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Calore et Contanti - by Justin Tackett
“Tear it. Tear it right down the middle. See how it feels,” he said. The man in the overcoat looked down at the dollar bill. Why shouldn’t he? “Oh never mind,” said the man with the red scarf, picking at his gums. “Forget it.”
The taxi pulled up in front of a park and stopped by the curb. It was raining and the cab smelt like cigarettes and leather. The man in the overcoat folded the bill, but didn’t put it away. He was fidgety, nervous. The man with the scarf made him nervous. Slurping at his gums, swiping his jaw as if his cheeks were full of food. It was a disgusting habit, but unavoidable. “You won’t do it. Not yet,” said the man with the scarf. “Maybe something to drink.”
He reached down and poured another glass of gin and set the shot in front of the other man who had taken off his overcoat. The dollar bill was on the table now. “Here,” said the man with the scarf, “That will warm you.” Trembling, the other man reached for the glass and downed the bitter concoction. He closed his eyes as it sank to his stomach, listening to the agitated saliva gurgling across from him. It drowned out the other sounds of the bar. He might be sick.
“Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much. You’ve had several glasses already,” the other man said, loosening his red scarf a bit. His eyes glistened and glimmered. “That is it, you know. That’s the real thing. You haven’t done much at all till you can say you’ve done that without hesitating. It’s liberating actually.” He drove a thick finger back toward his molars. At the sickening squish that followed, the other man’s eyes shot open. He was fixed on the mouth. The sound. The grotesque appearance. “Of course, it doesn’t matter so much where it’s from. It’s the meaning. Your ridiculous hang-ups. Your attachment to what’s on it. It’s just paper. See that. It really is freedom. Don’t do it because you want to. But don’t do it because you don’t want to. That’s the key. Do it without thinking. Without caring. Do it because there’s nothing else to do. Look, your hands are idle.” The man looked down at his hands. They were rough and dirty, sweaty and they shook. He remembered that they were clean this morning.
“Spit on it. Spit on it now!” The man with the scarf took the bill and positioned it in front of the other man. “Go on, just spit right there on his face, right there in the middle. No, here,” he said, flipping it over. The dollar was slathered with saliva where his finger had gripped it. “This is better yet.” The other man looked down at the bill and the words on its back. Those words. 1 | 2 NEXT |
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