A Decision

Because of where they stand, at the far end of the bar, nearest the bathroom, they're furthest from the door. "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to people like that," Gloria asks. "We're not giving you shit. Keep your snot sandwiches; we're leaving." She starts toward the door and Gérard follows after. Joe lifts the counter latch, beats her to the exit and locks it with a key. He places the key on the counter and turns the little open sign around so that it faces them, cruel and mocking. Gérard glances around looking for an alternate exit. None. He considers possible outcomes, a few of which involve an altercation. Joe is big, over six feet tall. He has a thick, fire hydrant neck and shoulders like the horizon. The apron he's wearing is as big as a bed sheet. If it came to fighting, Gérard wouldn't have much of a chance.

"You city types are all the same," Joe says, as he walks back behind the counter. "You think you're better than everyone, that you're smarter. When the shit hits the fan though, you know who'll be the first ones to go: city folk. There are too many of you; you'll trample each other to death, claw your way over women and children to save yourselves. You've got no honor. Death and disease come out of cities. It's manufactured there. It travels out to small towns on the wings of your bullshit, progressive ideas." Joe slams his hand down on the counter. His eyes are ferocious. "Let me tell you something about the world," he continues, "it doesn't need you. You fight for equality, and forget people aren't equal. You know in your heart if you and me went head to head, we ain't equal. Same goes for women. You know why women have a voice? Because men gave it to them. WE fought and died in wars to uphold freedom, that's why. Men. Not women. And not frail intellectuals who couldn't change a goddamn tire if their car broke down - strong, brave men, who pushed things forward with their bodies; even at the cost of their lives.”

Gloria, reliably incendiary, says: “You sexist, redneck fuck. Don’t threaten us,” and grabs for the key. Joe, closer to it than she is, produces a long bread knife and moves it toward her in warning. “Back away,” Joe says, putting the key in his pocket. He moves to the rotary phone on the wall, behind the counter, and turns it three times. “It’s Joe, down at the Milk Barn. I have a couple of thieves here.” Gloria, fomenting, screams out: “Are you fucking crazy? You just locked us in here and threatened me with a knife! Good, call the cops!” The thought crosses Gérard’s mind that someone may get hurt, stabbed, or potentially arrested over a couple of five dollar sandwiches. He pulls a twenty dollar bill from his pocket.

“Here,” Gérard says, “you know what: take the money, keep the sandwiches,” and throws the bill on the counter. "Open the door.”

A strange expression spreads over Joe’s face and he puts down the receiver. “You think this is about money? This is about principle,” he says, putting down his knife. He takes off his paper hat and his apron, throws them on the counter. “That’s the problem with you people: you think throwing money at somebody will fix anything. That’s where you’re wrong.” His head, when he speaks, jerks from side to side, shaking the words loose from his mouth. “Some things there isn’t a damn thing money can do anything about. What did money do for her when she was sick,” he yells, picking up the knife. “She was fine and they convinced us to put all them chemicals in her body, to hit her with radiation and feed her mouthfuls of pills!” Joe stabs the knife down into the cutting board. He’s soaked in sweat and panting. His waxen skin looks to be melting off. Deep purple veins bulge in his neck as his hands clench and unclench. “I mortgaged our house, my business, because insurance wouldn’t cover it. I watched those doctors kill her!” He coughs violently and sways behind the counter, then steps out from behind it. "They put poison in her blood, killed her.” He steps toward Gérard and begins rolling up his shirt sleeves. "She swelled up like rotten fruit, couldn’t even breathe without being hooked up to a machine. They removed organs, cut out parts of her body, disfigured her. It was disgusting what they did to her; tubes in her throat, her ass, out of her stomach.” Joe blinks hard a few times and winces. "I thought if I paid enough it would save her. I’m still paying. And then I have to deal with scum like you!”

He stops midstep and clutches at his chest. “I’ll kill you! I’LL KILL YOU,” he says, reaching weakly toward Gérard, who sidesteps him with ease. Joe falls onto the floor with a loud crash. He lay on his side, gasping and cringing.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Gloria says, rummaging through the discarded apron pocket, “I got the key.”

“He’s having a stroke,” Gérard says, looking up at her. “We can’t just leave him.”

“The cops are coming,” she says, “we have to.”

“What?” Gérard asks, appalled.

“They’ll call an ambulance when they get here.”

“It could be too late.”

“They'll think we killed him if we wait and the ambulance gets here too late.”

“We’ll just explain what happened. What are they going to think we scared him to death?”

“Gérard, he called the cops saying he was being robbed. You think they’re going to show up and think we didn’t have something to do with this? C’mon man, you were a judge; we have to go, now.”

They don’t speak on the ride home. Gérard remembers the ambulance from earlier.

He wonders whether they saved him.