by Jim Nisbet
FIVE
WORKING UNDER THE TABLE IS ALWAYS THE PROBLEM, WHEN you’re getting Social Security. It’s hard to work under the table when there’s a mortgage on your bridge abutment. Banks tend to keep records, and that’s why their under-the-table depositors get into trouble from time to time. But on the whole, bankers come out ahead. Oh, you noticed that. I noticed that. Show me a banker. Can’t, they’re all disguised, these days. You would think one of them would sneak up on me and take his revenge. And why would one want to do that? Why, because you are the one who so front-burners, so makes a display of, his effrontery, his success, his Mercedes 650 SL. This pair of little wheels supporting my hind end is embarrassing, it’s true. Donated, of course. But how else, to work under the table? If not murder. Morthor. It’s all the same to me. No, it’s much better than writing, for just one example. Scooping fish heads and ice? For another! Didn’t mind it at all, while the back was up to it. Honest work. Fish sticks every day. Today’s a different matter. Today’s a different back. And there’s mercury in the fishsticks, it’s like eating breaded thermometers. And so, it’s the perseverance of the organism. Despite all. Despite morality, despite ethics, driven entirely by the price of Bombay Sapphire martinis. Life’s dwindling pleasures. And the kidneys? The diabetes? The cancers? All in good time. Which came first, the cancer or the martini? All depends on how much of a start you give them, the one or the other. Jump in. Here comes Upside. Christ. I don’t give a shit, says Upside peremptorily. You never did, says the smart money. Put a hinge on it, swing it up your ass, replies Upside. That’s not a positive attitude, you point out. At least I don’t go round killin’ people, Upside retorts. Oho! the smart money says, a regrettable glimmer of sentience. What? He’s just saying that. Can’t be too careful. Come on, you ask, how in the hell am I going to get paid to kill this guy? No way, confirms the smart money, although you might be able to take up a collection. What’s the minimum, you think. Donation? Collection? Smart money shrugs. Fifty bucks, you say. And when you’re through fuckin’ yourself in the ass, Upside starts in. Quiet, the smart money says, we’re discussing your fate. Is it true love, in the ass? you quote aloud. It’s narcissism, Upside insists. Or loneliness, you mention. You’re never alone when you’re a schizophrenic, Upside points out pointedly. How did we get onto this subject, the smart money bristles. Which subject, asshole? Upside bridles, I’m ready for all of ‘em. He got between us and the bar, you point out. Upside isn’t between us and the bar, the smart money points out, your pecuniary decrepitude is. Maybe it’s a charity bar, you suggest lamely. Yeah, Upside roars, and the rest of the whole world is a charity whorehouse. Which just goes to show, the smart money points out, nobody is doing anything for free. Writing, least of all, you point out. How does writing keep getting into this? the smart money demands testily. You don’t know anything about writing, all you know about is scooping fishheads and ice. So long as its under the table, you point out. Is it true writing, under the table? That’s a good question, Upside replies, blowing smoke into my face. Why don’t you get down there and find out? No table, no writing, the smart money bemoans. Can we get back on the subject of what we’re going to eat, I insist, thence onto that of how we’re going to get enough money to drink? No flag, the smart money notes. I’m sorry I brought it up, you finally articulate. If you had a computer, you could Google your employment. Get their picture, their location, their habits. Yeah but, the smart money says, then they could trace you by your IP address. Not good, you agree. Right there on the bridge abutment, the smart money points out, and you don’t even have to turn around to see the numbers, blazed across the parapet in light-emitting diodes: 192.334.3.101, with subnet mask and router address. I never did figure out what a IPv6 Address is, says Upside sadly. Your only hope would be that the advertisers would offer more money for the information than the police. Safe at last, Upside grins. It’s not something you can put a hinge on, you point out snidely. Say, reacts Upside, why don’t you—. Get on your way, the smart money suggests. Because it’s true, you know. What’s true, Upside wants to know. It’s true that you might find your account discontinued. Upside turns pale. It’s the first time you’ve seen this. But the smart money is a genius. You’ve always known it. I’ll be going, then, Upside suggests. That you will, the smart money agrees. We’re in a rut, you suggest, as you watch the bum make his way down the sidewalk, scaring the citizens, scattering pigeons, briefly attracting one of the last of the monarch butterflies. His odor reeks of Lepidoptera in rut. Don’t be disgusting, says the smart money, its his coloration. How would you feel, if you only lived for three days? Betrayed, came the honest response, but relieved. Pupation alone. Dot dot dot, you declare bitterly, the three-day ellipsis. Often that’s all you can say, says the smart money. True, you reluctantly agree. It’s a mystery. Not like incunabula. Actually, the smart money warms to his subject, an incunabulum is the first stage of anything. And so we’re back to pupation, you conclude, wryly forlorn. Let me get this straight: Simply because Upside made a passing reference to murder for hire, you’re going to kill him? Do you have a better suggestion? Sure. Let them arrest you, put you in jail, take their time gathering evidence, bring you to trial, convict you, and send you to Florence, Colorado, for the rest of your life, where, at least, you’ll get to have a daily discussion of the ins and outs of the human being as a herd animal with Theodore Kaczynski, a.k.a. the Unabomber.
The best place, to me, was the largest remnant of this plateau that dates from the tertiary age. It’s kind of rolling country, not flat, and when you get to the edge of it you find these ravines that cut very steeply into cliff-like drop-offs and there was even a waterfall there. It was a two days hike from my cabin. That was the best spot until the summer of 1983. That summer there were too many people around my cabin so I decided I needed some peace. I went back to the plateau and when I got there I found they had put a road right through the middle of it… You just can’t imagine how upset I was. It was from that point on I decided that, rather than trying to acquire further wilderness skills, I would work on getting back at the system. Revenge.
