Bassoonist v. Beader

The Bassoonist picks up his bassoon, wipes it clean with the hem of his jacket, replaces the reed (dirty), and plays Vivaldi to pass the time.

The Beader arrives. He's a blond, neolithic-looking man in blue overalls, a leather bomber jacket. Whatcha playing? he asks.

Vivaldi.

Looks like a bazooka.

It's a --

The Beader stops him. He holds out his arm, hand out. Then crouches slightly. Ho, he says. He asks the Bassoonist if he felt it.

What?

That tremor, says the Beader. I can feel tremors easy.

The Beader explains. When on leave one night while stationed in Japan, he was hit over the head and robbed of his wallet. He woke. His scalp was bleeding. On the ground beside him he saw the kitsune statuette, red with blood. Ever since then he's had a heightened sensitivity to seismic phenomenon.

Like dogs, he explains. And Polynesians.

The Bassoonist, seeing that his playing time is over, gruffly puts aside his bassoon, next to the upright bass.

There it is again, says the Beader. And again.

In the distance the makeshift shack stands by the overgrown well, the motor quiet, the wind-swept field deserted.

The Bassoonist stands, skeptically. He feels nothing. He says so.

There it is, again, says the Beader. The darndest - and there again! Like a low rumble. And now - gone.

They both wait for a long while. The phenomenon is over. The Beader scratches under his left arm, shaking his head. Peh, he says. Feh.

What happened to the kitsune statuette? asks the Bassoonist.

The Beader takes the statuette - a solid marble idol of a nine-tailed fox sitting on a rectangular pedestal - from his left pocket. He carries it, he says, wherever he goes.

Brings you luck? the Bassoonist asks.

The Beader's already busy rubbing down the pistol he's chosen with the statuette. He rubs the pistol up and down, then starts tapping it roughly. The barrel pings and clangs. Yeah, he says over the racket, I hit it on pretty much everything for luck. My tools, my car, my appliances. And so far? - the Beader turns to face the Bassoonist, flashing a wide chip-toothed grin - I've lived a blessed existence.

They take their guns to the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

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.

Bank Teller v. Bassist

Why the Bassist would bring his upright bass to a duel is a mystery, even the Bassist. It wasn't a decision, he contends, but a reflex. Whenever I leave my apartment I bring, he says, my bass.

The Bank Teller asks how often he leaves his apartment.

Often, he says.

The Bank Teller frowns. She tells him that he might as well play.

He grips the bass and plays. Then he begins whistling to the rhythm. By reflex, the Bank Teller begins dancing. She claps and dances and the Bassist plucks and whistles.

When the first song is over she asks him to play another. He plays a slower song by the same artist. They play and dance, respectively.

They stop half-way through the fifth song at the sound of a diesel engine coughing to life. They look to the northern fence. In the distance, in the northern field past the fence, they see commotion. The Bassist sets his bass against the oak. They walk to the northern fence.

Standing at the northern fence they smell the dead and look out to the field and see in the distance two men - one fat, one thin - a small filthy boy and a haggard woman standing around a heaving motor. The motor is situated next to the old wind-powered well. Now a motor-powered well. The Aviator's plane has disappeared. A hideous shack of red painted wood and recycled newspaper stands by the well. The men and boy and women dance as if drunk. They lurch and sway to the rhythmic pounding of the motor.

The Bassist leans forward. He squints. The Bank Teller touches his elbow, concerned.

From a bent and rusted pipe, the hollow gurgle of water - then a swift gush. Another. A fetid mud pours, frothing like foul champaign as it hits the earth. The woman sweeps her arms low, then high. She ululates amid piercing cries. The men stagger and sway. The boy shuffles in the semi-circle about the ground where the water pools.

This is why I stay in the city, the Bank Teller says.

The Bassist nods.

They shake their heads, return to the oak.

There, they choose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Basketmaker

The Bank Teller feels little. This comes as a surprise. She thought she had true feelings for the Bartender. But those feelings immediately dissipated once the Bartender fell lifeless on the turf. Maybe he wasn't such a catch, she says, after all.

The Basketmaker is a round young woman with a flat face. Her flat face wears a sad expression. She's clothed in a colorful patterned dress and boots and a bulky brown coat. She walks up to the oak. She and the Bank Teller speak.

Years ago, the Basketmaker says after a suitable amount of discussion, this was my people's land.

The two women look out over the the Basketmaker's ancestral land. The cairn, the creek, the copse, the corpses, the crows.

Nicer back then, says the Bank Teller, I'd bet.

I was worse, she says. Or the same.

The Basketmaker is a pessimist and a fatalist. A pessimistic fatalist. She plays euchre for money. She wins more often than she loses, but only feels satisfaction in loss. Thus perpetually unsatisfied, her world view is affirmed. The satisfaction from this affirmation is substantive: primarily represented by the money she wins from others, all optimistic determinists.

The Bank Teller decides, if she comes out of this alive, to move on with her life and marry the Pharmacologist.

The Basketmaker envisions a new design for a basket. A basket for keys and coins and cell phones. Also, maize.

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

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Bartender

The Bartender and the Bank Teller know each other from five years of business at the bank, and two years of business at the bar. And one year of no business at either the bank or the bar.

Hi, she says.

Hi, he says.

I'm still angry at you, she says.

I married her. I don't know why we can't just get over this, he says.

Is it true you proposed to her under an overpass?

The Bartender clarifies. It was under a drawbridge, he says. I don't know how the rumor got out that it was an overpass. Drawbridge.

The Bartender explains why both he and his wife are attracted to drawbridges. Romance of the drawbridge is one reason, but not the only reason. The other reason is the affordability of proposing under a drawbridge. Expenses are minimal, if not nil. Proposing under a drawbridge requires only three things:

- A route down the cliff to the water's edge, and from the waters edge to a spot beneath, or very close to beneath, the drawbridge in question.
- Good timing, if the proposal is to be done at the moment a drawbridge closes, thus symbolizing the connection of two masses viz. a conjoining metal. Drop-forged steel in the case of a drawbridge; gold in the case of an engagement ring.
- A sense of adventure.

The Bank Teller isn't impressed. She tells him he probably still thinks of her. He does, at night, at around nine-thirty. She thinks of him at around four in the afternoon. In this way, their relationship persists, though in time zones that are necessarily and temporally inconsolable.

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

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Barber

The Bank Teller looks down at her nails, purses her lips, then takes to filing again. She leans with her back against the oak. She looks out over the field to the fence, the smoldering ash of wood and bone, the stack of bodies, the crows.

The smell of death is still dense and thick, but less so than it was earlier, by the pile. She has cleaned her hands by the creek. She waits. And waits.

After she files her nails she pokes around the base of the tree. Seeing the trash piled a few feet away - mostly the Astronauts space food tubes - she resolves to burn these, too. She takes the tubes in her hands and makes for the pile, then gets second thoughts. Especially as the smell intensifies. Just outside the field of battle, just yards from the Banker's corpse, she drops the tubes in disgust and runs back to the oak.

The Barber arrives. His face is contorted, frowning. He holds his coat lapel to his nose.

Mfello, he says.

Hello, says the Bank Teller. Isn't that the worst smell you've ever smelled in your life?

The Barber says its not as bad as the smell of a paper mill, but close. He says this through his lapel, which muffles his voice, rendering it incomprehensible. He speaks at length this way, at times looking agreeable, at other times understanding, and at other times jocular. Each in turn. Then in combination, looking at once agreeable and understanding. Then understanding and jocular. Then jocular and agreeable. Then agreeable and jocular. Then understanding and agreeable. Then understanding and jocular. Then, in a show of particular conversationalist acumen that society allows barbers alone to display, the Barber speaks in a manner altogether agreeable, understanding and jocular.

I can't understand one damn thing ya'lls saying, baby, says the Bank Teller.

The Barber removes the lapel from his nose.

I said I think the Tigers might just win the pennant this year, he says. Then, overcome by the full odor of the half-burned remains, turns and vomits on the trunk of the oak.

They chose their pistols and take their places on the field, ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

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.