Kiss

The door of the camo van slid open. A pale man with a slithering walk and drooping posture climbed out. He wore a monocle; he had the vacant look of a man in shackles, ashamed, unarmed, nearly naked. Behind him came a second man, a big gorilla of a man with a grin that said ignorance, villainy, an angry ape shit monkey balls testosterone case kind of man. The kind of man you wouldn’t want to meet on speed-dating night. The kind of man whose inside is bound to be different than his outside; at least that’s what his mama always hoped.

There is a smell to the two of them, the way they move as they leave the van: compact, tightly wound, a conviction of violence even in the automatic whistling of the big man.

It’s odd, giving birth to these two brutes, one in an Italian suit and narrow expensive shoes, the other we assume with heavy brows and a flat broad voice. And yet there they are together, luring us into an underworld darkness, emerging from this panel van with bad intent, flagrant villains. No need for delicate psychic sensibilities to pick up on the reeking desperation of the pale man. He is sweating slightly, dabs at his thin mustache, thinking circular process thoughts: decisioning, coming to a compromise we can all agree upon, agreeing on a way to deny destiny, to bypass the interrogatory moment – here, can’t we all just be friends?

But the truth of the matter is that, no, we can’t all be friends. We can all have this vague feeling at times, so much commonality: we all have furniture, we all have cubicles, we all have moments of twinning with the office mate, the colleague, the incidental intimacies of work pulling us together. As these two had been pulled together. To steal diamonds, to sell guns, to sing the grateful song of the triumphant earthworm, unarmed yet ecstatic static cling bringing them together for crime, for punishment, for watching as their time together draws irresistibly closer to its unnecessary, violent end.

William thinks about butterflies, cranes, loose bright squares of origami paper, striped cotton sheets on a clothesline in his mother’s house when he was 12. Running through the sheets as the wind blows on a warm August day. The only shade in the ratty little yard. Something pushes him, pushes against his back. His future pressing down, so far from Tulsa, where this brute is not friendly, they’ve played cards and killed people, at least on paper, together.

Toby thinks William is German, but he is not; he’s just a skinny blonde guy from someplace Toby’s never been. There’s a lot Toby doesn’t know. Nothing important though. Need to know a few things. How to read a map. How to drive as if invisible. How to deliver the right severance package to the right corporate fuckup. Toby likes peaches, apple pie, remembers his own mother as if she’ll always be 35. She smacked him once in awhile, took the bus to work at the A&P, liked to bake when she had a little extra time. He and William used to talk about their moms, when they were out on the road together, killing time.

William’s achieving a form of buddahood, detaching from this moment, floating weightless away from Toby, from criminal intent, from judgment. He feels light, almost good. Toby takes him to breakfast, nice place, chilled grapefruit, quiet courtyard in a garden café. He eats his omelette, then William’s french toast and spoons the egg from a porcelain cup. They are best of friends at this last meal. Toby picks up the check, “I’ll get it, that’s ok, least I can do,” and they leave. Back into the windowless van and uptown where a final meeting will be held, lists will be made, consensus will be reached. By everyone but William, who will be attending this meeting at least in spirit, but will already have received his last, passionate kiss.