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.