***

The night Sam Johnson got fired, a storm rolled through Amarillo. Beth’s father didn’t have anyone to work Sam’s shift so I stayed the extra night to cover it.

When Sam showed up, he didn’t bother rattling the doors. He knew they would already be re-keyed. He didn’t deny the truth of the matter. He just pounded the windows with his short, T-Rex arms.

“You’re a sonofabitch,” he yelled while I sat at the desk he had sat at for twenty-odd years. He was soaked as the rain fell. “You slapped me in the face,” he said. “You’re not a man. You weren’t man enough to do this to my face. You went behind my back.  You’re no man.”

At that point, I had already worked with him four days. We had played cards while Sam drank his “coffee” and I told him about all the crap jobs I worked while temping. We took two hour lunches. I had an MBA. This wasn’t how you ran a business. I thought it was funny. I thought Sam thought it was funny. I thought Beth’s father thought it was funny too.

He didn’t.

That night I watched Sam pound and yell with the phone to my ear and Beth’s father on the other end, telling me if he keeps it up to just call the cops. That he’ll tucker out soon enough. That he made his decisions. That I did good by letting him know. That I shouldn’t let this rile me up. That it’s just business.

Sam pounded before dropping to one knee. He pounded again and yelled. He pounded once more then curled into a ball and cried. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop crying myself.

An hour later the cops came and took him away. Beth’s father had called them from San Angelo.

***

Beth pinned the clean diaper on Marley and said she didn’t know me anymore.

“Why?” I said. “It’s not like I’m doing anything out of the ordinary for these people to open up. I’m not milking them for info. They’re the ones in the wrong, not me.”

I turned on the TV and tossed the remote on the bed. On the screen was the weekend repeat of IN-Side Rumor. On the screen was plump little Megan. On the screen was me in a hardhat. Me with a beer cooler. Me with my butt cheeks. When I turned back to Beth, to tell her how I could explain all of this, she was already midswing with the SWINGtron 3000.

From the ground, I heard her pull suitcases from the closet and throw them on the bed. I heard her pull drawers from the dresser and dump them in the bags. I heard Marley giggle. I imagined it was because Daddy was rolling around on the ground and moaning. I heard the digital voice of a retired golf champion tell Beth to pull it to the right next time!

With my hand on a growing goose egg, I tried getting up. I started to tell Beth that this was all a misunderstanding. That we could work this out. That if she just calmed down and acted rational she would see how I was providing for us, caring for us, doing the right thing, but when I looked up she was mid-swing again. Nice Shot! the club said, and then everything went black.

And then a light turned on.

But not a light in our room, or a motel in Charlottesville or Portland or Jackson Hole. Just a single bulb, swaying this way and that. And beneath that bulb, a worn recliner. And in that recliner, Sam Johnson, a .12 gauge shotgun in his hand, its butt on the ground so the barrel pointed up to the spray of mush and goo on the ceiling.

“Hey Timmy,” Sam said. Cockroaches ran from under the recliner and spread out across the floor. Beyond the darkness came the mumble of a game show. “How goes it, friend?”

“Heeeeey,” I said. I lingered in the darkness, stepping around the swaying circle of light.

“I ever tell you what I’d do if I owned this place?” Sam said. A mug of coffee teetered on his knee.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I said. “You know, wouldn’t want the boss hearing it.”

“Who’s gonna tell?” Sam asked. I smiled and laughed not knowing what to say, and he smiled and laughed. With his free hand he took the mug off his knee. He lifted it to his mouth but paused. “Coffee?” he said, offering me his mug.

“No,” I said. “I’m good. I’m quitting, actually.”

“Quitting?” he said.

“Coffee, I mean. Too much caffeine. Headaches and all.”

“Ah,” Sam said. He took a drink, his eyes watching me over the mug, and winked. “Little bit never killed nobody,” he said, puckering his lips from the bitterness. He went to set the mug on his knee but missed, and the mug tumbled over his thigh, fell next to his boot, bounced on the concrete floor and exploded into dust and shards. Exploded so loud I fell to my knees and grabbed my ears, but the noise just pulsated through my hands like my head might explode.

It wasn’t until I felt a hand on my shoulder that I realized Sam had gotten off the recliner. That he was asking me a question, yelling it, but I couldn’t hear with my hands over my ears.

“I said,” he yelled, and I looked up at him, the top of his head blown off, his tongue the only thing present. “You got a headache?”

The tongue moved in a way to look inquisitive. The tongue, pink and wet, hovered over yellowing teeth, gums low around browning roots. The tongue, like a snake, ready to strike.

“No,” I said. “I’m good.”

“Cuz I got something cures everything,” the tongue said. Smoke blew out the barrel of the shotgun.

“No, really,” I said. “I’m good.”

“No seriously,” the tongue said. “Sometimes you have to face facts. Just cuz you pretend not to have a headache don’t mean you don’t have one.” The tongue raised the barrel to my nose. “Trust me,” it said, and it pumped the fore-end. A depleted shell fell to the ground. “Would I do you wrong?” the tongue asked, and the barrel was pressed to my mouth. “Now!” the tongue said, and the bead snagged my lip. “Say!” it said, and the barrel slammed against my teeth. “Ahhh!”