they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  -Do you need another? He was leaning in, looking at me like I was his kid and he’d just felt my forehead. You need to breathe.

  -I’m breathing. I’m alright. And then I asked, a mumble, Who was that woman?

  He looked down, I assume at the body, looked back up, didn’t say anything, asked me if I wanted a thicker coat.

  -No.

  -Or a sweater?

  I shrugged, knew I was still breathing very heavily, saw he was sneering, but friendly, curling his lip up, looking down at the ground next to me. I glanced down—my pants, my belt—and then he told me Put your shoes back on and that we had to get going.

  It was windy once we were back outside. He paused to ask me was I sure about not wanting another coat. I didn’t answer and he closed the door, locked it, looked at me, blank, twenty seconds, smiled. I realized I’d have to start walking first.

  We got to the park, again, but took a different path than we had come down, Donald nodding his head to a man who walked by.

  -Stop and turn around he told me, after just another few steps. He looked at my face hard, stared, then told me to start him a cigarette. You’re not thinking about anything are you, Roger?’

  I scooped around the match, lit his cigarette, handed it to him.

  -Don’t think about anything, Roger. I know you are, obviously you are. But I wouldn’t bother.’

  He said something else, but I coughed at the same time and he made a motion for me to turn, keep going, seemed not to care I hadn’t responded or maybe it hadn’t needed a response.

  ***

  When we came to a pocket of shops and restaurants, a kind of little downtown area, I was shivering, almost too aware of the cold. It was a relief to step inside of a bar, the place an echo of voices, none of the words seeming to match up to any of the moving mouths I’d glance at, down from, worried that Donald would think I was up to something.

  -We’ll get something to eat in awhile, he said, standing at the bar but nodding at a free stool, that I should sit there. You should get another drink, warm you up, get me one too, bourbon neat.

  He took out a phone, other hand at the gun in his long pocket. When his call was connected, he looked at me, quizzed up his brown, made a hand wave to get the bartenders attention then tapped the leg of my stool with his foot, chuckling. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me to hear him, it seemed, because he just stood, talking to someone he called Greg, it was just, I supposed, that he actually wanted his bourbon.

  When the drinks came, he told Greg to hold on, set his phone down, took the drink at a mouthful, laughed, pointing at me, then, still breathing heavily from the slug, went back to talking.

  I sipped at my drink, bourbon, same as Donald’s had been.

  It was strange to think that I’d been right not to have tried anything with him earlier, not to have run—he would have shot me dead, no trouble, or anyway he would have made it a point to find me, gun me down. The verification was terrible, though—on the one hand I’d been correct, but on the other hand now I’d lost any chance of making an attempt, the only thing I’d had before was the doubt, something to niggle around with, now there was nothing.

  But was that true?

  I blinked.

  I blinked.

  Was he certain to kill me?

  I recalled the woman, her ordinary pleasantness in having an opportunity to introduce herself.

  I looked over at Donald, having a laugh into his telephone, couldn’t really understand it.

  If he wanted to kill his wife, that was nothing to do with me, but I was something to do with him. Maybe he wouldn’t kill me, maybe I was just meant to be his witness.

  But what did that mean?

  Not that I could leave, certainly.

  I watched him, hardly even looking at me, either so confident that I wouldn’t try anything else or else confident that he’d be able to handle anything I did try—that or just out of orbit, entirely, off someplace where there was no certainty, no uncertainty.

  I’d finished my drink so I ordered another, Donald noticed, made a tick with his fingers that he’d take a second, as well.

  -Start a tab? the bartender asked.

  I was shaking my head No when Donald cut in with No thanks, but do you have the number for a cab?

  -You want me to call for you?

  -Could you?

  Donald went back to his call, I told the bartender thanks, mumbled how any cab would do, it didn’t matter, but she wasn’t listening to me or I wasn’t talking loud enough she’d think I was talking to her.

  The gun was in the pocket closest to me, he was distracted—I thought about it, about waiting until he set his phone down, went for his drink, shot it back, maybe if I seemed lost in my own thoughts, even looking the other way, I could pounce in that moment.

  The gun was right there.

  If he fired, would it hit me?

  Say it did, then where? My leg, through my hand?

  I could run, struggle, bite him. There would be a panic, a confusion, someone might try to help me.

  Say the gun goes off, again?

  Who cares?

  Donald’s drink went down, his telephone, he shot the bourbon back, swallowed, set the empty down, flicked it, while coughing a bit, picked up the phone, pointed at my shot.

  -Cabs on the way, the bartender said.

  I nodded, left an entire twenty dollar bill, Donald pointing at my drink again, stern, but more like a pal goading me on, not letting me back out of a deal. I drank it in three swallows and he closed his phone, put it in his pocket.

  -Let’s wait outside.

  I wanted to, but didn’t want to, just stood and adjusted at my coat, looked at my hands, the first of the bourbon clambering up my back, my head lofty and dense.

  -You’ll like Greg, Donald told me while I got a cigarette lit, then while I lit one of his he said that Greg had once been arrested for stealing a fish. I waited for something else to the statement, but that was it.

  Donald took his cigarette, moved a few paces away and looked up and down the road.

  I remembered my phone, almost made a sudden move to my pockets.

  Where was it?

  My inside coat pocket. I made as subtle a touch there with the side of my hand as I could.

  Donald waved and a cab lulled up to the curb. He held the door for me, let me get in first.

  It was warm, I wanted to close my eyes, closed my eyes, but when my thoughts disjointed, when I couldn’t keep to a single sentence, I opened them, looked at the cars around the taxi, all of us stationary for a moment.

  Donald chatted with the driver about nothing, not even keeping an eye on me. I squirmed, the warmth making me aware that I needed to urinate, the sensation, a hot point, took all my attention, I made controlled breaths, stared at the unlocked lock of the inside of the door.

  ***

  I mentioned to Donald that I had to use the toilet, he smiled. This was another residential area, townhouses, I imagined we were going into one of five in the row we’d stopped in front of, the lights out on all of them, freezing cars parked along the curb.

  -Here, we’ll go around back this way, he touched my shoulder, a friendly pat, and we wound around, down a lope of hill, to the shared parking area behind the houses.

  It was pitch dark and even in the cold I could smell the dumpsters we were approaching. He slowed his pace, didn’t say anything and I entered the enclosure, the gate swung halfway opened, stuck in that position.

  For a moment, I wondered would I be able to relieve myself, wondered if I should look for something, maybe something blunt to get the drop on Donald with, but as soon as my pants were undone I began to urinate, the sensation so complete, bracing, I was absorbed in it, eyes closed, bobbing, listening to the stream froth in the random debris that cluttered the pavement.

  I closed my pants, knew there was nothing to do but go back out to Donald—he knew I was finished, I didn’t wan
t to give him any reason to think I might be trying something, it might put a worm of doubt in him, undo any chance I’d have if I did think of some way to actually get out, get help.

  My telephone.

  We walked back up the hill, walked to the stairs of the third house in the row, Donald knocked.

  What was I going to do with my telephone? What was the best thing I could hope to do with that? Call the police?

  A man who looked a lot like Donald, dressed in just lounge clothes, opened the door and made an effusive gesture.

  -You’re Roger? he asked, shaking my hand and touching my shoulder as I moved past, to which I nodded, Donald telling Greg—or I supposed it was Greg—that we’d bumped into each other and that I’d bought a few rounds. Good man, then, good man. Next rounds are on me, of course.

  Donald laughed, said Too kind and we got into a living room area, fairly well appointed, but oddly not put together, no thought really to the layout of the sofa and the small tables, the books were partway lined on the shelves, partway in odd side turned stacks.

  Donald said I should have a seat, indicated the big plush chair, and he sat on the sofa, somewhat diagonal to me, while Greg went around to the kitchen, returning with a bottle and some shot glasses.

  -Unless you want a glass? he said to Donald, both of them laughing, clearly an in-joke.

  Donald’s hand wasn’t on the gun, he was behaving freely, but I supposed that made sense—there were two of them, now, and even if Greg didn’t know about the gun, if I tried something funny he’d obviously follow Donald’s lead.

  I took a shot when it was offered, wanting to make it obvious to Donald that I wasn’t going to clam up, that I wasn’t lost in some scheme against him.

  Greg and Donald touched shot glasses, made some toast I didn’t understand, then while Greg poured more bourbon Donald said I told Roger here about how you stole that fish that one time.

  Greg made a playful ugly face, pointed at me.

  -That was my fish, he said, I was stealing it back. Fish are property and that one was mine.

  I said I agreed, not to go fooling around with a man’s fish and this made Donald laugh, push down on this thighs with his hands.

  Were we going to sit around getting drunk?

  If I could dial my phone, dial the police and leave it on, tuck it in my pocket, the call connected, that would be traced, the police might show up.

  No.

  I took another drink, figured I should stop, that it wasn’t helping my reasoning, but then thought to the contrary, it was keeping me fluid and, moreover, it was keeping Donald—or seemed to be—completely off his guard. It was as though he was convinced I was with him, one of them, with he and Greg.

  The police, no. They show up, it’s clear how they got there and Donald tucks me away someplace, has Greg whisk me out the back—or even he just keeps the gun trained on me, chats the police away, then once they go he’d end me without even blinking.

  And could the police track a phone that precisely, or would they just know I was on X block versus Y?

  I sank into my chair, took one last shot because it was thrust at me insistently and Greg, pointing at the television screen a moment then waving at it dismissively, started in on telling Donald some meandering story about something that had happened at the store where he worked and midsentence, two minutes in, mid-word Donald pulled the gun from his pocket, thrust it toward Greg, pulled the trigger, hardly a flash, the crisp slap of the shot, Greg’s body going an odd step, like a cartoon slipping on ice, then the room was silent, even with the pointless burble of the television going.

  Donald stood, gun at his side. He picked up a shot glass, seemed to think the better of it, turned and stared at me, gun going back into his coat.

  I was taking purposeful breaths through an O-shape push of my lips—long breath out, stop, count three, suck in through the nose.

  Donald sat down, turned up the television volume a bit, looked over at me every few minutes for a half hour that I counted off on the stereo clock one number at a time.

  It was too much to keep thinking, especially with the alcohol, I kept tensing myself, trying to gauge if every shot of the bourbon had hit, yet, if I had peeked, would start drifting back toward sober. I was leaning with my head to my chin, the breath out my nose obstructed, a whistle. I was pretending to be asleep, the same trick as I’d pulled in middle school, trying to miss the bus.

  I heard Donald stand and without needed to be told, I stood up, too.

  ***

  Donald called for another taxi from just inside Greg’s door, patted me on the shoulder, told me to start him a cigarette and that I should have one. When we walked outside, he turned and did a playact of saying Goodnight to Greg and I even did a fake chuckle, completely lost, no idea who the show was for.

  We sat on the bottom stair, my eyes immediately starting to water from the cold. When I rubbed at them, it made it worse, one eye especially, I rubbed and rubbed.

  -What’s the matter? You have something in your eye?’ he said this with almost a friendly tone of mocking, like we were just pals who’d be drinking, on our way home, bored humor.

  I kept rubbing, Donald not pressing for an answer to his question. I almost wanted to ask if I could go back inside, throw some water on myself, but there was no way this wouldn’t sound off. I got tense, worried now that in my loose state I’d just say something unguarded and then—pop—a bullet in me, left in a lurch on somebody’s front stairs.

  -We’re going back to town, first, get something to eat, I’m hungrier than I feel I should be, so we’ll get something to eat, first. That alright?’

  I nodded, knuckle pressing at my watering eye. The tone of the question—that it was a question—threw my equilibrium way off, I hardly knew what I was thinking about.

  First.

  He’d said First we’re eating.

  It turned out to be the same exact taxi driver, he rolled down his window as he pulled up, waved with a laugh like having the same fare twice in one night was something sensational to him.

  A few minutes into the ride, taking on a very purposeful tone, an expansive, disguising tone, Donald touched my leg, once, nodded very sincerely.

  -I’m very proud of you, Roger, I’m very proud of how you’ve been handling things. I think you really get it.

  I gave a casual look to what I could see of the driver’s face in the rearview, but the driver didn’t seem to be paying particular attention. Still, I knew that a performance was necessary, to indicate I knew what Donald was doing and could act on his decisions quickly.

  -Thanks, man. You know. Something new. But I’m coming to understand it.

  He laughed, turning his attention to the view outside his window.

  -You’re a sharp cookie, a sharp sharp cookie.

  The conversation ended without my having to add anything else. I glanced to the rearview again, the driver still not looking.

  I wanted to believe that Donald’s statement meant that I was going to be alright, but it couldn’t possibly mean that—it couldn’t mean I’m not going to shoot you if you try anything, it couldn’t mean Go ahead, walk away, you’ve done enough and I trust you.

  That stopped me up. I felt I was somewhere different than I’d been before, inside of me, felt I’d had these same thoughts but now they’d taken new shades.

  Could he trust me? If I walked away, if he let me, what would I do? Did he mean I was cowed enough, that was why I was sharp, that he saw I was just a broken set of eyes, nothing by way of fight in me, nothing by way of justice?

  I repeated this sequence of questions, repeated it, repeated it, not even sure what I meant, just sure my conclusions were worthless, sure it didn’t matter if he could trust me, because he wasn’t going to let me go, anyway.

  He paid the driver and I shuffled out the same door Donald had exited through, definitely not sober, head swimming, thoughts plush.

  -Please don’t
shoot me, I said, in close where I was sure nobody would hear.

  -Donald looked at me. That’s not what I meant in there, Roger. He made a bolstering sort of cheering gesture with his free hand. I meant you’re doing good, you get it. Really. Then he smiled. I know we’re not buddies, I know that. Then he took a long sigh, leaning in close. I can’t tell you I won’t shoot you, Roger, it wouldn’t be true. Don’t make me shoot you. Stepping back, he finished by adding Don’t give me a reason to, alright?

  Maybe as some kind of show, he lit his own cigarette right after this, stood there, occupied, the gun a weight in his pocket, both his hands away from it.

  It was almost more harrowing, his saying what he had—what would be a reason?

  But that was nonsense, pretending it put anything tangibly in my control. Even if there were some standards, some rules, I had no choice in the matter, he’d shoot me or he wouldn’t.

  Why had I even said that?

  Because I was afraid, something in me was starting to unspool, thoughts were crawling their way into vocalization without my wanting them to.

  It had been a warning, what he’d said, a reminder, a second chance, even. Making that plea, that would count as reason enough to shoot me, I knew that—making it again or anything like it would be the last straw. I really understood it, my role—my role was not to really have any role, to shut up, to walk, to understand when some random pantomime began and how I should proceed.

  You get it, he’d said.

  Don’t give me a reason.

  It may have been my inebriation, my memory of inflection, tone, expression may have had no accuracy to it, but watching Donald smoke it occurred to me I might not have been the first person to walk with him. You get it—You as opposed to Someone Else who hadn’t gotten it. Don’t give me a reason. Don’t make me shoot you. Like Gwen did. Like Greg did. Like some other person he’d approached at a cash machine had.

  He flicked his cigarette stub toward a trash can, made a quick frown when it fell short of making an impact, just dwindled on the pavement at the foot of the receptacle.

  -Okay, he said, not to me, probably not to himself. Just said it.

  ***

  We entered the restaurant and I, unconsciously, started moving toward the bar, but Donald tapped my side, smiling, nodded in the direction of an empty booth along the far wall. He was walking in front of me, or rather we were walking almost side by side, I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, in that moment got ahead of him by a step, turned to see him leaning in at the bar, having a laugh with a man there who, also laughing, gave him a crude gesture.