Mouthful of Birds(15)

“I can’t reach the fridge,” he said.

We didn’t even stand up.

“You can’t reach anything,” said Oliver.

The guy stood looking at Oliver as if God himself had come down to earth and told him the meaning of life. He dropped the knife and his eyes took in the empty expanse under the counter. Oliver was satisfied: the guy seemed to go beyond any horizon of stupidity.

“Let’s see, make us an omelet,” said Oliver.

The man turned back toward the kitchen. His imbecilic face took in the utensils, the casserole dishes, almost the entire kitchen hanging from the walls or the shelves. He looked astonished.

“Okay, so not that,” said Oliver. “Make some simple sandwiches, surely you can do that.”

“No,” said the guy. “I can’t reach the sandwich maker.”

“Don’t toast it. Just bring ham, cheese, and some bread.”

“No,” he said. “No.” He shook his head; he seemed ashamed.

“Okay. A glass of water, then.”

He shook his head again.

“How the hell did you serve this army?” asked Oliver, indicating the dirty tables.

“I need to think.”

“You don’t need to think, what you need is a few feet more.”

“I can’t do it without her . . .”

I thought about getting down a cool drink for him, I thought it could do him good, but when I started to get up Oliver stopped me.

“He has to do it on his own,” he said. “He has to learn.”

“Oliver . . .”

“Tell me something that you can do, one thing, anything.”

“I carry the food she gives me, I clean the tables . . .”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Oliver.

“. . . I can mix the salads and season them if she leaves everything for me on the counter. I wash the dishes, clean the floor, shake out the—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

Then the guy stood looking at Oliver, as if surprised:

“You . . .” he said. “You can reach the fridge. You could cook, hand me things . . .”

“Say what? No one’s handing you anything.”

“But you could work, you’re tall enough.” He took a shy step toward Oliver, which to me didn’t seem very wise. “I’d pay you,” he said.

Oliver turned to me. “This guy’s fucking with me, he’s fucking with me.”

“I have money. Four hundred a week? I can pay you. Five hundred?”

“You pay five hundred a week? Why don’t you have a palace in the backyard? This asshole . . .”

I got up and stood behind Oliver: he was going to throw a punch any second. I think the only thing stopping him was the guy’s height.

We saw the guy close his little fists as though squeezing an invisible mass between his fingers, compressing it smaller and smaller. His arms started to tremble, and he turned purple.

“My money is none of your business,” he said.

Oliver kept looking at me every time the other man spoke to him, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He almost seemed to be enjoying it, but I know him better than anyone: no one tells Oliver what to do.

“And judging by the truck you drive,” said the guy as he looked out toward the road, “judging by your truck, one might say I manage money better than you.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Oliver, and he lunged at the guy. I managed to restrain him. The guy took a step back, without fear and with a dignity that added a few feet to his height. He waited until Oliver was calm and I’d let go of him.

“Okay,” said Oliver. “Okay.”

He stood looking at the guy; he was furious, but there was something else underneath his composure. Then he said: “Where’s the money?”

I looked at Oliver without understanding.

“Are you going to rob me?”

“I’m going to do whatever the fuck I feel like, you piece of shit.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Oliver took a step, grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt, and lifted him into the air.

“Where’s your money? Let’s have it.”

The force with which Oliver had lifted him up left him swinging a little side to side. But the guy looked Oliver directly in the eyes and didn’t open his mouth.

Oliver let go of him. The guy fell, then adjusted his shirt.

“Okay,” said Oliver. “Either you bring the money or I’ll break your face.”

He raised a tightly closed fist and held it an inch away from the guy’s nose.

“All right,” said the short man; he took a slow step back, crossed the bar in the opposite direction from the kitchen, and disappeared through a door.

“Piece of shit.”

I moved closer to Oliver so the guy couldn’t hear us.

“What are you doing? He’s got his wife dead in the kitchen, let’s go.”

“Did you hear what he said about my truck? The asshole wants to hire me. He wants to be my boss, get it?”

Oliver started looking over the shelves above the bar, rifling through bottles, boxes, papers.

“The fucker’s money must be around here somewhere.”