at the world, so angry, that I’m liable to kill somebody by accident if I don’t keep that gun away from me. It’s not women, really, but they’ve got something to do with it. Somehow.”

“I’ve worked hard for this. For over fifteen years I’ve been working hard. I got an ulcer. Did you know I got an ulcer? My ass is bleeding too. Did you know that? I’m thirty-three years old, and I got holes in my stomach and a bleeding asshole. And now my epilepsy is coming back. I had two fucking seizures this month. First in five years. You figure it out.”

“I don’t want to kill anybody, see. I didn’t want to kill that nigger that robbed the store. I don’t know even how I did it. Or why. I knew, the second time I shot at him, that he wasn’t going to kill me anymore. I’d already at least winged him. I knew that. The worst he was going to do by then was get the hell out of there. But I killed him anyhow.”

“I’m not pissed at you, Bob. I just got a lot to worry about lately. I hate my fucking wife. I wish she’d just get herself royally fucked, have a hundred orgasms, and run off with the tennis pro or somebody. I don’t even like my kid anymore. All she does is sit up there in her room getting stoned and listening to records of guys with safety pins stuck in their cheeks. I don’t know why the hell I’m even doing this, working this hard. I should be like you.”

“It’s probably only a temporary hard time, Eddie. It’ll pass. It’s probably the recession. You know, from the energy crisis and the fucking Arabs and all, and fucking Carter. It’ll pass. You just gotta hold on to what you got for a while.”

“Yeah.” They are silent for a moment, and then Eddie says, “If you leave that gun here, Bob, I’m just gonna hafta haul it back in to the store tomorrow morning and put it right back where it was.”

“I got to keep that gun away from me.”

“The gun stays at the store.”

Bob looks down at the table and tries to make out the shape of the gun, but it’s too dark now. “No, I got to stay away from the gun. At least for a while. I’m too shaky these days.”

“The gun stays at the store.”

Bob says nothing, shifts his position in the chair, then says, “Well, I guess I quit.”

Eddie remains silent for a few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, “Okay. Fine. Quit. Just fucking quit.”

“I mean it, Eddie. I quit.”