Banker v. Bank Teller

The Banker starts his tape recorder.

He clears his throat.

It was a bright morning in May when I got the call from my secretary. Word from the hospital, she told me. Congratulations—you’re a father. Tell my wife to name the boy Henry, I said. Then gave the phone back to the hotel porter.

The Bank Teller, who'd been vomiting by the poplars by the road, arrives. The Banker shuts off the recorder. He nods. She wipes her brow with her coat sleeve.

They speak, then walk to the smoldering pile of bones. Around the ash runs a ring of black scorched grass, the untouched ends of half-burnt timber, the untouched ends of half-burnt appendages.

The Banker walks to the eastern fence to gather more timber. The Bank Teller throws hands and fingers and feet into the middle of the heap. The Banker throws on the timber. The pile smolders. The Banker gets takes out the Artist's box of matches and lights the clothes that the Bank Teller takes off the Bank Robber, then stuffs under the wood. Smoke rises. The timber catches.

They watch the fire.

I knew a man, says the Banker, that started his career as a bank teller in the town of Macklenburg, Alabama. Young man, high school drop out. Worked like hell, kissed ass, got promoted. Got promoted seven times in two years. Worked his way up to management, worked his way up to senior management. Ran the regional office, then ran every bank in the east, then every goddamn retail bank in continental US.

The Banker looks off nostalgically. Guess who that man was, he asks her.

You sir?

Fellow by the name of Trent Buckhalter. He was the first man I fired after graduating Yale, class of '72. Wept openly. Disgusting display.

Yes sir.

They return to the oak. The Banker choses his gun, the Bank Teller takes the other, and they both take the field. They stand ten paces apart.

Before we do this, I want you to know how very important you are to the bank, the Banker says. And that goes no matter what anyone says.

Yes sir.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Banker v. Bank Robber

Note: This installment of "The Duelists" was written by the Clerk, a guest contributor. - The Author

The Banker looks down at his watch, shaking his head. He is not accustomed to downtime- even on his honeymoon he managed to short some stock off on the Polynesians at the resort. A free moment is a wasted moment, he always said. Taking a tape recorder out of his coat pocket, he decided to get back to work on his memoirs.

Mistakes? Sure, I've made them, he mused, pacing around the table. Deals gone bad? Take a look at Poughkeepsie. Mistresses? I've had 'em in spades. Thought I could get away with it. Was I right? Oh baby, I was worst than right- I was wrong. Do it again? You bet your ass I would.

A loud retching is heard in the distance. The Banker pauses the tape.

After a while, you don't even notice the smell, the Banker tells the Bank Robber, wiping away vomit with a neckerchief. You ever lived by a paper mill? Now that's agony.

The Banker looks the Bank Robber up and down.

You're really not at all as I expected. Looks-wise, I mean. You don't look like you could hold up a mirror, let alone a bank.

The Bank Robber nods. He still had on the same t-shirt and jeans he wore to the coffee shop. He had considered dressing up, but ran out of time.

I get that a lot. What most people don't understand is- the industry has changed. It's all done on computers now, really. Just get the account numbers and re-route over the Internet. I'm lucky to do it at all, honestly. Most of the work has been outsourced.

The Banker kicks the dirt gently and looks into the distance, glumly nostalgic. Maybe it's the cremains, he thought, or maybe I'm just getting sappy in my old age. Times have changed? Kid, you're a dinosaur, and that big comet's coming right for you. One minute you're laying dames on a hotel bed covered in fifty dollar bills, and the next you're yesterday's news. Your face is still in the paper, sure, but they're wrapping fish in it.

The Banker turned and walked over to the table. Well, he says to the Bank Robber, time to cash the checks.

Hold on, hold on now, the Bank Robber pleads. I've robbed three banks- does that really qualify me as a bank robber? This isn't all I do, you know. Check my tax returns. I freelance, I play drums. Should I come back later?

They get the pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Banker

I have to bury these people, says the Bailiff.

He puts his hands on his hips. He spits. He thinks. He thinks of the Bandit. He thinks of the Balloonist. He thinks of the Baker. He thinks of the Baker's cat's eye. He thinks of cat eyes. He thinks of cats. He thinks of hats. He thinks of stovepipe hats. He thinks of stoves. He thinks of hellfire melting the writhing bodies of the eternal damned.

He decides to build a pyre.

He pockets the Artist's matches, takes the Attorney's tan briefcase - heavy with the book of law and legal drafts - to a spot just thirty feet southeast from the mass of the dead by the northern fence. He looks at the crows, the crows look at him.

He drops the briefcase then walks to the east timber fence. Using his stout fury, he rips the timber slats from the fence. Rips and rips and rips. Until there's a sufficient pile of timber. He moves the timber to where he set down the briefcase. After time he builds a makeshift pyre. With pages from the book of law and the legal drafts, and up using six matches, he lights the pyre.

The Banker arrives. Greying temples, sculpted jowls, unwavering gaze. Black overcoat, pinstripe suit, blue and white striped tie. He walks to the Bailiff.

What's this about here? asks the Banker.

The Bailiff explains.

The Banker thinks. He nods, takes off his overcoat, takes off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. They walk to the bodies. The crows scatter, flying or hopping away with satisfied insouciance. The two men set about carrying off the light, mostly-eaten bodies of Accountant, the Acrobat, the Actor, the Actuary, the Administrator, the Advocate, the Aerospace Engineer, the Agent, the Agronomist, the Air Traffic Controller, the Alchemist, and the Ambassador.

The clothes and dried flesh catch quickly. The smell is horrendous. Acrid, nauseating, sweet. The two men vomit until they can't vomit any more.

Once these are burnt to mostly skull and bone, they tear down more timber and move on to more bodies.

They throw in those bodies that are still decomposing, half-eaten: the bodies of the Anesthesiologist, the Analyst, the Animal Trainer, the Airman, the Anthropologist, the Arborist, the Archbi -

Should we burn this Archbishop? asks the Bailiff.

What's he gonna say if we do? asks the Banker.

They throw on the body of the Archbishop, the Archer, the Archaeologist, the Architect, the Archivist and the Armorer.

Throughout this work, the two men speak:

Sir, says the man in a nixonian tone, I've banked in Boston and New York. Banked in Charlotte and Los Angeles. Banked in Houston in the 70s. Miami in the 80s. Banked internationally. Buenos Aires. Geneva, Switzerland. London, Pittsburgh, Tacoma, Toronto, Hong Kong, Cape Town, Madras, Pago Pago. Banked the Isle of Wight. Across the Caribbean from Grand Bahama to the Turks and Caicos. I've banked every city I've known. Athens? Banked it. Milan? Two deals brokered with issuers of industrial automotive debt instruments. Ask me about Stockholm.

What about Stockholm?

Biggest deal our bank had seen out of Scandinavia. I made it happen. That's right, the man before you.

That's something.

That's banking. That's old fashioned banking. Deal-making. How'd'ya do, let's buy us a hooker and let's made a deal. Yes, I come from the original mold. Yankee thrift, Yankee heft. Strong shake, strong eye, strong chin. You get me?

I sure do.

Well good. I'm glad to help these dead with you. I'm a man of the people, you understand. I'm not above you. Monetarily, maybe. Do I wear black tie and know how to use a finger bowl? Sure. Attractive wife? Better believe it. Four days in the gym? I'll say so. One kid in Williams, the other at Yale? Yes, and I'm proud of it. But does that make me somehow superior to men like you? Good men of the earth? Well I say no. I say you have just as good a shot as I. How about that for a mindset, huh?

It's a good one.

It's what makes this country run, sir. No, I'm not ashamed to call you sir. You seem like a good man, good with his hands, good ideas. Burning bodies. Now that's not to say it's something I wouldn't have through up, but you thought it up first and I'm not less of a man to sit sullen because one man hit the spike before it was my turn to pitch the shoe. I'll roll up the sleeves, I'll grease the elbow. Look at me know. How do you like me, now?

I like you just fine.

I think we're pals. You a family man? You know golf? Answer the second question first.

I think we're as done for now.

This was true. They fire had calmed. The new bodies heaped didn't catch like the earlier bodies. They smoldered, roasting atop coals. A worse smell couldn't be described. It clung to their clothes, to their skin.

We did an exemplary job here. First rate work, says the Banker.

They get the pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.