Broker v. Businessman

The Broker repeats the Bookseller's plan (as appropriated by the Broker), with this addendum:

It won't work the way it is now.

The Businessman tilts his head, opens his mouth, then closes it. He widens his stance, adjusts his belt. He's a tall, heavy-set man, a former college athlete. He wears his hair slicked and back, long in the back, and moves with quick jerks. Well just talk to me now--what's the real problem? he asks.

The Broker explains. The Businessman bobs his head. Okay, he says. So neither of us leaves. Other people can, right? So what about that guy?

The Businessman lifts his head, motioning north. In the field, hammering down a plank laid diagonal across the east wall of his shack, stands the thin hick. His free hand clutches a small nest of irregular nails.

The Businessman and Broker walk to the north fence. The Broker presses his fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. Then again. And again. Finally, the hick stops and turns. They meet his ovine gaze, all dull and sullen, with open expression, smiles and nods. Many entreaties to come closer before the hick looks about, chews a bit, then flips his hammer--gripping it at the head--and walks toward them.

The hick's dressed in denim overalls. Beneath his overalls cling two layers of unwashed, sweat-stained undershirt. His boots, immense, seem a few sizes too large. More, as he nears they notice his that his head seems disproportionate, too narrow when seen laterally. As if during infancy it'd been swaddled between the claws of an industrial vise.

He nears, closer, then steps close, uncomfortably close, within a foot. Too close for either of the other two men, who step back.

That your home? asks the Businessman.

The thin hick squints. He looks back. Then looks both men over. Then, slowly, starts laughing.

The Broker looks at the Businessman. The Businessman at the Broker. Then both at the hick. The hick continues laughing. They laugh too for a bit, then smile, then (done smiling) wait for him to stop. He does, eventually. When he stops, the Businessman starts his pitch. The pitch follows the idea proposed by the Broker, thought up by the Bookseller, agreed to by the Business Owner, up to a point. After the pitch, the Broker asks what he thinks. The hick, who gave the impression he'd been watching the movements of the Businessman more than listening, faces the Broker with sudden and vicious distain. Then looks back at the Businessman. He smiles at the Businessman.

You remind me of my brother, he says to the Businessman. He turns back to the Broker. And you remind me of that little faggot that's gets on TV some days, he says.

The Broker starts toward the hick. The Businessman pushes the Broker back, his girth between the two men. He waives them off, waves the insult off. Then whispers to the Broker, telling him to walk back toward the oak. At first the Broker refuses, insisting that the idea was his, but after minute the Broker relents and leaves.

The Businessman and the hick hash the details of the deal. Then the Businessman takes out a napkin--a crumpled napkin from a fast food restaurant--and on that napkin, using a bent knee, he writes out the terms of their agreement. Both parties sign. A brief exchange of money is made (bills counted, handed to the hick). Then the Businessman folds the contract and pockets it, they shake hands, and go their separate ways: the Businessman returns to the oak, the hick to his shack.

At the oak, the Broker asks what happened.

Deal's done, says the Businessman. We've got sanitation.

How much?

The Businessman takes out the contract and tosses it on the table by the guns. For shit, says the Businessman. Half the cash that mafioso lamp store owner had in his pockets for deposit, plus a claim on anything they find on the bodies, along with a pound of flesh.

The Broker figures he misheard.

No, the guy wanted it. I objected, but he intimated it was going to be a deal breaker, so--what the hell? The guy wants a pound of flesh from every new corpse, let him have it.

The Broker quietly touches his side, looking north, where the thin hick stands holding his claw hammer, looking south. Watching them, he realizes: the Broker and Businessman. Intent now, in a way. Waiting.

The Broker blinks.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Broker v. Business Owner

The idea's flawless.

Men are hired from the depressed local workforce at a discount rate. Just a small crew to come out here with shovels, all that stuff, and dig a mass grave somewhere nearby. I’m talking a nice sized mass grave. Size of an indoor pool, say. And the best quality for the departed, God bless their souls. That’s where we dump them, all the pieces right down the side together. Easy, all at once, using spades, rakes, whatever. A real operation. We hire them to clean up the other bodies, too. The half-buried one by the creek, the one overrun by maggots over where the road bridges the creek. You get the point. All chucked in the pit. Done.

And going forward?

Easy. We bring back the best diggers, a skeleton crew—-no offense, pun not intended-—and these people act as caretakers. New body? This time an individual grave. Maybe even a marker. Or maybe we set up some kind of incinerator. Options are limitless.

The Business Owner considers this. He nibbles at the insides of his cheek. Finally, he asks who’ll pay. The Broker reaches out his hand, taps the Business Owner on the chest. As if to threaten, or make a point.

That’s the beauty of it, the Broker says. The beauty of all this is if play it right, talk to your Accountant, keep the receipts—you can write this off as a corporate donation.

To who?

I don’t know. Your priest, your parish church.

The Business Owner asks him why he doesn't put in his money.

How can I write anything off as a corporate donation if I’m not incorporated? asks the Broker.

The Business Owner considers. He sees the benefit of the idea, yet understands the idiocy of believing it an expense that can be written off. Still, he thinks, after seventeen years in the discount lamp business, it would be nice to give back to the community. So he agrees.

The Broker’s pleased. He claps the Business Owner on the shoulder. Now it’s just up to one of us to go into town and hire the workers to start their work, he says.

The two men stand.

Birds chirp in the distance.

Neither move.

They both suddenly realize the flaw in the plan.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bookseller v. Broker

There's a section of every used bookstore where books on death are kept. There, there's always at least one copy of Denial of Death. Some people (not many, but some) claim the ability to determine the quality of a bookstore based on the quality of that copy.

First they find the book. Then they remove the book. Then they touch the cover carefully, with the tips of their fingers. They turn the book in their hands, inspecting the spine, checking for dog-earred pages, water marks left by coffee cups. In this way they learn things about the store's proprietor.

They open the book. They smell the pages. They smell for age. Some copies are opened and the fresh cool smell of the press still lingers. Others are dank. Others still carry the unmistakable scent—the saccharine, musty scent—of stale cigarettes. In this way they learn things about the store's patrons.

Less often they throw the book. In this way they learn things about the store's security.

They say that from the careful study of a store's copy of Denial of Death comes a picture of the store that somehow transcends the store's immediate state; that it opens an understanding encompassing both its past and future, its coarsest limitations and most glorious possibilities; that it mirrors the store in the way the cosmos mirrors our world. If you know what you're looking for.

These connoisseurs exist outside the understanding of most booksellers.

Present company included.

The Bookseller carries a copy of Denial of Death that's old and torn and slightly water damaged and, in parts, highlighted. And underlined. It's a paperback. In its seventh printing. Dog-eared. And inscribed by (to?) an H. Paul Gatomachia, in childlike cursive. It smells sharp, marine, with a subtle hint of cellar mildew.

It's the book that was in the Bookseller's back pocket. It's the book that's presently being read.

Until the Broker comes and interrupts.

But the Bookseller's relieved. He's relieved because he'd discovered why the book's been sitting unread in his store, in the section on death, for the past seven years, untouched. The Bookseller, in all his limited wisdom (booksellers' wisdom), considers it a hideous, horrible, unreadable book. (But feels he'd recommend it, if asked.)

The Bookseller explains his idea to the Broker. An idea that he's formed over the past few days. He speaks softly but enthusiastically. The Broker listens. But the Broker isn't really listening. But he is, in a way. But not. But he seems like he is. In a way.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.