Woodrow and Gerry

Woodrow Baldwin had the unfortunate and seemingly uncontrollable habit of babbling on and on about nothing forever, and he was doing that just now. They were sitting in a car with no light to speak of, parked next to a giant shrub. One sat languidly with his knees pressed against the wheel and is arm dangling out into the empty black night, the other straight and vigilant.

Gerry Clevland, called "Grover Cleveland" by his friends and by those who fancied themselves wits, watched the sidewalk intensely amd without a trace of useless noise making. He sat on the passengers side, hand resting on the door handle, ready to spring as soon as his sinning query stumbled down the block. He was due to arrive any moment. But he knew from experience that "any moment" could mean five seconds just as easily as two hours. What was important is that he would come, and when he did, Gerry would be ready. He hoped his companion would be as well, but he had his doubts. He couldn't even stay quiet for five seconds, he probably wasn't a safe bet when things actually got hairy. Mentally he readied himself for the lion's share of the work, he would have to be more intense than ever if he hoped to fool anyone into thinking they were a danger.

"You know my mother actually owns an Italian place." Woodrow said, though Gerry was almost positive he had already said so.

"Oh yeah, which place is that?" It was feigned interest, but Gerry had always been polite, let no man take that away from him. He had listened when he should have spoken for twenty eight years now, there was no use in stopping now. Woodrow on the other hand, had only been on the planet for twenty two years, and had already spoken enough for a man twice his age, if Gerry's limited exposure to the man could be trusted.

"Bella Bambina's. It's on the corner of 4th and Casbah."

"I know that place. Heard good things." He had heard things, he could not remember what things though, truth be told he rarely had time to ponder restuarants.

"No doubt. You ought to go down there sometime, see what it's really like."

"What's it really like?"

"Well, it's loud and obnoxious, kind of trashy."

"I heard the spaghetti is good." Gerry was a known connisseur of spaghetti, but mostly of his own making.

"Oh yeah, the food is delicious."

"I thought you said it was trashy."

"Well it is trashy. In an endearing sort of way."

"How can it be trashy and endearing?" Gerry rolled his eyes, and continued to stare intently. He would be coming soon.

"God you heathen, don't you know anything? It's like a hooker with a pretty face and a heart of gold. She may be the most splendid hooker in the world, but she's still a hooker. And the restuarant is undeniably trashy."

"Well, a hooker is still a person."

"Right you are, and people are fickle pieces of shit."

"Yes, but even fickle pieces of shit can redeem themselves."

"I agree, but redemption is all relative as well as in the eye of the beholder. You shoot me in the foot and I don't suppose helping someone out of a tree redeems you in my book. You still shot my foot and you still have to pay up. Redeeming yourself ain't liquid shit to someone, no matter what you do. It's all self intrest, even the most seemingly selfless acts. Rejoinder that, motherfucker."

"But self interest doesn't have to be negative though, and it doesn't have to just benifet you."

"Well it's not going to benifet my bleeding and thourougly fucked in the ass foot, I'll tell you that much. Well, if someone had really shot my foot that is. I would be plenty upset. Point is, I don't know that everything we think, and know, and feel, is really what we feel, and know, and think. I think some brilliant bastard way back at the dawn of time started mind propaganda and we're still living in the palm of his hand, dancing to his tune."

"People at the dawn of time were more likely to busy fucking other cro-magnons."

"Maybe so. Or maybe they were sowing the motherfucking seeds. Not so eloquently as our friend Joeseph Goebells but maybe they had started thrusting the abstracts on the others, honor, redemption, salvation through good works, other such tomfoolery."

"Well, I don't suppose I'll start arguing with you over something stupid as that."

"See that's what I'm talking about you primitive savage, you only think it's stupid. Now why do you think so? Because of what has been pounded into you since birth. You don't have an original thought in that big stupid poxy face of yours."

"Neither do you, and I was just asking about the restaurant, not your take on humanity. Jesus Christ."

"Well, I just thought you should know in case you ever wanted to seem a bit more interesting than you are Grover, I fear that folks might find you a bore."

"No matter, I don't care what anybody thinks."

"Oh, don't start with that shit. I can tell from just looking at you that you care what people think about you. Silly bastard, your wardrobe alone screams 'accept me! accept me!' and that's not even including that haircut of yours. Which I like by the way. I bet you're happy I approve."

"Your approval means about as much to me as your nice little sum up of human understanding."

"Well, I don't expect you to admit you're happy, that wouldn't be appropriate, now would it?"

"What about you, all you care about is sounding a fair bit more clever than you actually are."

"Don't turn the tables on me, that's the first action of a caged animal, Mr. Caged Animal Man."

"The next time you open your mouth I am smashing your teeth."

"Wow, why so hostile Grover Cleveland? I'm just busting your balls, so to speak, I honestly don't even know what I've been saying."

"That doesn't surprise me one bit."

"Well, it surprises me that you're not a bit more open-minded for someone who's been on the circuit for so long."

"What makes you think I'd be open minded in this line of work?"

"Well, it's not exactly a hobby that most profess to, simply being here shows a little bit of originality on your part. Well, not original originality, you didn't invent the fucking lightbulb, or this for that matter, but you're still here, ready to scare the shit out of a sinner and set him on the straight and narrow. I must say, I'm more fascinated with the methods than the results. How many you ambushed now?"

He thought about it. "This'll be twenty three."

"Twenty three! God damn! Twenty three hearts stopped, twenty three pairs of soiled drawers." Woodrow chuckled, "How do you sleep at night?"

"Oh, I don't know that they all soil themselves."

"Some do though."

Grover had to nod. It wasn't the most pleasant feeling in the world, terrifying a man to the point of defecating on the spot, but in some sick way he felt that was a victory of it's own. These were not good people, not yet at least.

"That's digusting."

He didn't say anything, it wasn't something to disagree with, nor something that had to be confirmed. It, like God, just was.

Woodrow spoke again, "It's kind of fun playing judge jury and executioner isn't it?"

"I never had to play executioner."

"No, they leave that to others don't they?"

"We're not murderers."

"No, but you might as well be. Scare the shit out of dumb motherfuckers with threats and brass knuckles and whatever you can get your hands on. No follow through though. Just a bunch of toothless lions."

Grover had to laugh at that. "Not toothless. Not by a stretch."

"Well, maybe that's just a rookie's ignorance. Or maybe I am just as interesting and deep as you don't think I am."

"Doubt it."

"You'd doubt your own mother."

"I don't expect I would. She birthed me after all, it'd be a bit unfair to doubt her, after an ordeal like that."

"Smartest thing you've said all day."

"Just shut up, he'll be along soon enough."

"You know-"

"Shut up." He said again, more forcefully and without any room for argument. Woodrow, being the stubborn fool that he was, opened his mouth and turned his head to face him, but the unyielding iron eyes he found managed-for once- to shut him the fuck up.

They were quiet for awhile but Woodrow spoke up again, of course.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"This whole thing...It reminds me of something."

"What's that?"

"Reminds me of Fight Club."

"Ugh, you fucking faggot, take that back."

"No, this is just like when Brad Pitt scares the shit out of that one guy and says all that nonsense about him being a better guy from now on. That's what you guys are aping. A fucking illusion in a make believe book that twenty year olds jack off to." Woodrow thrust open the door and stepped out, slamming it in Gerry's face. He leaned in and peered through the drivers side window. Gerry was slow to react as usual. He hadn't even uttered a word yet.

"You guys are a joke and I'm a joke for being here. I'm gonna go stuff a bitch. And you're gonna sit here in this smelly car and tell yourself that you're making a difference in the world. You'll be pondering that for hours. So I'll cut right to it. You are making a difference Gerry. Just not a good one. Thanks for taking me out. And good luck, you dumb son of a bitch."

Woodrow walked away, like he owned the world. Gerry watched until there was nothing left of him in the night. He thought about scooting over to the drivers seat and running the son of a bitch down, but he decided that might be more trouble than it was worth. He took a sip of his Fanta and waited.

And waited.