The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(71)

He drank. He looked at Western. Burst of glory, Bobby. The final option. That’s all there is.

Western had gotten up off the floor and was waggling a finger in his ear. You’re as nutty as a goddamned fruitcake.

Borman smiled. He drank. He leaned suddenly forward and whipped out the pistol again. Dont move, he hissed.

Western dove into the couch with his hands over his ears. After a while he looked up. Borman had fallen over in the lounger laughing soundlessly, his shoulders shaking.

You’re a sick fuck. Did you know that?

Oh man, said Borman, wheezing.

Let me ask you something.

Sure.

When was the last time you saw anybody out here?

Define anybody.

Anybody. A human being.

Define human being.

I’m serious.

So am I.

How long have you been out here?

I dont know. Six, eight months.

Is that true? All that stuff?

All what stuff?

The guns and the pit and everything.

Nah. I’m just fuckin with you, Bobby. Well. Partly.

Is that your truck out there?

Yeah.

It looks like it’s been sitting there a hell of a long time.

The swamp is not kind to machinery.

I dont think it’s been too kind to you.

I’m doin all right.

You’re doing all right.

Yeah.

Borman I dont think you get it. You’ve slipped a cog somewhere. This is not all right. This is a hell of a long way from being all right.

Borman thought about that, reclining in the lounger, looking at the ceiling. At the dried corpses of the slain palmetto bugs. He took a drink of the whiskey. Why dont we just sit here and drink a little whiskey and relax. Shoot the shit.

Have you got any money?

Borman straightened one leg so as to reach in his pocket. I got a little, Bobby. What do you need?

Hell, Richard. I dont need anything. I just wanted to know if you were all right.

I’m all right.

How do you get out to get your groceries?

There’s an old fool lives about two miles up the road. He’s got a car. We go in and he gets drunkern shit and I drive his ass back.

He offered the whiskey again but Western shook his head.

Hell, Bobby. Take a little drink. You need to loosen up some. Everthing’ll be all right.

Western took the bottle and drank and passed it back. Are you sure you havent gone completely dipshit out here?

I aint sure of anything. Are you?

Probably not.

You want to know when was the last time I saw anybody. I could ask you when was the last time you didnt see anybody. When was the last time you just sat by yourself. Watched it get dark. Watched it get light. Thought about your life. Where you’d been and where you were goin. Was there a reason for any of it.

Is there?

I think that if there was a reason then that would just be one more thing to inquire about. My notion is you probably make up reasons after you’ve decided what it is you’re goin to do. Or not do.

He looked at Western.

Go ahead, said Western.

Ahh, said Borman. He tossed something invisible over his shoulder and raised the bottle and drank. He sat. When were you in Knoxville last?

Not that long ago.

Knoxville, Borman said. Did Red send you out here sure enough?

Yeah.

Good fucker. We go back a ways.

Do you want to go back with me?

Borman studied the label on the whiskey bottle. I dont think so, he said.

All right.

I’ll tell you who did come out here.

Who.

Oiler.

Oiler?

Oiler.

When?

A while back. We went into town and got drunk.

Oiler’s dead, Richard.

Borman sat. He leaned and set the bottle on the floor and turned and looked out the small dirty window. Shit, he said.

I’m sorry.

That really sucks.

I know.

What happened?

Diving accident. Down in Venezuela.

How long ago?

A couple of months.

Borman shook his head. That really sucks.

Yeah.

Damn I hate that.

He leaned forward and handed the bottle across. Western hesitated but Borman looked ready to hold it there forever. He took it and drank and passed it back. What a good son of a bitch, Borman said.

Yes.

Borman pushed the heel of his hand against his eyes. How many people do you know who are not pretty much assholes?

I dont know. I know a few.

Yeah? Oiler’s about the only one I can think of. Just offhand.

Well, there’s you and me.

Borman drank and set the bottle on his knee and held it by the neck. Hell, Western. You aint even an asshole.

I havent progressed that far.

No.

Just a garden variety turd.

I dont know.

But not a son of a bitch.

No.

Or a prick.

Borman smiled. No. You aint a prick.

What about a fuck of some description?

I dont know. Fuck has got to have an adjective in front of it.

Like sick fuck.

Yeah. Like sick fuck. Poor fuck, dumb fuck.

You think I’m a dumb fuck?

I dont know what kind of a fuck you are.

But some kind.

Yeah.

Are you a sick fuck?