(2) The Revolver

In the well lit hotel room on the round table the man laid a revolver. He picked it up. He drank the whiskey. He put the gun on the table and spun it one time, two times, three times. He drank the whiskey then stared at its shiny label, at the amber liquid. He put the whiskey on the floor and grabbed the revolver. He put the barrel to his lips and played it like a saxophone. He shook his head and the metal clacked against his teeth. He put the gun down and grabbed the whiskey and walked to the bed. He rolled onto the bed and kicked his shoes off. He turned on the television. Gunshots flew from the TV and filled the room with noise. There was a woman’s voice. Then a man’s voice. They were talking. The man was looking at the revolver on the table. He called the woman Hillary. Gunshots filled the room and the man’s voice remained calm. He didn’t flinch. An explosion filled the streets and alleys below him. His voice was serious. It had gravity. He didn’t stop to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He didn’t ask to take a time out. He didn’t make large gestures big circles with his hands and ask what the fuck are we doing here. He didn’t flinch. The man stared at the gun and asked “What the fuck are you doing?” The man’s eyes widened as his ears filled with the pops of a nearby firefight. He placed his hands on his abdomen and tried to straighten up. He had to get it right. The last time.

Through the echo and cascade, below the landslide of fire, Hillary’s voice crept deep into his ear. She was asking the right questions. She was tapping her pen on the desk and expressing concern. She tapped her heels together. The studio lights made her perspire; you could almost hear her heartbeat in the cadence of her voice. She rolled her chair back and turned her shoulders. She hung her hands at her sides. She didn’t smile. She didn’t breathe. The man wiped the sweat from his eyes. The camera was gone. He heard the tune of a serial drama; his shoulders slumped. He made the shape of a gun with his hand and pointed to his temple. His life was one big firefight. The work. The mission. And the only solace he could get in this modern war was in a hot hotel room. He fingered a hole in his blue jeans and waited for the armored vehicles to depart. He carried a revolver on his belt but had never pulled it on a man. He sat in the loud hard ratcheting bouldering humvee and collected saliva in his mouth. Back in his bright hotel room he laid the revolver on the round table, then took a tug of whiskey. He spun the revolver one time, two times, three times. He put it to his lips. The gunshots outside were far away. He shrugged his shoulders. He stood from the table and lay out on the bed, kicking off his shoes. At three-ten in the morning he turned on the TV and was filled with the noisy fire. He didn’t laugh. Hillary’s voice crept deep into his ears. They had a conversation. They called her Hillary. She was asking all the questions.