People whose names were occupations fascinated him, the Millers and the Brewers and the Fletchers and the Goldsmiths. He had only met a few men suggestible enough to do what their names told them, some because they were following some ancient generational imperative. “Of course I am,” said a Taylor, a neighbor. “My great-great-grandfather was, and my grandmother used to tell me how much I took after him.” He shook Taylor’s hand and then handed the man a suit that needed alteration. He meant to distract Taylor from the intelligence that he felt was likely not concealed on his face, the fact that he knew that Taylor was sleeping with his wife, had been ever since the summer before, when she had been briefly out of work, between her job at the hospital and her job at the next hospital, and she had been home with a vengeance, dour, vexed, drinking too much, cursing anyone who had ever cared for her. Taylor, a competent seamster, a man of limited imagination, had delivered some pants to the house, and his wife had paid him, and the two of them had gotten to talking about inseams. One thing had led to many others. He knew that his wife was in love with Taylor, that they had hatched a plan to steal from him and relocate to the most distant of the Florida Keys, where they could hump with impunity and explore the reefs of the Dry Tortugas. He knew that the business was already in motion, and that his only chance to stop it involved resorting to an even more nefarious course than theirs, which is why, as soon as he handed over the suit, he was going across town to see Wayne Murderer.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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