The Things We Know
	
We sat in the Kettle, waiting for John's cheese omelette and my Special
number four: two eggs any way you like them, bacon, and grits.  I don't
eat grits but the special is cheaper than the eggs and the bacon
separately, and when you're laid off because some damn canucks decide to
go on strike two thousand miles away from your plant, then you look for
ways to cut corners.  You know, don't even get me started on trickle
down economics or transparent borders.  At any rate, we sat there, and
the waitress came by every five minutes, telling us that it would be
just a couple of minutes, till finally I blew my top.   She looked at us
with resigned eyes, and I may have felt sorry for her or felt empathy
with her in a vague workers-of-the-world-unite kind of way, but the
place was empty and there was no reason for this lousy service.
	"Would you like to speak to the manager?"
	"Yeah, that would be a good start!"
	And when she was out of earshot, "Fucking whore."
	"She can't help it.  Their cook is probably behind on the orders."
	"Ah, fuck no.  He's probably back there, jerking off on your omelette."
	The manager was a huge woman, wearing red; she looked down on us, one
hand on her hip.
	"You asked to speak to me?"
	"Yeah," I said, "we've been waiting for forty, no, make that forty-five
minutes, on a lousy omelette and the special.  We don't have all day."
	That was a lie, of course, because we did have all day.  The Canadian
strike was only in its second week, and there didn't seem to be any
weakening in the positions.
	"Yes, sir.  I understand.  It shouldn't be much longer.  I'll discount
your food."
	That's what I had been angling for all along.  I smiled graciously.  By
now, John and I had pretty much exhausted all usual topics of
conversation, and had drifted into that dangerous no-man's-land of
what-else-is-there-to-talk-about.  
	"So, have you heard from your waiting list?"
	As soon as it was out, I wanted to kick myself.  John winced and
stopped playing with the water rings on the table.
	"No.  Nothing yet."
	"Fucking assholes.  If you had the fucking money, you'd be on the top
of that damn list.  Look at Jerry Garcia.  You can't fucking tell me
that guy deserved a kidney any better than you."
	I felt bad for having started that conversation and wanted to make John
feel better.  It's not that we are friends or anything like that, you
know, but we have worked the same shift for the last seven years, making
headlights for General Motors.  Plus, John has helped me out on occasion
with Sharon, not outright lying, mind you, but not volunteering any
information to her either.   He understands that nine years of marriage
can get stale if you don't vary the menu a bit.  
	"CeCe says hi," I said in an attempt at diversion.  CeCe is
Cynthia-Christine and three hundred pounds of good cheer.  I wish I
could make Sharon understand that I don't go in for skinny women.  Not
like my friend Ace, or my dead ex-friend Ace, I should say, since his
fatal plane crash in that last war.  He wanted his women like boys,
small boys, with little peas where breasts were supposed to be.  Not me,
though: the bigger, the better.  I have yet to meet a woman that is too
fat.  Some men have a shoe fetish; I guess I have a fat fetish.  Beats a
sandpaper fetish, like BigMac's.  He puts sandpaper (the fine grade) on
his dick and jerks off.
	John smiled.  I could never figure out his smiles; there was something
condescending, you know, in the way he cocked his head a little to one
side and looked at you like a big dog.  I was never sure what he really
thought of me or of anything, and that made me nervous.
	"We may need your apartment Friday night."  John's better than the
local Holiday Inn.  Cheaper, for sure.
	"I'll catch a movie."
	"Make that a double billing."  And that was all that needed to be
said.  To his credit, John never passed judgment; he just cocked his
head a little and did that half smile thing.  Now that CeCe was over the
embarrassment factor and the sight of John's battery of pill bottles in
the bathroom didn't freak her out anymore, the arrangement couldn't have
been better.  I would tell Sharon that John and I were driving to John's
hunting camp and spend the night there, and John wouldn't tell Sharon
the truth which mainly involved the fact that he didn't own a hunting
camp.  
	And I added the usual, "If I can ever repay the favor..."  Of course,
John wasn't married.  Not that he couldn't get a woman--I am sure he
could--but he preferred to spend his time reading or on his computer,
that huge monstrosity in the middle of his living room.  I asked him
once what he was doing with it, "Internet sex?"  He flipped the screen
to dark and said, "Research."
	The eggs finally came.  I wasn't even hungry anymore; all the iced tea
sloshed around in my stomach.
	"I shouldn't eat this," John said.  John had a long list of forbidden
foods; eggs were on that list.  "But what the hell, hm?  You only die
once.  Plus, dialysis tomorrow.  That should take care of it.  Bad stuff
out, good stuff in."  He paused.  "You know, there is something you can
do for me."
	"You got it."
	"Get yourself tested to see if you're a match."
	"A match for what?  Kidney transfer?"
	John stabbed at his eggs.  "Yes.  Would you do it?"  He was serious.  I
could tell.  His eyes got brighter and he seemed awfully preoccupied
with his food.
	"You wouldn't want my kidney.  Years of boozing, you know."
	"You're right.  Might as well keep what I got.  Well, I gotta run.  See
you Friday."  He put two dollars on the table.
	"Yeah, around seven or so."
	He left and I could hear his footsteps all the way to the register and
then saw him drive off.  I took one of his dollar bills; no need to
overtip that waitress.

Sharon didn't have a problem with me going hunting Friday night.  She
gave me that usual sideways look and asked if I had an affair.  	"Sure,"
I said, "with a three hundred pound woman from the southside."
	"Good," she said, "then I don't feel so bad about fucking BigMac when
you're gone."
	"BigMac likes sandpaper," I told her.  "Anyways, what do you do Friday
night?"
	"Me and Susan will probably go shopping."
	"Remember I am laid off."
	"How can I forget that?  You remind me every hour."  It was true; I had
gotten compulsive about saving money.  It was early November, and we
hadn't turned on the heater once.  Instead we sat bundled in blankets
and lit candles.  Candles do give off a lot of warmth.
	
When CeCe and I showed up at his door, John wasn't ready to leave yet.
	"Hold a sec.  I am printing something out."  The printer spewed out a
stack of paper in quick succession.  I nibbled CeCe's ear and rolled my
hand over her backside.  It was like roller coasting up and down the
Slide of Death at Six Flags and I loved it.  I pressed her against
John's living room wall and lunged at her fat.  CeCe isn't one of those
firm fats; she is all gooey and malleable like foam or taffy.
	"John, hurry the fuck up, will you?"
	When I finally heard the door slam shut, I pulled her to the bedroom
and made her strip before me.  She hates doing that.  I guess all the
other men were revolted by her body, but I wanted to see each dimpled
thigh and each stretch mark across her belly.
	"Let me at least turn out the lights," she begged.
	"Fuck no, I can't see in the dark."
	I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her squirm out of her bra,
each breast hanging hugely before me, right at eye level.  I nuzzled up
to her left tit, cupping it with both hands, feeling the immense
weight.  This had substance.  This was real, not some ethereal nothing,
floating down a Paris runway.  I pushed her back on the bed and entered
her like you would enter a down pillow.
	When I was done, I resisted the impulse to light up.  John hated
cigarette smoke, and this was the least I could do for him.  Instead I
raided his refrigerator.  I should have known he didn't have anything
good in there, anything edible that is, for someone with an attack of
the munchies.  Everything was low-fat or low sodium.  My face got cold,
so I closed the door, and looked around the kitchen cabinets.  He had
six glasses, all matching.  A stack of plates with gold rims.  He even
had appliances, all twisted shapes and dangling electric cords.  I had a
quick image of him standing at the counter, tossing a salad or blending
a milkshake.  I heard water running in the bathroom.  CeCe was probably
washing up.  She always worried she smelled bad and for that reason
tried to twist away from me when I went down on her.
	John's computer screen busily drew whole galaxies.  After a few minutes
of watching I got dizzy and checked out his trash can.  It was littered
with bunched up paper.  I couldn't make heads or tails out of any of
this mumbo-jumbo; it looked like rows and rows of scientific formulas
and long fancy names, all ending in "propyl" or "oxide" or "methyl." 
Since John didn't have a t.v., I went back to the bedroom for another
round.
	 
I didn't hear from John for a week after that.  I wasn't too terribly
worried because I knew that after dialysis he always descended into a
blue funk.  I couldn't even blame him, you know; I had seen him once
hooked up to that machine which sucked the blood out of his veins,
laundered it, and pumped it back in on the other side.  The room had
been bright but there was no cheer, just a couple of other people laying
there, pumping their fists and releasing, pumping and releasing, pumping
and releasing.  I preferred not to see the inner workings of our lives. 
I figured, the less you know, the better off you are.
	John's phone call coincided with the beginning of the six o'clock
news.  Me and Sharon watched the six o'clock news on channel 10 ever
since they interviewed me about the strike in Canada when I told folks
the truth about international economics and out-sourcing and America
selling out its values.
	"I'm in Big Spring."
	"What the fuck you're doing there?"  I had stopped in Big Spring once a
few years back on my way out West.  It was a few square miles of
mind-numbing flatness, trailerparks, and end-of-oil-boom desolation,
which, by the way, is the fault of those oil-dumping asshole sheiks over
in the Middle East.  I would have dropped the bomb on that place a long
time ago, you know.
	"I have a job to do."  He paused.  "And I need you.  It's in, ah,
construction."
	"Pays good?"
	"Sure."
	I thought, I can be in Big Spring in six hours.  Beats sitting in the
middle of Lousy-ana, waiting for a damn strike to end.
	"Where you at?"
	"Motel Six.  Right off I-20.  You can't miss it.  There's a carnival
set up right across from it."
	I told Sharon that there was work to be done in Big Spring, and for her
to call me if something came up here.
	"Oh, so you got yourself some ass in Texas too, hm?"  Her wild
accusations were really getting to me.  But I played by her rules.
	"Baby, you know I love only you."  And I added something about missing
her, but by then, my mind wasn't registering what my mouth was saying
anymore.

As I drove up the on-ramp of the interstate, the sun began to set before
me, and bathed the car and the asphalt and the houses and the grass and
the signs and the entire sky in fierce orange light.  Even my dashboard
and my hands on the steering wheel turned that color; it was as if the
sun was trying to eat the world, but then the shadows crept out of their
hiding places and gave themselves away.
	I arrived in Big Spring a little after midnight.  It was a clear night
and the lights of the town glittered and from a distance it didn't look
as bad as I remembered it.  John, however, looked worse.  He sat on the
edge of the bed.  The neon lights of the carnival threw pink and yellow
streaks across his face.
	"I'm going to do it," he said.  "And you're going to help."
	"Do what?"
	"Kill Jim."
	"Right," I said.
	And then John spilled out into this long convoluted story about his
brother living here, his only brother, his older brother, his only
living relative, his god-damn, motherfucking brother, his brother who
was a perfect match for a kidney donation, his brother who wouldn't
listen to pleas, reason or threats, his brother who wouldn't give up a
god damn kidney for anything or anybody, his brother who was trailer
trash, addicted to cigarettes and blowjobs, his brother who had run off
with the woman John had intended to marry, his brother who was going to
be dead.  His brother.
	"You are fucking with me?"  But I knew the answer to that already.  
	"I am number six hundred forty seven on that damn waiting list.  At the
rate they are going, I have to live to two hundred to get close to being
considered.  I think I am running out of time."
	"And how in the hell do you think you can get away with this?"
	"He gets cigarettes every morning at the Shell store across the
highway.  He walks there.  He gets hit by a car.  The car speeds up.  He
dies.  I witness the whole thing.  I call the cops.  I am the only
living family he's got.  Two hours later we are in Dallas, in an
operating room at Baylor, me getting one of his kidneys, and he dead. 
That's how I am going to get away with it."
	John paced in his hotel room, his fists pounding against his legs.  
	"And who's going to drive the car?"
	"You.  Look, I make it worth your while.  I've got money.  Twenty
thousand."
	My body still felt the vibrations of the road, and my brain wasn't
processing the information.  I didn't think John was crazy; he didn't
seem crazy, and I know I wasn't, but this conversation sure as hell was,
you know.  And then I thought about the money, and our debts, and the
layoff, and the money again, and John's kidney.  O.K. I didn't think
about his kidney, but I tried to make myself think of it so that I
wouldn't think of the money.
	"Let me sleep on it."

Before sunrise, I woke up.  I just lay there, thinking.  Nothing here
made sense.  Nothing except the money.  The money.  The money.  John was
already up, taking his pills.  The room was quiet and dark.  I flipped
the light switch on, and the first thing I saw was a neat stack of money
on the nightstand.
	"When?"  I asked John.
	"Tomorrow morning."
	I took a c-note and held it against the light.
	"I'm gonna run some errands," I told John.

The pound housed a few dozen dogs.  The owner wasn't too happy to see me
that early, but the c-note put him into a better frame of mind.
	"I need the biggest dog you got.  Me and the wife are concerned about
burglars, you know?  This land just isn't safe no more."
	He nodded.  "It's those damn foreigners.  They come in and rob us
blind."
	He pointed to a cage with a huge blonde lab who was alternately licking
his paws and looking at us.
	"This one?"
	"Perfect."
	"He'll need some shots and worm pills.  Do you want to make an
appointment for that?"
	"I'll call."	

"We're going to do a little trial run."  I handed John the cheap cord
leash the pound had provided free of charge.  For a few bucks extra I
could have had genuine leather, but I didn't want to spend John's twenty
thou on luxury.  That money had to last.  The lab looked up at us.  He
didn't seem to be dangerous, but you never know with dogs; you can't
figure their little brains: one minute they're licking your hand, and
the next they go for your jugular.  Personally, I don't like to have my
hands licked.  
	"He's hungry."  John bent down and petted the stupid thing.  
	"Well, he ain't gonna be hungry long."
	"Is he a pure breed lab?"
	"Look," I told John, "I want this to go off without a hitch.  Stand
here.  Hold the dog.  I'll drive.  When you see me coming, kick the mutt
in the ass and he'll run across the street.  Just like your
motherfucking brother every morning.  We'll have us a little accident
here."
	"I don't know."  He looked at the lab again.
	"Whaddya mean, you don't know?  This dog was as good as dead anyway. 
He's just a fucking dog.  You know the pound kills their animals.  We're
just helping them out."
	"Still. . . I don't know."
	"Listen man, I ain't gonna go into this cold.  I want a trial run.  And
you want your kidney.  So make up your mind."
	"Make sure it's a clean kill."
	"Sure man.  Just like your big brother."
When John kicked the dog's ass, the dumb mutt moved forward just the
tiniest bit and stood there, looking stupid, waiting like one of those
t.v. commercial dogs for their make-believe master to come home so that
they could play in one of those make-belief perfect back yards, and I
saw John trying to kick him again but the thing still wouldn't move, and
I thought, this trial run isn't going to be worth shit because Jim won't
just stand there, and then the lab thudded against the truck, once hard,
and twice under the tires, and when I looked back, I saw the dog's tail
slap the pavement a few times.  I figured that I would have to hit Jim
at a higher rate of speed, or else he'd be flapping all over the road
too.  I stopped the car on the shoulder and walked back.  The dog was
dead and the blood and the intestines had already begun to mingle with
the dirt on the road.  I kicked the dog into the ditch.  He was much
heavier than I had expected.  
	John and I didn't talk much for the rest of the day, just the necessary
what-to-do-for-lunch and supper kind of talk.  He showed me a picture of
his brother, a balding, older man, with a goatee.  He didn't look like
an asshole, but you can never tell, I guess.  	I walked through the
carnival that night and threw darts at balloons that wouldn't burst.  At
the ring and bottle stand, I won a stuffed white rabbit.  The whole
midway stunk of beer and piss, and the people milled about in groups of
three or four.  There were no lines at the rides, and the light bulbs
flickered like an old whore who knows that her time's up.  I wanted to
get drunk and then didn't.

It was a rainy morning.  The clouds looked moldy.  I stuffed the money
into my pockets.
	"Tell the cops it was a gray Chevy half ton."
	John nodded.
	"Be good."
	The truck was damp and slow to start.  It idled for a while at six
hundred and then kicked up.  I sat on the shoulder and waited.  Jim
showed up at seven thirty sharp. Whatever flaws he may have had, the guy
was punctual.  He paused briefly to look in my direction and tipped his
baseball cap.  When I hit him, his cap flew against the windshield, and
for a second I thought it was his skull.  I flipped on the wipers and it
was gone.  I accelerated and headed south.  If I hurried, I could make
it to San Antonio by noon.  I had never been to San Antonio.