12 Dead

•

The TV had another school shooting on. We turned to watch. Brianna sipped her drink. I finished my beer and waited for a body count. I felt her foot touch my foot under the table. This with Sam right there.

"That is something," Sam said.

I returned the press of the nudge of the foot. I caught the bartender’s eye for another beer. He brought it. Her foot made me think of her thighs. Brianna and Sam lived together. I lived alone, although perhaps not for long–I had several more months of unemployment benefits coming to me, but they would not last forever, and soon enough I would have to consider cleaning out my second bedroom, currently functioning as a storage closet, and advertising for a roommate. I thought about how it would be if Brianna left Sam and moved in with me. She still had a job. With the ad agency I used to work for. An office manager. I was a graphic designer. Am a graphic designer. Just not currently designing any graphics.

"Unreal," Sam said.

No, I thought, not really. Sad, sure. Nine dead so far. Getting rather commonplace, actually. Very real. As real as the foot that touched my foot and made me think of the thighs above the foot. It had been going on for about a month. Ever since I got laid off. It began that evening when those of us who were let go went out for drinks and a good-bye send-off from a few of those who were left behind. Brianna and I had worked together for almost a year and had flirted outrageously at work, and then that night. You know.

Sam was speculating now on causality. Guns, video games, mood-altering drugs. I was inclined toward the last one. We are seriously screwing with our brain chemistry, and anybody who doesn’t know that it has more to do with pharmaceutical profiteering than mental health considerations has his head severely up his ass. I glanced over at Brianna. She stared up at the TV set. The bright red lips of her wide sweet mouth.

"Sometimes people just snap," Sam said. "They reach the breaking point and then..." He spread his hands wide while gazing up at the TV set in the corner behind the bar. A supplicant. "They break. And we have guns everywhere you turn in this fucked-up country."

"And Xanax," I said. "And Welbutrin and Celebrex like candy."

Brianna spoke: "It’s because people aren’t happy."

"Well, there’s that, too," I said.

There were eleven confirmed deaths now. I offered to buy us a round on my credit card. Brianna put her hand on my bare forearm and her hand was very cool, cold, actually, and I flinched but left my arm there. Sam remained fixated on the TV. Sam worked as a paralegal. They had met about nine months ago and had lived together for only a short time. "Yeah," Sam said, "You just have to do what it takes to be happy."

"Sam," Brianna said. Her hand still on my forearm. Sam like a supplicant gazing upward. I couldn’t look at Brianna. "Sam."

We waited for him to turn and look at us. And on the TV, another death confirmed.