Page 76 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

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elite food and think of himself as “husky” or “burly” or something more pleasant. Seymour lifted his arms as a sign of false resignation. “And I just quit my job.” He smirked at the barman. “My new life started two hours ago.”
“Quit your job?” The barman’s voice ascended as he set the glass of amber liquid in front of Seymour. “Why’d you do that?”
On the screen, the mute female anchor’s mouth was still moving. A picture of the leader of North Korea was above her left shoulder. A line in black ran across the bottom of the screen: Breaking News – North Ko- rea threatens strike on U.S. territory Guam
The woman sitting between the two men at the other end of the bar laughed but not at the news.
Seymour displayed his large teeth. “Why not quit?” he said. And then he added, “Now’s as good a time as any.” He took a long sip of the drink letting the alcohol burn the back of his tongue, his throat.
The barman raised one eyebrow and turned back to the TV.
North Korea threatens strike on Guam after Trump promises unprecedented “fire and fury” in response to missile test.
“Eh, so what.” Seymour waived dismissively at the TV screen. “They get what they ask for.”
“Who?” said the barman.
“Over in Asia, of course.” said Seymour, then added, “We should take them out.” He lifted his glass up as a kind of toast to the television. “But scare them first. Scare them just enough, right?” He took another sip and felt the warmth begin to rise in his chest. “Right? Scare all of them so they won’t dare mess with us.”
The barman took a white rag from underneath the bar and began wiping the stainless-steel exterior next to Seymour’s red napkin. “What if it starts a war?”
Seymour waved his hand at the barman. “What war?” He finished his drink in a single remaining gulp. “It’s all bluffing. A bunch of smoke.”
“You’re sure of that?” said the barman. He gestured to the glass. Seymour nodded and pointed the index finger of his right hand in the air like he was about to test the wind velocity. “If we start moving troops and ammo then you can get a little jumpy about it.”
The barman shook his head. “Sometimes words mat- ter,” he said.
Seymour put his hand down on the cool metal bar. “Yeah, sometimes they matter.” He leaned in closer to the barman, making deliberate eye contact with him. “And sometimes, they just don’t.”
The barman shrugged and turned away to collect the bottle of bourbon for the refill. The woman with the flowered dress laughed again and the men next to her also laughed. Seymour was faintly aware of the sound of sirens mixed with the more immediate shrill cries of seagulls. He caught a whiff of humid
air through the open door. The afternoon breeze had picked up and he could see the leaves of two trees on the sidewalk across the street sway.
“Can you turn it back?” said Seymour. He pointed at the TV. The barman picked up the remote and turned it back to the boxing channel. Seymour nodded. The same match was on.
He watched the men gyrate around the ring, their muscles taut, their chests shiny with perspiration. The dance of the tough guy, the real tough guy. A tes- tosterone-fueled ballet. It was all about power to see who could dominate the weaker one, the less skilled. The loser. But as Seymour watched he kept think- ing about the young man he had encountered on
the street. How weak and defeated he had seemed. His despondent expression, those emotionless eyes. What was he doing right then, what was he thinking. Where was he? Who was he? He finished his drink and asked for the tab. He paid in cash with a $20 bill, told the barman he didn’t want any change, and went out onto the street.
He walked back to Federal Street, crossing where he had waited with young man. It was already 4 p.m. Businesses would be getting ready to close soon. The courthouse was open until 4:30.
Two guards were stationed inside the courthouse lobby amid the throng of people exiting for the day. One stood at the entrance to a metal detector and conveyor belt much like those at airports through which people put their belongings using a gray plas- tic tray. A large white sign said, “Take all items out of your pockets”. The guard was broad-shouldered and muscular, ex-military most likely. Another guard sat behind an X-ray screen.
Seymour approached the muscular guard. “Did you see a young man go out this afternoon around 1?” The moment it left his mouth, he knew how foolish
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