Bank Teller v. Bassoonist

The Bank Teller watches the field-dwellers from afar, deep into night, as they light a bonfire, their silhouettes blinking in the distance. By midnight the motor stops.

Later, the Bassoonist - a tall, extra large-framed man in drab colors and a drab coat and tortoise frame glasses - walks to the oak. He carries a bassoon under his arm.

Oh now this is a laugh, says the Bank Teller.

She asks if he, like the Bassist, never leaves his apartment without his instrument. He answers that he rarely leaves his apartment, though when he does its to drive to the symphony hall.

So, technically speaking, no, he says. Or not no but rarely.

Now it's a reflex? she asks.

No, he says. I brought it because I'd like to be buried with it.

That? It looks like a vacuum nozzle.

It's a bassoon.

Well, you might as well play something.

He asks if she has any requests. She asks for something jazzy. His eyes droop. Or impressive, she says. He coughs, then rights his instrument.

Goldberg Variations, variations 26 to 30, he says. On bassoon.

He plays.

Somewhere during variation 28, the Bank Teller yawns. The Bassoonist chucks his bassoon to the ground.

God dammit! he says. Do you know how hard that is to play? And what the hell is that throbbing?

They look over to the commotion in the field. The diesel motor's started again. She explains.

This is why I stay in my apartment, he says.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.