How to Talk to a Widower

so rationality is not really an option. These are the roles we’ve been assigned, and it’s not clear why we’re powerless to change this dynamic, but what is clear is that Jim is dying to hit me. In a perfect world, Jim would stand up, hurl the table between us out of the way, and reach for my throat. He is bigger and stronger than me, and has no doubt been in more fights, but I’m fearless and quick as greased lightning, and I’ll dodge his clumsy swings, will dart in and out, sticking the jab repeatedly as the crowd gathers, will bloody him slowly, with great precision, until his eyes start to close and his gums drip with blood, until he’s dazed to the point that I can step in, arms up, shoulders rolling in a natural boxer’s rhythm, to land the uppercut that will lay him out for good. Then I’ll apologize to the pretty bartender, who will look at me with newfound respect and hand me a towel filled with ice, and I’ll sit on the stool, calmly icing my bloody knuckles while they prop Jim up and slap his face until he regains consciousness. “How many fingers am I holding up?” the off-duty paramedic will ask him. “Thursday,” Jim will say, his eyes rolling up into his head. But this is not a perfect world, and if you need any further proof you’ll find exhibits A and B conveniently located right here at this sticky table varnished with generations of spilt beer, so Jim and I are forced to internalize our natural antagonism, to sit on our hands while the juggernaut of our aggression spins furiously inside of us, stirring things up that have nowhere to go.
    “Russ sleep at your place last night?” he says resignedly.
    “Yeah.”
    “I figured as much.” He downs a shot of whiskey and chases it with some beer. “I could dead-bolt that kid into his room, and he’d still find a way to get out of the house.” He seems more amused than sad about this fact, so I just keep quiet. “He tell you about Boca?”
    “He mentioned it,” I say, sipping at my beer.
    “He’s not too happy about it.”
    “No, he’s not.”
    Jim nods his head somberly. “Angie’s brother’s got a hurricane shutter business down there. After what happened in New Orleans, they can’t expand fast enough.”
    “What do you know about hurricane shutters?”
    He shrugs. “How hard can it be?”
    He’s probably right. Jim is used to making his living off the misfortune of others. He’s an ambulance chaser, a bottom-feeder whose legal practice consists primarily of processing personal injury claims for Radford’s large immigrant population. He has carved out a niche for himself over the years by passing his cards to the multitude of day laborers that enter New Radford each day: nannies, cleaning ladies, landscapers, and contractors. He has contacts in all the local emergency rooms, and will usually show up with Lucia, his on-call translator, while the patients are still in triage. He works on contingency, settles with the insurance companies, and on those rare occasions that the case seems headed for court, he dishes to more qualified lawyers for a percentage. Jim doesn’t do court. In the ecosystem of the legal community, Jim Klein is pond scum. Cashing in on potential misfortune instead of actual misfortune will actually be a step up for him.
    “I think it will be pretty hard for Russ,” I say.
    “Frankly, I think in the long run it will be good for him.”
    A pretty girl in short shorts and a tank top, with great legs and impossibly luminous skin, smiles apologetically as she squeezes past our table and we both turn to watch her move away from us. Then Jim turns back to me, catches me looking, winks, and says, “Man, you could eat that ass with a spoon.” But I will not let him draw me into any ass-banter. Okay, I looked too, I’ll admit it, and yes, she did have an exceptional ass, truly first-rate, but unlike Jim, I’m not married and I’m actually within the outer limits of the girl’s age range, which means I’m supposed to notice her, but if I respond to Jim, who is actually licking his lips, I’ll be a dirty old man by association, so instead I say, “You think, after all the change Russ has been through this past year, that moving him to a new town, a new school, away from everyone he’s ever known, will be good for him?”
    Jim frowns and holds his beer mug up to the light like he’s searching for clues, before taking another sip. “He’s hanging out with some bad kids. The school shrink says