other one had a creepy obsession with World War II, collected Nazi memorabilia, and when drunk would expound upon how what we needed in this country was another “good war” against a nation of “truly evil fuckers” like the Nazis so that we wouldn’t have to feel bad about completely annihilating them. “All this country needs,” he would explain, “is someone to annihilate. We’ve never just totally annihilated anyone before, and that’s why we get no respect on the world stage.”)
Beth multiplied her chins in a serene, fleshy nod.
Yes I am, Gordon, she agreed. I am direct. That’s something I’ve learned to be over the years. There’s not much point wasting time being anything else.
For all the cacophony of her appearance, Beth possessed a low, pleasant voice and the sort of gaze I can only describe as quiet. Not quiet in the sense of being subdued, but more along the lines of intensity and concentration.
It’s sort of fascinating, I admitted.
Has no one ever spoken to you like this before, Gordon?
Not really. And no one ever calls me Gordon, either, so that’s weird too.
Are you finding our conversation a bit weird?
Yeah, quite weird actually, considering I don’t even know you.
But like I said. I knew you the moment I saw you.
At that moment, I stopped smiling. I didn’t like the idea of that so much. Beth’s smile dropped as if to mirror mine, but not quite in mockery.
Did I say something to upset you, Gordon?
My rye arrived and I wrapped my hands around it.
I’d like to know what you meant by that, exactly, I said.
Exactly? All right. I meant that I came in here tonight looking for someone who needed my help. Someone who was lost. And that was you.
That was me, I repeated. I’m the lost guy.
You are the lost guy, Gordon.
Beth’s smile began to resurface, but mine stayed buried.
What makes you say that? I said, looking around the bar in affront. Me? I was the lost guy? What about the guy in his seventies with hair past his shoulders who could be counted upon at least once a night to shamble across the room and start humping the jukebox? What about Lingering Steve, who stank so badly that even when he was hustled outside after only a moment in the foyer, his olfactory signature would hang in the air long into the evening? What about my loser friends, for that matter — Creatine and the Annihilator? I was no lost guy. They were the lost guys, rambling and hovering around the bar, ricocheting against the VLTs, the tables and waitresses like sluggish pinballs. Whereas I, unlike maybe 90 percent of the soused clientele, was young and fit and winning. And I kept my mind sharp playing bar trivia, was in fact the reigning tournament champion, and had taken home my share of cash prizes.
I was, if anything in company such as this, a prince among men.
Why do you say that about me? I demanded again of Beth.
The fat lady leaned forward, bracelets clattering as they collapsed across the tabletop.
Gordon, she said, you wear it. It’s on you, from top to bottom. Like a rash. Or should I say: it’s wearing you.
Hey Beth? I said after a moment of just sitting and looking rudely around the bar, as if bored — as if to look at anyone but her. My buddies, I noticed, had long since lost interest in our unlikely tête-à-tête and returned to their game of darts. It’s been nice talking to you, I said.
You didn’t mind talking to me, replied Beth, when you thought I was just some silly old fat lady. But now that you intuit who I am, you find yourself uneasy.
It’s just that you’re getting a little personal.
Yes, agreed Beth. This is getting very personal, isn’t it?
We sat and looked at each other. I noticed then that I was feeling cold. I was feeling cold, but I was sweating. I had been about to bark, What? at Beth with her implacable gaze. But the moment that basic, belligerent question arrived in my mind, it was answered by a voice I hadn’t heard in years.
You know what, replied Constable Hamm. We both know what.
Gordon, said Beth. You’re perspiring, I see.
And then I was doing more than perspiring. I was crying. I was crying in the booth with the fat lady.
Oh, Gordon, she said. Dear.
Who are you? I said.
Her braceleted arms shot forward and noisily she took my hands in hers, which I allowed. Her palms