The Nigh

Snip.

“Still, them water-stealers make a profit.”

Snip.  “True enough.”

Snip snip.  “’Course them fuckin spiggers know how to make a profit now they got all the Zionists working for them.”

A sound like cows mooing quietly from a small distance away, the sound of agreement in a half-empty barbershop.  “Mmmmmmm hmmmmm.”

Snip.  Snip snip.  That’s the way it was in a barbershop.  Snips and smells and puppydog tails.  Snip snip.

“Vickie, how you been doin?”

Victor’s entrance was announced by the ringing of a bell.

“Just fine, boys, never better!”

The usual suspects.  The barber, Faber, with his cowlick and mullet, sitting in the chair by the window, gazing out it looking for a real customer.  None of the gentlemen in the room with him could qualify.  Not Samples with the pornographic magazine on his lap, looking bored.  Nor Deputy Wardell slowly chewing the endless plug of tobacco, his head like a potato on top of a mountain of shirt.  Certainly not Sonny Furst sitting in the unused chair, his grey eyes neat as they scanned the horizon.

And not likely Victor Townsend, owner of the hardware store, walking in with a flourish and a swagger like the Candyman himself.

“Why never better?” asked Faber, who was always the first one to bite.

“They finally caught that sombitch was pipin’ away at my line.”

“Well, tha’s good!” Samples offered.

“Hell yeah, it’s good.  I ain’t had a full ration since last October.  We payin’ extra for gallons a day.  I hope they take that motherfucker all the way to the ocean and drown him.  He wanted my water, he can have all the water he wants.”

Everyone laughed appreciably.  Everyone except Furst.

Victor noticed.  “Why you so quiet, Sonny?”

Sonny didn’t answer, didn’t look over, kept his eyes on the horizon.

“Why?” Victor repeated.

Furst hadn’t said anything since Victor had entered.  That wasn’t usual.  Victor’s words were usually well-thrown.  Now he said, “Lupe Remiero lost out on parole again.”

Nods throughout the shop, up and down like beads on a child’s toy.  Yup yup yup.

“Can’t say he didn’t have it comin’,” commented the barber.

“I’ll say you can’t say!” exclaimed Victor.

Furst’s eyes, already taut from staring at a distance, grew a hair tauter.  “Lupe Remiero don’t belong in no prison camp.”

“Oh,” said Victor, his hand on his chest.  “Oh.  He your girlfriend, Sonny?”

Furst’s eyes finally moved over to Victor.  “What’s your problem Vickie?”

“I mean,” said Victor, moving his hand out in a wide, dramatic swath, “I mean, you must love the man, standing up for his innocence like that.”

“I didn’t say he was innocent, Vickie, I said he didn’t deserve to be sent to no camp.”

“Well…” stammered Victor.  “Well,” he said again, calculating.  “Where do you think he needed to be sent?”

Furst looked down.  “Somewhere else, I guess,” he muttered.

Samples spoke up, looking away from the Hustler feed.  He didn’t much like to see people argue or get beaten down.  “I think what Sonny probably means is that Lupe is a decent…”

“Deputy Wardell,” interrupted Victor.  “Deputy Wardell?” he said again.

Deputy Wardell swiveled his head to look up.  He waited patiently for what Victor had to say.

“Deputy Wardell, wouldn’t you say Lupe Remiero deserved his sentence?”

The Deputy considered.  “That ain’t for me to say,” he finally replied.

“Okay,” said Victor, “Okay, but did he commit the crime?”

“Well, lots of people seen him tappin’ at the pipe.”

“So he a guilty man.  That’s for sure?”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said the Deputy.  “Court found him guilty.  Plenty of eyewitnesses.”

“And what’s the punishment for the crime of water stealin?”

“Well, with the rationing laws bein’ updated since the last drought, it’s a capital offense.  Takin’ water is threatenin’ somebody else with death.”

“Right,” said Victor.  “Right.  That’s what I say.  There ain’t enough water for everybody no more, and the law got to protect us from those that would take what ain’t theirs.”

“But Remiero got his water cut off for delinquency,” Furst exploded.  Everybody looked at him quickly.  Furst wasn’t known to speak loud, and didn’t often engage in serious arguments unless he could end them with a quick quip.  “He got seven kids at home, about to die of dehydration, he was refused his water ration on account of a speeding ticket he couldn’t afford to pay…”

“He made his bed,” argued Victor.  “He made his bed, he sped on that road, he got a ticket he couldn’t afford to pay.”  His voice rose with the force of his indignation.  “He had seven kids he couldn’t afford to keep, and now because life dealt him a bad hand he felt like it was time to steal!”

“Well, what would you have done, Victor?” spat Furst.

Victor wasn’t at all put off by Furst’s expectorant.  “I wouldn’t a stole.  I woulda asked for help.  From my neighbors.  My family.”

“These days nobody’s lookin’ out for someone like Remiero,” Furst said.

“Oh, the humanity,” Victor began to mock.

“You got people like him all over, just barely surviving,” Furst went on, ignoring the taunt.  “There ain’t enough water, but some people get to water their lawns…”

“Because we pay our taxes!” shouted Victor, pointing his finger at Furst.

“Whoa, boys,” said the barber, who began to sense a room that was tottering on dangerous ground.  Samples rose and put his hand on Victor’s shoulder.  Victor threw it off with a quick gesture of contempt, not even looking back.  “We do well in this world, and we pay our share, and we reap our rewards.”

Furst rose to leave.  Before he did, he leveled his gaze at Victor.  “Remiero was a good man, as good as you.  He did hard work for me when he could get it.  His kids are running around town now trying to clean shit off of windshields to get a handful of dry corn.  You think you’re better than those kids?   You’re not.”  Furst was out the door before Victor could completely respond, not hearing the last sentence Furst spoke.

“We get what’s coming to us, and they get what’s coming to them!” he shouted to the back of Furst’s head.  The bell tingled and Furst was gone.

Victor fumed for a while, Samples right behind him, his hand a foot away from his shoulder, not moving.  Finally Victor turned with a contemptuous bow and found a chair.  “When’s my damn haircut, Faber?”

Victor remained in a bad mood even after the haircut, even after receiving the text-message that his grievance was settled.  He let the driverless car take him away from town, up the road to his home, along the high stalks of the corn field.  He had always marveled at the resilience of that corn, no matter the season or the drought.

He was dropped off at his home and found his wife in the kitchen.

She took his kiss on her cheek like a borrowed thing.  “There’s a man waiting for you in the living room,” she said.  She did not look at him, but kept scrubbing away at a pot.

Victor strolled into his parlor.  The man was a suit, probably a veep, black-skinned, but no spigger, no Spanish in him.  He looked very contrite as he rose from Victor’s wife’s chair to hold out an envelope.

“What’s that?” Victor said.  “What’s…who are you?”
“Agent Jan Spiler,” said the man.  “I apologize for this interruption in your day.  I’m here to serve you this.”

Victor did not take the envelope right away.  It seemed to him like a living thing, like a lizard or a snake, disguised as a white enclosure.  “What is it?  They just sent me a text about the case.”

“This isn’t about that,” said Agent Spiler.  “Not…directly.”

“Well, whyn’t you send it to me, then?”

“We’re not allowed,” said the agent.  “The summons has to reach you directly, hand to hand.  We can’t even post it through snail mail…”

“Summons?” Repeated Victor.  “Summons for what?”

The agent shruggled helplessly, still holding out the envelope.  He refused to answer.  So Victor had to take it from him.

Impatiently, Victor stuck his finger into the flap and pulled.  The envelope revealed a thin piece of paper with printed words upon it.  Summons, it said, this fourth day of November, 2066.  Victor Townsend, for the crime of water fraud.  Failure to appear on this date may result in…

“Whoa,” said Victor.  He tried to hand the torn envelope back.  The agent withdrew his hand.  He brushed the side of his hair to avoid the embarrassment of looking like he wouldn’t take it.  “What’s this about?” Victor insisted.

“Well, I’m just an agent,” said Spiler, “I’m not the actual investigator.  You’ll meet her at your hearing.  I don’t know much about it.  What I can tell you is that, in the recent inquiry into your complaint about the tapper who was stealing your water, certain discrepancies in the numbers became apparent---“

“That was on account of we hired a new man to do our numbers,” said Victor quickly, “And he---“

“Mister Townsend,” said the agent, his hand now pushing the air towards Victor as if to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.  Victor heard a commotion in the hall behind him and he turned, but saw no one.  He realized his wife had been standing out of sight and had just withdrawn back to the kitchen.  He thought he heard a muffled sob.  “I’m not authorized to make a decision about your case,” said the agent. “I’m just the unlucky scrub they sent to give you this envelope.  I have a car waiting…”

“No!” said Victor, and he ran.  He stumbled through his dining room, trying madly to remember the path to his front door, and exited into the bright sunlight.  He had ordered no car and had no way to drive from here, but his son’s bicycle lay on its side upon the brown blades of grass.  He reached down, jabbing his hands on the dried vegetation, and pulled the bike under him.

He pedaled hard towards town.

The barber was just finishing Samples when Victor burst through the door for the second time that day.  Everyone looked even more shocked to see him than he would have expected.

“Somebody’s got to help me,” he said.

Nobody answered.

“Somebody’s got to help me,” he said again.  They stared back at him, and he could not fathom their expressions.  There were many things in their eyes, and most of their eyes were looking at the floor.

“They done accusing me of water fraud!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air.  “Me!  As if I needed to steal water!”

The Deputy cleared his throat, but did not say anything.

The barber took pity and spoke.  “We got the update just after you left,” he told Victor.

“What, it’s on the news?”  Victor shrieked.

“Well, you done—“

“I done nothing!” he screamed.  “I done nothing!”

“Well,” said the Deputy, “Then you got nothing to worry about, do you?”  But he didn’t look like he meant it.  Nobody looked all that convinced.

A car pulled up outside the door.  Victor looked back.  Agent Spiler stepped out of the driverless car, looking embarrassed.

Victor took a last look around the barber shop.  No one met his eyes.  No one had anything to say to him.

He turned and moved towards the agent, suddenly appreciating that there was someone in this world who felt sorry for him.

The car moved further into town, towards the courthouse.

“I’m convicted, where do I go?” Victor wanted to know, sitting next to the agent on the plush dark seat of the driverless car.

“Actually, not far,” said the agent.  “There’s a prison just on the other side of the road that leads to your house.”

“I didn’t know there was a prison that close,” said Victor.

He pointed at the hedge.  “They keep it hidden behind a swath of artificial corn,” said the agent.  “I guess they don’t want to spoil the scenery.”

Victor took small comfort in the fact that he would have a trial.  He took more comfort in knowing that, if they decided he was guilty, he would be near to home.  Very near.