When the Art Director - an eager looking man in his early 30s in striped green slacks, pink shirt, silk tie and an expensive suit jacket - when the Art Director arrives from the road the Archivist walks briskly to meet him, occasionally tripping on field stones, holding his broken glasses in place. They meet. The Art Director regards him with ironic distance.
What do you do? asks the Archivist.
The Art Director seems a bit uneasy at being asked. He shrugs. Well, he says, I was a painter. Now I'm writing this comic novel.
Really? A cartoonist?
Well, says the Art Director, I mean - yeah. But not professionally.
What do you do for work?
The Art Director looks off. I'm a creative. I work in advertising, he says.
Advertising? No, says the Archivist. What do you do? Do you have a card?
Is this a duel or an audit?
The Archivist persists.
Here. The Art Director hands the Archivist his card. Senior Assistant Creative Director. That's the official title. I'm an art director.
Perfect, says the Archivist. He takes out his heavily redacted list of the dead. As the two walk to the oak, the Archivist explains his work. He shows the Art Director his list. The Art Director, after they choose their pistols, accompanies the Archivist to the line of corpses along the north fence.
Well, Jesus. I think that's - the actor that's been missing, says the Art Director, pointing to the Actor. He was in SWINGO!
Yes! cries the Archivist. My gosh. The Archivist uses this to arrange the names, sneezing throughout.
After they discuss and debate the possible occupations of the bodies, the list begins taking shape. When they do all they can, they take the field, fifteen paces apart.
If I die, says the Archivist, can you add me to the list?
Of course, says the Art Director, if you'll do the same for me.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
