The Killing Spirit

by Jay Hopler

  “Well, sir,” the senior assistant began, his thin lips clicking lightly, “I believe you’ll be quite pleased to hear what we’ve discovered this morning.”

  “Yes?” I said, easing back into my comfortable chair.

  “Now, while the new slogan campaign we’ve been contracted to produce is entirely different from anything we’ve ever created, I think you’ll agree that—with only some minor modifications—we can reuse a great deal of our old material.”

  “Well,” I said, “that is good news.”

  I pictured banners and murals that had been painted on our behalf, the “Ministry of Slogans” in glossy red, tempered slightly with sensible olive, and how each would now be cut and pasted to fit with the latest direction. “All for Success, Success for All” would become “Success at Last!” “A body in motion stays in motion” would now be “A body at rest can spend a week in Durres!” Even “Workers Unite!” would be up for grabs.

  “Let’s schedule a meeting,” I said.

  “When?” the younger assistant asked excitedly.

  “How about in half an hour?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then the two of them left to write the meeting time down on the calendar out front, sharpen the pencils, collect the various papers, and send the requisite memo to the file announcing the meeting. Thirty minutes later, they would return and the meeting would proceed.

  At that moment, my friend Leni was probably trying to get me a position at the hotel kitchen, or perhaps one in the service area registering guests and sending telegrams. What a strange and sudden twist in my situation. Earlier, it hadn’t occurred to me how confusing things would be once everyone, even high-ranking officials, had been excused from work. I pictured myself lining up to compete with other former Ministry directors and assistant directors and managers and supervisors, all vying for a single bellcap’s job. Perhaps then, the former State Director would wind up as the one lucky enough to land the position. I pictured a big grin appearing across his face while the rest of us congratulated him and pointed him downstage to collect the flowers and chocolates thrown by admirers from the audience.

  “May I come in?” Mila said, cracking open my office door slightly. Her northern accent jarred me for a moment.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I heard you might be here.” She walked over, removed her coat before I could offer help, then leaned back and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I expected you sooner—last night,” I said.

  “Your office is much larger than I imagined,” she said.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes. May I sit down?”

  “Please.”

  “And two assistants of your own,” she said.

  “Yes, I am lucky, I suppose.”

  “So you still have your job, then.”

  “It seems that way. Just some adjustments to make, that’s all.”

  “Now I’m not so sure what to think about the things you told me earlier.”

  “What?”

  “You know, how you were losing your job, and all that,” she said with a knowing smile. “Maybe you were attempting to elicit some pity?”

  “Really?” I blurted out.

  “Well, yesterday you had no job, your life was on the brink of ruin, your future uncertain. Today, it’s business as usual. Nothing seems to have happened.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. Thinking about it that way did make me appear overly dramatic. I quickly tried to remember other parts, conversations of the last day or so, and how foolish they made me appear now. My box of possessions next to the door only seemed to confirm this.

  Of course, my colleagues might disagree with all this, claiming the recent changes had been both sudden and drastic; and yet realistically, I knew Mila was probably right—the only truly irreversible act of the past few days was the one she had performed herself.

  “Still, I suppose it added a little extra something to our night together,” she said. She meant it, but I felt a little strange, unbalanced. It was a different sort of feeling than the usual nervousness I expected to have around her, the nervousness I had felt in my apartment the night before.

  She had her back to me now, examining the other parts of my office. I tried picturing her as someone dangerous, someone I couldn’t trust. Yet, I had already seen her lie once, and so what? I’d gone with her anyway. Strangely enough, knowing what I knew about her hadn’t changed much of anything. Again, I loved a woman I couldn’t exactly depend on.

  “I still have something for you,” I said, attempting nonchalance.

  “Oh?” she said coyly, looking over her shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then,” Mila declared, now speaking quite loudly, as if she wanted to be heard by some imaginary people hiding behind the walls. “As you know, I’m very fond of presents.”

  “Yes,” I said in an equally loud voice, “yes, you are.” And I thought of the small stacks of money hidden under my big desk drawer.

  Relaxing a bit, I added, “It’s waiting for you at my apartment. We can go there now if you like. Let me just tell my assistants.”

  Mila nodded, still gazing out the window and onto the square. As I moved around the desk toward the door, she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me close. Her lips parted just the slightest before she suddenly propped my chin down and kissed me on the forehead. As we stood there, embracing awkwardly, my head under her jaw, pressed against her throat, and my body buried in her strong arms, I could hear my assistants behind the door, arguing over one of the new slogans.

  “In sameness, only difference,” the older one said, nearly yelling.

  “For difference, cultivate the same,” the other replied. I could not tell whether they were serious.

  I stopped for a second and closed my eyes, absorbing the sun as it burst through my office window. How weird. How strange! Until that moment, I hadn’t even considered Ana, hadn’t even thought of a reconciliation. It gave me a good, exuberant feeling to know that, but at the same time, it concerned me. Rarely a day went by that I did not wake up and think immediately of our impending reunion. I tried recalling our last attempt to talk, reach some understanding, patch things up, but could only picture our wedding day—me in the pale suit borrowed from my brother, and she in a gown furnished by the state. Oddly, it had not occurred to me until that moment that Mila was the first woman I’d been with since Ana, the first since our separation. And now, regardless of what might happen, I knew that I’d always remember her in that exact way.

  She walked over to the window where I was standing, staring out onto the square. Her skin smelled soapy, even waxy, but it was a pleasant smell that appealed to me more than any flowery perfume ever could. I ran my hand along her shirt and leaned up to kiss her. She hesitated for a second, then pressed herself closer, her strong arms folding me in. Now, she was easing into her role, and I, into mine. With a clumsy twist of my arm, I managed to slide the door bolt shut. Outside, the deliberations continued.

  “Similar, yet dissimilar.”

  “Identical, but unique!”

  Through the window, on the street below, I could see the buses lined up as always, though this time a large, jovial crowd of would-be passengers stood alongside, waiting for their driver to appear.

  Translated by Kevin Phelan and Bill U’Ren

  HIT MAN

  Charles Bukowski

  Ronnie was to meet the two men at the German bar in the Silverlake district. It was 7:15 P.M. He sat there drinking the dark beer at the table by himself. The barmaid was blond, fine ass, and her breasts looked as if they were going to fall out of her blouse.

  Ronnie liked blondes. It was like ice-skating and roller-skating. The blondes were ice-skating, the rest were roller-skating. The blondes even smelled different. But women meant trouble, and for him the trouble often outweighed the joy. In other words, the price was too high.

  Yet a man needed a woman now and then, if for no other reason than to prove h
e could get one. The sex was secondary. It wasn’t a lover’s world, it never would be.

  7:20. He waved her over for another beer. She came smiling, carrying the beer out in front of her breasts. You couldn’t help liking her like that.

  “You like working here?” he asked her.

  “Oh yes, I meet a lot of men.”

  “Nice men?”

  “Nice men and the other kind.”

  “How can you tell them apart?”

  “I can tell by looking.”

  “What kind of man am I?”

  “Oh,” she laughed, “nice, of course.”

  “You’ve earned your tip,” said Ronnie.

  7:25. They’d said seven. Then he looked up. It was Curt. Curt had the guy with him. They came over and sat down. Curt waved for a pitcher.

  “The Rams ain’t worth shit,” said Curt, “I’ve lost an even $500 on them this season.”

  “You think Prothro’s finished?”

  “Yeah, it’s over for him,” said Curt. “Oh, this is Bill. Bill, this is Ronnie.”

  They shook hands. The barmaid arrived with the pitcher.

  “Gentlemen,” said Ronnie, “this is Kathy.”

  “Oh,” said Bill.

  “Oh, yes,” said Curt.

  The barmaid laughed and wiggled off.

  “It’s good beer,” said Ronnie. “I’ve been here since seven o’clock, waiting. I ought to know.”

  “You don’t want to get drunk,” said Curt.

  “Is he reliable?” asked Bill.

  “He’s got the best references,” said Curt.

  “Look,” said Bill, “I don’t want comedy. It’s my money.”

  “How do I know you’re not a pig?” asked Ronnie.

  “How do I know you won’t cut with the $2500?”

  “Three grand.”

  “Curt said two and one half.”

  “I just upped it. I don’t like you.”

  “I don’t care too much for your ass either. I’ve got a good mind to call it off.”

  “You won’t. You guys never do.”

  “Do you do this regular?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Curt, “I don’t care what you settle for. I get my grand for the contract.”

  “You’re the lucky one, Curt,” said Bill.

  “Yeah,” said Ronnie.

  “Each man is an expert in his own line,” said Curt, lighting a cigarette.

  “Curt, how do I know this guy won’t cut with the three grand?”

  “He won’t or he’s out of business. It’s the only kind of work he can do.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Bill.

  “What’s horrible about it? You need him, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Other people need him, too. They say each man is good at something. He’s good at that.”

  Somebody put some money in the juke and they sat listening to the music and drinking the beer.

  “I’d really like to give it to that blonde,” said Ronnie. “I’d like to give her about six hours of turkeyneck.”

  “I would, too,” said Curt, “if I had it.”

  “Let’s get another pitcher,” said Bill. “I’m nervous.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Curt. He waved for another pitcher of beer. “That $500 I dropped on the Rams, I’ll get it back at Anita. They open December twenty-sixth. I’ll be there.”

  “Is the Shoe going to ride in the meet?” asked Bill.

  “I haven’t read the papers. I’d imagine he will. He can’t quit. It’s in his blood.”

  “Longden quit,” said Ronnie.

  “Well, he had to; they had to strap the old man in the saddle.”

  “He won his last race.”

  “Campus pulled the other horse.”

  “I don’t think you can beat the horses,” said Bill.

  “A smart man can beat anything he puts his mind to,” said Curt. “I’ve never worked in my life.”

  “Yeah,” said Ronnie, “but I gotta work tonight.”

  “Be sure you do a good job, baby,” said Curt.

  “I always do a good job.”

  They were quiet and sat drinking their beer. Then Ronnie said, “All right, where’s the goddamned money?”

  “You’ll get it, you’ll get it,” said Bill. “It’s lucky I brought an extra $500.”

  “I want it now. All of it.”

  “Give him the money, Bill. And while you’re at it, give me mine.”

  It was all in hundreds. Bill counted it under the table. Ronnie got his first, then Curt got his. They checked it. Okay.

  “Where’s it at?” asked Ronnie.

  “Here,” said Bill, handing him an envelope. “The address and key are inside.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “Thirty minutes. You take the Ventura freeway.”

  “Can I ask you one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Do you care?”

  “No.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Too much beer, I guess.”

  “Maybe you better get going,” said Curt.

  “Just one more pitcher of beer,” said Ronnie.

  “No,” said Curt, “get going.”

  “Well, shit, all right.”

  Ronnie moved around the table, got out, walked to the exit. Curt and Bill sat there looking at him. He walked outside. Night. Stars. Moon. Traffic. His car. He unlocked it, got in, drove off.

  Ronnie checked the street carefully and the address more carefully. He parked a block and a half away and walked back. The key fit the door. He opened it and walked in. There was a TV set going in the front room. He walked across the rug.

  “Bill?” somebody asked. He listened for the voice. She was in the bathroom. “Bill?” she said again. He pushed the door open and there she sat in the tub, very blond, very white, young. She screamed.

  He got his hands around her throat and pushed her under the water. His sleeves were soaked. She kicked and struggled violently. It got so bad that he had to get in the tub with her, clothes and all. He had to hold her down. Finally she was still and he let her go.

  Bill’s clothes didn’t quite fit him but at least they were dry. The wallet was wet but he kept the wallet. Then he got out of there, walked the block and one half to his car and drove off.

  THE DEATH OF MRS. SHEER

  Joyce Carol Oates

  One afternoon not long ago, on a red-streaked dirt road in the Eden Valley, two men in an open jalopy were driving along in such a hurry that anyone watching could have guessed they had business ahead. The jalopy was without species: it bore no insignia or features to identify it with other cars or jalopies, but many to distinguish itself in the memory—jingling behind was a battered license plate, last year’s and now five months outdated, hanging dpwn straight from a twist of wire, and other twists of this wire (which was not even chicken fence wire, but new shiny copper wire), professional and concise, held the trunk door nearly closed and both doors permanently closed. Dirty string and clothesline laced important parts of the car together, too, notably the hood and the left front fender, the only fender remaining. Though parts here and there creaked and the lone fender shuddered, everything really moved in harmony, including the men who nodded in agreement with the rapid progression of scrubland. Their nods were solemn, prudent, and innocently calculating. They looked vaguely alike, as if their original faces had been identical and a brush stroke here, a flattening as with a mallet there, had turned them into Jeremiah and Sweet Gum.

  Jeremiah, who drove, was about thirty-four. He was a tall thick-chested man, with a dark beard ragged about his face and pleased-looking lips shut tight as if he had a secret he wouldn’t tell, not even to Sweet Gum. His forehead was innocent of wrinkles or thought. It was true that his hair was matted and made him look something like one of the lar
ger land animals—most people were put in mind of a buffalo, even those who had never seen buffaloes but had only looked at pictures of them. But his eyes were clear and alert and looked intelligent, especially when anyone was talking to him. Jeremiah, years ago, had passed up through all grades except seventh, his last, just by gazing at his teacher with that look and sometimes nodding, as he did now. They were approaching an old wooden bridge and Jeremiah nodded as if he had known it was coming.

  Sweet Gum’s throat jumped at the sight of that bridge: Sweet Gum was only twenty and had never been this far from home, except to the army and back (he told the story that he had decided against the army, even after they gave him supper there, because he didn’t like all the niggers around). He had a fair roundish face, that of a cherub dashed out of his element and so baffled and sullen for life. His hair, bleached by the sun, grew down shabby and long on his neck, though the ridge where the bowl had been and his mother had stopped cutting was still visible, jutting out two or three inches up his head, so that he looked ruffled and distorted. He had pale eyes, probably blue, and soft-looking eyebrows that were really one eyebrow, grown gently together over his nose. His cheeks were plump, freckled, his lips moist and always parted (at night there was wet anywhere he put his head, after a while). Like his cousin Jeremiah he wore a suit in spite of the heat—it was about ninety-eight—with a colored shirt open at the throat. Sweet Gum’s suit was still too big for him, a hand-down that was wearing out before he grew into it, and Jeremiah’s suit, a pure, dead black, was shiny and smelled like the attic. Ever since Jeremiah had appeared wearing it, Sweet Gum had been glancing at him strangely, as if he weren’t sure whether this was his cousin Jeremiah or some other Jeremiah.

  They clattered onto the bridge. “Whooee,” Jeremiah laughed without enthusiasm, as boards clanked and jumped behind them and the old rusted rails jerked up as if caught by surprise. The bridge spanned nothing—just dried-up, cracked ground with dying weeds—and both men stared down at it with all their features run together into one blur of consternation. Then Jeremiah said, “All passed. All passed,” and they were safe again.

  “God taken hold of us there,” Sweet Gum said, so frightened by the bridge that he forgot Jeremiah always laughed at remarks like that. But Jeremiah did not seem to notice. “God’s saving us for our promise,” he muttered, so that Jeremiah could hear it or not, just as he wanted. Back in his mind, and even coming out when his lips moved, was the thought: “First promise to do. First promise.” If the Devil himself were to come and take Sweet Gum out into the desert with him, or up on a mountain, or pyramid, or anywhere, and tempt him to break his promise to his uncle Simon, Sweet Gum would shout “No!” at him—“No!” to the Devil himself.