Ambassador v. Anesthesiologist

The Ambassador wipes the pistols to the side of the rosewood table. He empties his pockets. He lays everything out. A silver bill clip (containing $313) engraved with the initials B.O.J., a silver-inlaid pen knife, a set of keys with a silver boat anchor keychain.

He stretches against the tree, lunging, hands before him, palms to the trunk, head down, pressing, releasing. He stretches his legs, he stretches his arms. He decides to jog. He jogs a triangular route from the oak to the eastern fence to the creek, back and forth from the far creek to the oak. He does this 100 times or so.

The Anesthesiologist arrives and watches the Ambassador jog. The Anesthesiologist is a heavyset bald man. He wears a fine open-collared shirt beneath a casual brown corduroy jacket. His gut sags over his pressed chinos. He walks in scuffed Italian leather shoes.

The Anesthesiologist bores quickly. He whistles, motioning. The Ambassador stops before him, jogging in place.

Sir, you'll have to wait, says the Ambassador. Sir, I'd rather not wait, says the Anesthesiologist.

The Ambassador lays a sweaty hand on the Anesthesiologist's shoulder. Before we engage, says the Ambassador, I'll need to warm up physically. I'll also need to jog away the terrible thoughts that arose after killing that strange young man laying there with arms splayed. He gestures toward the body of the Aerospace Engineer with his chin. Then salutes. He continues his jog.

The Anesthesiologist steals sixty dollars from the Ambassador's bill clip.

100 laps or so later, the Ambassador stops before the Anesthesiologist again. There are deep sweat stains under his arms and down his chest and around his groin. What a jog, he says.

I'll pay you twenty dollars for your pen knife, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry but it was a gift from my mother, says the Ambassador. Fourty, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry, I could never part with it, says the Ambassador. Sixty, says the Anesthesiologist. Done, says the Ambassador, snatching the bills. The Anesthesiologist takes the silver-inlaid pen knife from the table. Well this is a piece of shit, says the Anesthesiologist. He throws it on the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his scuffed Italian leather shoe.

Sir, have I mentioned that I'm an ambassador? asks the Ambassador.

Really? You look like a piece of shit, the Anesthesiologist says.

And I sincerely apologize for that, says the Ambassador.

They take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Aerospace Engineer v. Ambassador

The rain subsides, the mist rises. It fades.

The Aerospace Engineer, hanging the soaking English hunting jacket on the nail in the tree, shivering, still wet, walks from under the dripping canopy of the oak. He walks away from the bodies, away from the field of battle. He walks to the south, where in the far distance over the fallow ground tall weeds and saplings grow from the lip of a shallow creek. The air is sweet, clean after the rain. The creek runs high. He returns, unsure why, to the oak.

After some time the Ambassador walks from the road along the field's western edge. He left his house that morning with the intention of dressing well for the duel. But a sudden apathy - apathy and melancholy - took hold of him. He left wearing sweat pants, a blue fleece, a baseball cap with an eagle embroidered in silver. He went without kissing his wife or his child. When he and the Aerospace Engineer meet, he apologizes. He explains himself.

I am an ambassador to a country that once existed and may again exist, but currently does not, says the Ambassador. Now whether this makes me as an ambassador at all I have, to be very honest, no damn clue. I sometimes doubt it. Today I woke doubting and I feeling like hell.

The Aerospace Engineer asks how a country can fail. He asks how a country can redeem itself. He asks whether the Ambassador's purpose is to reestablish his purpose as ambassador. I specialize in predicting failure, he says.

The Ambassador looks off to the west. Listen, I just regret not dressing better, he says. That's all I know and I've had this regret my entire life. As competent a bureaucrat, as gracious a conversationalist as I am, I've on important occasions kept poor appearance. Inappropriate to my station. I believe this to be the root of my failure; had I dressed better, I may have been named ambassador to a country that exists. I am a shadow of the man I could have been.

I've failed at predicting failure. In failure or success I've found no purpose, no difference. And now I can't recognize myself, or failure, or success, the Aerospace Engineer says.

I could go for a drink, says the Ambassador.

The two men take their place on the field, standing fifteen places apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Aerospace Engineer v. Alchemist

Fog turns to mist. Mist turns to dark cold spring rain.

The Aerospace Engineer sits beneath the oak, miserable, clutching his windbreaker, the Actor's red English hunting jacket hanging loose over his head. Somewhere a dog barks. From the stand to the east the Alchemist emerges. He walks slowly, carefully making his way over the timber fence, across the field to the oak. He wears a long black thick wool cowl, hood covering his face. Beneath this a fine academic gown, a fox fur collar. He regards the Aerospace Engineer with concern. You seem large for a Homunculus, says the Alchemist. Everything is relative, replies the Aerospace Engineer. The Alchemist considers this, then shrugs.

The Alchemist's face is gaunt and tired but his eyes are intelligent, bright, blue. A dark beard flows to a point below his collar, beneath which hangs a gold ouroboracular medallion. Tell me, he says, standing beside the Aerospace Engineer, back close to the trunk of the oak, you won't lead me to her. Will you?

The Aerospace Engineer's eyes look to the body of the Agent, then quickly away. All this hidden under the shelter of the Actor's English hunting jacket. I don't know her, he says, and didn't.

The Alchemist walks slowly from the tree to the rosewood table. He bends to inspect the pistols. He touches nothing. He bends over the pistols for a long while before picking one up, gently, and examining the mechanism. The Aerospace Engineer stands, walks over and explains. He mentions nothing of his notes. He leads the Alchemist to the field. They take their places, fifteen feet apart.

The Alchemist looks at the pistol, then to the Aerospace Engineer, then - at the sound of the second bark - with wry expression to the stand of trees behind the fence to the east. The Aerospace Engineer stares ahead, fair wet hair molded, dripping, squinting against the rain.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Aerospace Engineer v. Air Traffic Controller

The Aerospace Engineer sits beneath the oak and takes new notes, updates old notes, redraws Reliability Block Diagrams, then stops taking notes and stares at the far stand behind the timber fence. He stares for a long time. He feels he's done taking notes.

The Air Traffic Controller steps from a fog that's blown in from the west. He spits tobacco juice into an empty plastic soda bottle. Hell of a fog, he says. The Aerospace Engineer has a difficult time smiling, let alone looking the Air Traffic Controller in the eye, but does both.

Hell of a fog, repeats the Air Traffic Controller. He's an affable, pear-shaped man with a dull yellow smile. He speaks.

This one time my partner called in sick and so I worked alone at the radar console at the airport when a fog blew in from the west. I fell asleep at some point during the night, during a time of quiet between flights, in the early morning when there aren't many aircraft taking off or landing. And then I woke and heard the sound of sirens and crashes and another crash and on my radar screen there was all sorts of dots flying into each other and after each one I heard the sound of a crash and the radio was just blaring with yelling and screaming and crying and everything and I flew into a panic. And then I wake up again, and I realize that was all a nightmare. But the radio's quiet. And I see dots but just a few and they're apart and I just have no idea how long I've been asleep for. And then I think that maybe this is the real nightmare, and an even worse nightmare because it's a nightmare that keeps me asleep while a real worse nightmare - a true nightmare - is happening in the waking world, behind all that fog, above my sleep. And I try and try to wake myself up, do everything to wake up, but I just can't. But I can't stop trying because who knows, right? And it was the most harrowing time of my life up until past dawn when the fog burned off that I realized that I was awake and I didn't cause no accident for anyone.

The Air Traffic Controller spits more juice into the soda bottle. The end, he says. He smiles.

Wordlessly, they take their place on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Aerospace Engineer v. Agronomist

The Aerospace Engineer does questionable things to the Agent's body. The Agronomist watches from a distance.

The Agronomist walks up to the Aerospace Engineer with pistols in hand. He hands one to the Aerospace Engineer. The Aerospace Engineer accepts the gun, raises his trousers, stands, and takes his place on the field, fifteen paces away.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Aerospace Engineer v. Agent

The Aerospace Engineer walks the field and takes notes. He examines the decomposing bodies and takes notes. He walks beneath the canopy of the oak, examines the pile of pears and trash and takes more notes. Notes, notes, notes. He takes notes with the Actuary’s silver pen that he found in the Actor’s English hunting jacket worn by the Advocate. (A fact that's noted.) Everything that can be noted the Aerospace Engineer notes, then takes notes on those notes. Using the notes of the notes he takes he makes tiny precise Reliability Block Diagrams.

The Agent repels from a private helicopter. She unhooks the carbiner, steps from the harness, and waves the helicopter off. She rights her hair with a graceful sweep.

Where is he? asks the Agent. The Aerospace Engineer smiles nervously. He tilts his head slightly, looking off, thinking how best to answer. The Agent takes off her black leather gloves, exasperated, finger by finger. She is dressed in black designer clothing. Black blouse, black scarf, black knee-length skirt, high black boots, black purse. The Actor, the Actor, you idiot, she says, the Actor.

The Aerospace Engineer exclaims softly, then leads her to the pile of decomposing bodies off in the distance. When the Agent sees the open-eyed corpse of the Actor she slaps his dead face with her glove. Idiot, she says, loser, idiot. She turns and walks back to the oak, to the rosewood table. The Aerospace Engineer follows.

Who are you, says the Agent, turning suddenly to face the Aerospace Engineer. He introduces himself. Just great, she says sardonically, big headline in Variety: Agent Killed in Duel by Austrian with Asberger’s.

In point of fact, says the Aerospace Engineer, raising his notebook, I haven’t found correlation –

Listen sweetie, says the Agent, I’m here to kill or be killed. Not to function as an interlocutor, says the Aerospace Engineer. Choose your weapon, she sighs, throwing weight on her back foot. They choose pistols and take their place on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Advocate v. Aerospace Engineer

The Advocate hauls the fresh body of the Actor away. He hauls the decomposing bodies of the Administrator and of the Actuary and of the Acrobat and of the Accountant away. He piles them atop each other in no specific order.

The Advocate kicks the pears in a pile. He gathers the broken frame and the glass and the timber and the Styrofoam packing material and the Accountant's newspaper and throws it all in a pile. He pockets the Actuary's silver pen. He disrobes and dons the Actor's red English hunting jacket. He hangs his wig and gown on the nail in the oak. The Advocate is balding.

The Aerospace Engineer arrives. He asks the Advocate (in a cheerful tone) if the Advocate is here for a duel. I am, the Advocate says (in a less than cheerful tone, but far from a cheerless tone). Good, good, says the Aerospace Engineer, I'm in the right place.

The Aerospace Engineer is a young, fair-haired, slope-shouldered man, slim and tall and awkward. He regards the Advocate, a balding man with a pronounced forehead, with deference. The Advocate's eyebrows are untrimmed and this along with the pronounced forehead and bald head adds a severity to his gaze. The Advocate gazes at a notebook in the front pocket of the Aerospace Engineer's windbreaker.

This notebook is filled with abstruse ideas and Reliability Block Diagrams, says the Aerospace Engineer. The Aerospace Engineer works in reliability engineering.

The Advocate asks him to speculate. The Aerospace Engineer considers, then apologizes, saying that, having just been introduced to the dynamics at play within this existence, knowledge of the factors (static and variable) is so limited that any opinion on his behalf at this period in time would be pure conjecture.

The Advocate sighs and walks to the rosewood table. The Advocate takes up two pistols. The Advocate walks to the Aerospace Engineer and asks him to choose. The Aerospace Engineer chooses a pistol and they walk to the place in the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Actor v. Advocate

It's early morning when the Actor wakes to the crack of a pistol, the sharp splintering of glass above him and glass showering his face. The Actor jumps to his feet. A stout man in black gown, wig, and white bow tie stands fifteen paces from the trunk of the oak. The man raises his pistol and cocks his pistol and fires again. This man is the Advocate. The Actor falls. The framed photograph, knocked from its center by the first bullet, bucks wildly from the second bullet and falls, landing at the base of the oak, propped by a root of the oak, beside two rotting pears lying adjacent to the Actor's face.

Stop, says the Actor. The Advocate advances. Do you know who I am? asks the Actor. I do, says the Advocate. The Actor frowns, shaking glass from his hair.

The Advocate picks up the framed photograph and nods and shows the Actor. The Actor's wife is shot between the eyes and the face of his mistress is missing, a smoking bullet hole. The Advocate drops the framed photograph in the Actor's lap. The Actor tosses the frame aside and stands.

The issue here, says the Actor, standing over the Advocate, is transgression of unspoken rules. You can't just come here and start shooting pistols at random. We're here for a duel. The Actor jabs the Advocate on the chest with his knuckle. And what's more that's my pistol with the red ribbon, he adds. The Advocate looks down and flips the pistol and holds the pistol by the barrel and carefully removes the red ribbon. The Actor takes the ribbon. The Advocate raises the pistol and then brings the butt down on the Actor's nose. The Actor falls.

The Advocate walks to the rosewood table and picks up the other pistol. He throws the other pistol at the Actor's feet then takes his place on the field. The Actor stands and takes the pistol and takes his place fifteen places away.

I should let you know, says the Actor, holding his bloody head back, pinching his bloody nose shut, that I've shot two men and a woman dead on this field.

Ball sack, says the Advocate.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Actor v. Administrator

The Actor stands leaning with his back against the oak, left foot crossed casually over the right, working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper left by the Accountant with the silver ballpoint pen left by the Actuary. From nearby he hears excited breathing that rises seamlessly from the ambient noise of the field - chirping, trilling, the far-off sound of fieldwork.

The Actor blinks. He lowers the newspaper. He looks to the right.

The Administrator stands a pace away. She's heavyset, heavily made up, wearing heavy faux-leather boots and a heavy pink coat. She steps half a pace closer to the Actor.

You're -, says the Administrator. No, says the Actor. But -, she says. No, he says, I'm not. Not that I'm not flattered, the Actor adds, because I am flattered, and I get this all the time. I don't believe you, the Administrator says. It's true, the Actor says, I'm not him, I'm just an ordinary Actuary. It's uncanny, she says, looking him over. I'm flattered, he says.

Oh well, says the Administrator, you are shorter than he is. The Actor shrugs. And your nose is bigger, says the Administrator. The Actor shrugs. And your face lacks that unnameable quality which elicits an immediate rapport, an aesthetic and emotional connection with the audience, a distinction that transcends the banal yet suggests familiarity, a rare face upon which the pith of the human condition can be expressed, expressed with unflinching brutality, totality. The Actor shrugs.

The Administrator notices the framed photograph of the Actor's wife and passport photo of the Actor's mistress hanging at eye-level on the tree. What exactly does an Actuary do? asks the Administrator. Mind your own business, says the Actor.

Having run out of things to say, the Actor suggests a duel. The Actor takes his weapon and the Administrator takes the other weapon and they take the field, 15 paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Actor v. Actuary

The Actuary stands leaning with his back to the oak, left foot crossed casually over the right, working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper left by the Accountant with a silver ballpoint pen. He's a slim, fit man in his early forties, with rectangular black framed glasses and graying temples, keen eyes and manicured hands. He wears a dark pinstripe suit, a blue Oxford shirt, a conservative striped tie tied in a half-Windsor knot. He stands waiting for the Actor to wake. Now with the Actor awake, he rounds the tree, hand outstretched.

The Actor and Actuary shake hands. The Actor introduces himself in a charitable way, the Actuary directly. The expectant pause after the introductions leave the Actuary uneasy. The Actor frowns. The Actuary asks if they had met previously. The Actor explains. The Actuary apologizes, explaining that he's more of a reader.

I don't watch television, explains the Actuary, though that's not to say I'm opposed to it. I'm not on television, I'm in film, says the Actor. The Actuary shrugs. The Actuary says his wife watches a television show about people that work in a hospital. I'm not on television, the Actor says.

The Actuary asks if the woman in the small framed photograph hanging at eye-level from the trunk of the oak is the Actor's wife. It is, says the Actor. The Actuary asks if the woman in the creased passport photo stuck into the lower right hand corner of the frame is the Actor's daughter. Mind your own business, says the Actor.

The Actor walks to the table where the pistols rest. Please choose your pistol, the Actor says. The Actuary walks and places the Accountant's newspaper on the table and spends several minutes inspecting the two weapons. Why does this pistol have a red ribbon tied to the barrel, the Actuary asks, holding the pistol. Because that's my pistol, says the Actor, who takes the pistol with the red ribbon from the Actuary's hand and walks to his place on the field. The Actuary takes the second pistol and joins the Actor, 15 paces away.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Acrobat v. Actor

The Actor, an English hunting jacket draped over his arm, steps over the timber fence and walks across the field toward the oak where the Acrobat sits. The Actor walks up and coughs and the Acrobat, sitting on a crate, facing the stand of trees in the distance, makes a perfunctory motion indicating awareness of a presence, but otherwise remains as he was. The Actor asks what the Acrobat is sitting on. A crate, says the Acrobat, filled with pears. There is a pause before the Actor asks, did you bring the pears? The Acrobat shakes his head. Where did you get the pears? Providence, says the Acrobat.

The Acrobat stands. He turns to face the Actor. There's a look, then a second look. I know your face, says the Acrobat. I know, says the Actor. You were in -, says the Acrobat. I was, says the Actor. You won -, says the Acrobat. I did, says the Actor. You -, says the Acrobat. I will, says the Actor. This goes on for some time, just like this, until the Actor suddenly throws down his hunting jacket, picks up the Acrobat's crate and dashes it against the side of the oak, an explosion of timber, ripe pears, timber, styrofoam packing material falling to rest on the ground under the canopy. I hate pears, says the Actor, and I hate acrobats. Let's select our weapons, suggests the Acrobat. Okay, says the Actor. The Actor decorates the pistol he choses with a red ribbon from his mistress. The Actor is an unabashed sentimentalist.

They take their places, 15 paces apart.

Let me take this last opportunity to say that as a man of artistic inclinations I myself completely understand the demands of craft and for this reason I am not in the least bit offended by your sudden outburst and the destruction of my property and I'll add that frankly I've grown sick of pears and doubt I will ever eat one again in my life.

The Actor is touched by the Acrobat's statement yet affects contempt. (Acting.)

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Accountant v. Acrobat

The Accountant stands in a field in a rural area outside the city where he works. The Acrobat stands there too. They both stand in an empty field and on a table - a well-crafted rosewood table, by the look of it made by Shakers - under the canopy of a solitary oak there rests two loaded pistols. The Acrobat is eating a pear and the Accountant takes the folded newspaper held under his arm and places it on the table.

How did we come to be here, the Accountant asks. The Acrobat shrugs and says he wonders the same but he's not a man predisposed to dwell on the origin of things but to train his body to meet the demands of the routine he's developed. He's a lithe one, hard-faced, affects an air of disillusionment, countered only by the passion with which he eats the pear. He states (unnecessarily) that it's a good pear, and the Accountant asks (even more unnecessarily), is it really, and the Acrobat nods and throws the core and the stem - the stem having detached from the core - at the trunk of the oak, where they bounce off, landing at the base, propped by a root of the oak.

I've studied this routine and think I understand it in its entirety and so if you don't mind let's get started, said the Acrobat, who was stretching.

The Accountant, a tall, doughy middle-aged man with a bulbous nose and large tortoise frame bifocal eyeglasses, in a white shirt with no tie and a pair of size 54 dark grey slacks, and black patent leather shoes his wife had found on sale at the outlet store not in their suburb but another just a bit further down the highway, says okay. Let's choose guns the Acrobat says. The Accountant and Acrobat stand over the table and, after inspecting both guns, chose their gun. Let's walk out to the field, the Acrobat says, and the Accountant says okay.

They walk out to the field, standing 15 paces from each other. Then the Accountants says it's still nagging him. What, says the Acrobat. Just the question before, says the Accountant. There doesn't seem much accounting for it. The Acrobat asks if this is an accounting joke, but the question is lost on the Accountant, who wasn't joking.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.