three men : a short story
In the back of the store, after their work is done, when they feel satisfied with their earning of their day’s pay, they open beers with a penknife and pass them around, feeling the icy rim of the bottle over their chapped lips. The beers represent a kind of salvation to them – from the everyday lethargy that haunts their movements, a brief respite from their hopeless lives.
In a time like this, between things, it becomes necessary to converse.
You working tonight?
Nah. Got to be home early.
What do you have going on?
Oh, you know, nothing and everything.
The man to speak first is of course the most curious, the most insatiable. He must obtain answers from the others. He is an initiator. In a different business, in a different life, he would use his voice to represent his interests – in a union maybe. Here, he solely uses his body.
His Christian name, his baptism name, his Catholic name is Frederick Donovan, but everyone calls him Donnie. He is the type of man upon whom people are inclined to bestow a diminutive. He is endearing in a way that his real name is not. Hence, a diminutive suits him; thus, he is Donnie.
The man Donnie questions is a hair younger, a hair taller, a hair more attractive than he is, but much quieter, by a whole head of hair at least. In private, Donnie muses that this man is quiet not because he has nothing to say, but because what he has to say is not worthy of those who would hear it. In Donnie’s opinion, this man – Archie Bertinelli – holds himself above others.
Nothing and everything, Donnie says, echoing Archie. Damn. What the fuck does that even mean?
Just got some stuff, to handle, Archie says.
Oh, you mean personal stuff. I get it.
Everything that happens to me, Archie says, is personal. It’s just a matter of perspective.
Why aren’t you in university? a voice says.
This is the third man. He shares much in appearance, but little in personality, with a rat. He has the same face, the same mannerisms, but manages to evade his rodentlike physique with a gentle personality. He is quiet, but not in an aggravating way, like Archie. This man – Silas, whose last name no one knows, or, at least, no one speaks – is quiet because he truly only talks when he has something to say.
Silas is a slender brute of a man. In school, he dreaded yet acknowledged moments of violence. When a man stood up to one of his friends, he would dread the coming fight – the blood, the mayhem, his fists pounding into flesh – but acknowledge the fact that it must be done. He had a reputation for everyday cruelty that he regretted but utilized to avoid further chaos. Being feared was the safest defense of them all.
At Silas’s question, Archie just shrugs. The beer is once again salvation in the uncomfortable silence – something to do with his mouth that is not speaking, not carrying on the conversation that is swiftly taking shape. He waits before answering. Why aren’t you?
That’s different, Silas says, because I’m shit for brains and you’re…
What?
A little genius, Donnie offers, at the risk of elevating Archie’s ego, perhaps to a breaking point.
Archie is annoyed at their questioning of the choices of his life. Genius requires direction, a passion, he says. I have none.
The conversation has turned introspective for Archie and he yearns for a change in topic. How’s Dinah, Donnie?
Oh, you know, Archie, we broke up.
Not meant to be?
Donnie sips at his beer. I don’t know anything about that, he says. Sometimes things that are meant to be don’t happen. With Dinah, it was pretty good, at least for a little while.
Hmm, Archie responds. He thinks about his past triumphs and failures with women. He realizes that there are no triumphs and failures in love, just moments.
Silas addresses Donnie. You think, maybe, that she wasn’t in love with you? Or was she?
It’s hard to say, man, Donnie says, without being egotistical. That right, Archie, egotistical?
Sure. Actually, I don’t think it’s egotistical to speak the truth.
Of course that’s what you would have to say, Donnie says.
Why?
Silas answers for Donnie, I think he means, Archie, that ego comes naturally to you.
Shit, man, I didn’t mean it like that, Donnie says, apologetic.
No, it’s okay, Archie says. You’re probably right, maybe. You know, I’ve never been with a woman more than two months. They’ve never liked me all that much.
I don’t think it’s that, Silas says. I think it’s just that they know you don’t really like them so much.
I’ve just never been interested.
Me and Dinah, Donnie interjects, we had something real nice. Y’know why? Because we cared about each other. Y’know, we had true love.
The blatant sincerity of this discomfits Archie, so he destroys it. Donnie, he says, I don’t think you’re in a position to talk about true love right now.
Before he can gauge Donnie’s reaction, before he can be sorry, their boss tells the three men to go home and the moment hovers there, over empty glass beer bottles – spent, consumed, gone from this world. The words linger like a thin fog, destined to dissipate and be forgotten.
by camille pirtle
This short story was previously published The Battering Ram. It was written in the summer of 2022 in Amherst, Massachussets.
