Carbine: Stories

Hat

 Hat = There was a theoretical problem, not that he thought it would go beyond theory, not in his case, in others’ cases, sure, for them the theoretical was real, but what was so odd about that, for after all, if one thought about it, was not every theoretical problem based in the real, or, to take it further, to get to what he was implying, to get to what he really thought but would not say aloud, wasn’t every theoretical problem a real problem for someone but usually not, and he hoped never, for him? He was in the Catholic cemetery on business of his own when he started thinking about it: Suppose a man with a gun comes to the front door of the house and says he wants it all. There were no victims buried there he knew of to get him thinking about it; no, that was not it at all. In fact, the problem, the question as he framed it, was not the problem, not the original problem stated earlier in the week at work; at work the problem which was introduced by the Head of Security , no he had that wrong, it was the Chief of Security—he had not known there was one—naturally he had never thought about it, but he wasn’t an idiot; if he had thought about it, he would certainly have realized that there was someone in charge of security, that security, as the Chief had said, did not just happen, but that was not the question, nor were his speculations about the Chief and the man with the gun at his door; the question was what would you do if a disgruntled former employee with a gun showed up in your department. The Chief did not have to state the rest, to explain the disgruntled former employee would be there for revenge, would be, in fact, shooting everyone in sight. And what would he do? He would do anything necessary to save his life, he thought. He would, he thought, dive under his desk and hide there. He thought he would jump through the window. He would run to the store room and barricade himself inside, he thought, until help arrived. He thought he would plead, he would whine, he would beg for his life. But not at home. At home he would get his gun and take care of the problem. Oh, he had a gun. Just like everybody else. He was not allowed to bring it to work. There was a strict policy. No one was allowed to possess weapons on company property, although from what the Chief said, it seemed like maybe the company should reconsider. But at home, at home he had his gun and nobody was going to barge in and trouble him, and nobody was going to disarm him, he did not want to hear any more about that, they could pass all the fucking laws they wanted to, he was hanging onto his gun. Given the setting, of course, he thought, he was bound to think, that when the time came he hoped he would die in a bloody fight. All the flat stones. Now one had to have one; no other kind was allowed. The sun out and the afternoon on, going on now with the warmth coming up, and some birds flying above the lake on the other side of the hill he was climbing, the hill that at its peak overlooked the lake, the stone-studded hill with the familiar names on the stones, the family names common to his neighborhood, to his part of the city. Thinking for a second on the names of those lost in that cold hill, he considered what he should give up: liquor, cigarettes, red meat. And thought then who was he, Polydeuces, to be giving things up? And the sun high, he found himself squinting, the light harsh as though he had a hangover, and he felt thick and stupid. This attitude, this aggravation, this fuck-with-me-and-I’ll-shoot-you mentality, not him at all, although familiar to him, the type of thinking he might engage in if he had a hangover although clearly he did not, had not had a hangover in years. When he had had them, he noticed that hungover he could often see the past. Not the literal past, but it had seemed that the past was upon him in a way that...