At the end of a Long Day

“What do you think murders do at the end of their day?”

I paused with my beer on the tip of my lip and eyed John over the rim of my glass. I pushed my hand up and swallowed a mouthful of beer and set the pint back on the coaster. The coaster was a little crooked and I adjusted it parallel with the edge of the table. My mom always told me not to do that because people noticed that I made everything level but I couldn’t stop. Or wouldn’t. Take your pick.

“What do you mean?”

John blinked and shrugged. Everyone has a different way of processing a question. I tend to pause slightly, John blinks and shrugs, and my college roommate always said What? even when he heard you and then would respond a few moments later.

“Like,” John said, “Do you think they go damn what a day and go home and have a cigarette and a beer and think of how hard it was to drag their victim kicking and screaming into a van? Or get frustrated because it took longer than they thought to chop them up and get them into the freezer and they missed the game on TV? I mean, you have to assume they have normal aspects to them. Just because they kill doesn’t mean they go home and strangle cats or burn effigies all night or paint with blood. They might like to watch baseball or brew beer or hit a few golf balls or complain about their bad back.”

“Where is this coming from?” I said.

John blinked and shrugged. He crossed his arms over his chest and look off across the dingy dive bar we always went to on Thursdays after work. The bar was long and narrow, made of old, lacquered wood, a low ceiling, dim lighting, and wobbly stools. The leather seats still smelled like cigarettes even though nobody had been able to smoke inside in twenty-six years. Not that I was counting or missed smoking inside, but my father sure did and he would tell anyone who’d listen about how you used to be able to sit in a bar and rip cigs while you talked about all the immigrants taking jobs and causing crimes and nobody batted an eye. I wasn’t sure which part dear old dad missed more.

“Just thinking,” John said.

“Thought I smelled smoke.” The lettering on my glass wasn’t exactly facing me; I turned the glass clock-wise so the logo was facing me head on.

“Funny,” John said. “But I was just thinking. I mean, people like Bundy, like maybe they couldn’t wait to get home and watch Cheers. They were in the middle of strangling someone and looked at their watch and thought oh fuck I’m going to miss the season finally.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I guess being a psychopath doesn’t mean you don’t like TV.” It was an odd thought, but everyone had to sleep at some point. Get dressed. Eat. Just like I did all of those things. “What would you do?”

“Me?” John said. He looked down at his glass of bourbon, picked it up, and finished off the last bit. He set the glass down off center on his coaster that was not parallel to the table edge. “I like sweets. Every night I usually eat something sweet, especially at the end of a long day. Probably eat a slice of cake.”

“After chopping someone up?” I asked.

A blink and a shrug. “I’m just speaking hypothetically, but ya. I mean, a soldier has to kill for their job at times and they still got to eat. They still want to watch TV. Have a beer.”

“There is a difference between a serial killer and a soldier.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s how you sound smart.”

“How is that?”

I paused. “You know, you just ask questions over and over and force someone to answer. It gives you a sort of conversational high ground. It’s what lawyers do. And doctors. They just ask a million questions and write shit down and go I see and everyone thinks they’re brilliant.”

“Maybe,” John said. He looked over at Barty behind the bar. Barty was a little too good looking to be running a dingy dive bar in this part of New York. We all called him Barty the Bar Baron, too, and he just smiled and nodded along.

“Another one, John?” Barty said.

John blinked and shrugged. “Ya, why not.”

“Have to grab another bottle from the store room,” Barty said, setting his rag down on the bar. “Watch the place for me.”

“How much you got in the till?” John said with a chuckle.

“Until you pay,” Barty called over his shoulder. “Nothing.”

“That’s a shame,” John said. His eyes were a little glassed over but he wasn’t slurring. When I first started hanging out with John he would only drink seltzer water. After a few months he’d have a beer. It took about ten months before he would have more than one and now, about two years in, he would sometimes get a touch drunk, but never hammered. He didn’t trust anyone too much.

“What’s with the questions on murderers?” I said.

“Honestly just something I thought about,” John said followed by his blink and shrug. “We as humans tend to think in black and white.”

“That’s racist.”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a smart ass.” I nodded for him to continue. “We think in ones and zeros. How is that? You’re either sane or insane. Some would argue that putting on a suit and tie and destroying your mental sanity for a corporation that can replace you in five minutes is insanity, but so is chopping someone up. But, both of those insane people could have completely sane things they do. There can be chaos in order and order in chaos, or you can be ninety-nine percent fucked in the head and one percent normal. You can strangle people for fun but then also get irritated that season tickets to Knick’s keep going up.”

“I think you should stick to seltzer water,” I said. “And maybe lay off the true crime podcasts.” I picked up my beer and finished it off. I didn’t care much for IPAs; they were mostly for hipsters and people who liked the taste of Aspirin, but the ones with a little bit of citrus weren’t bad.

“Not drunk,” John said. “Just thinking.”

“About sanity and insanity?”

Blink. Shrug. “Sure. Like, look at me. I’m an investment banker. It’s sort of like saying someone is neurotic. You say it and people nod, but gun to their head not many can actually give a definition for investment banking just like they can’t for neurotic. But, if someone did know what investment banking meant, they might consider it a type of insanity. To sit in an office in a suit and tie. Looking at numbers. Seventy-hour weeks. Always chasing the next promotion. Overleveraging yourself for a fancy apartment and a vacation home. Hiding the girlfriends from the wives. Buying a five thousand dollar watch when a ten dollar one tells the time the same.”

“Rough life,” I said. “What’s the point here?”

“Point,” John said (blink and shrug). “Saw a guy on the subway the other day. He used to work for me. He was brilliant. We hired him as an intern and he was so good with numbers never even saw him use a calculator. Honestly don’t think he even had to work that hard. After his internship we offered him a full spot and he turned it down. Never got a chance to ask him why, but did the other day.”

“And?”

Blink. Shrug. “Said he was good at numbers but he just wanted to paint. I asked him if he was good at painting. He said he didn’t know. He was drawing a sketch and I looked at it. Good, not great.”

“Being good at something doesn’t mean you like it,” I offered. “Liking something doesn’t mean you are good at it.”

John nodded. “He said he’d lose his sanity in a job like that. A job he didn’t have to work that hard and it came easy to him, though? Just made me think and my life an everything I’ve done and if it was all…sane. If I could have, fuck I don’t know, should have been that kid instead. And then ya, I was listening to a true crime podcast about some serial killer who went to college and worked in an office and it got me thinking.”

“Might be too late for that,” I said.

John blinked, but no shrug. After all, I hadn’t asked a question.

“Say,” John said. “Barty’s been gone for a while.”

It was time to get this over with.

I pulled out my knife. The blade opened with a flick of the wrist and I buried the blade in John’s neck where it connected to the shoulder. Blood spurted around the wound and I kicked him out of the booth and onto the floor. He didn’t scream right away, but when he did it was pretty shrieky.

I slipped out of the booth and wrapped the cotton napkin around my hand. I hit him in the mouth and cut off his screaming. I got down on his chest and he tried to throw me off, but I was too big and he was too injured.

Lots of people ask why, but John didn’t. John knew better. I almost felt bad because it sounded like he had a change of heart on the train, but my clients had me watching him for two years. I wasn’t cheap and they weren’t know for giving people a second chance. John slipped up and I found how he was paying for that overleveraged apartment and vacation home a week ago.

I grabbed the knife and ripped it out. John tried to block my hands, but it was no use. My hand fell over and over again, turning his throat into hamburger. When he stopped moving I left the knife on his chest and took a seat at the bar.

Barty came around the corner a moment later. He glanced over my shoulder at John’s body and then slipped the new bottle of bourbon onto the rack and then turned to me.

“Car is ready,” Barty said. “Simon and Reese will be here in two to clean up.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

Barty handed me a towel and I started wiping away some of the blood. He was eyeing me strangely. “What?”

“What do you do after you kill someone?”

I paused. “Our weird conversation get to you?”

Barty raised his eyebrows. “I guess.”

I sighed. “Last time I went to the grocery store. I was out of milk. Time before that, I went to the gym because I didn’t get to go in the morning. Time before that, that was the one that went all south and I missed the Yankees game and yes, I was irritated about that.”

“What about now?”

I paused. “I’m hungry.”

“Grill is off,” he said. “I got some chocolate cake.”

“Any good?”

“You hungry or not?” Barty said.

I paused. “Ya. I’m hungry.”

Barty reached under the counter and came up with a glass tray. He took the top off the tray and cut me a thick slice of chocolate cake. He set the cake on a plate and stuck a fork through the top of the frosting and pushed it across the bar.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

I took a bite of the cake. It wasn’t like grandma’s, but it wasn’t bad.

The End