Just then another man walks in. The door swings open and the bright, outer world tries to come in with him, but then is ushered back out gently by the door. He carries an inhuman air about him. Although it is hot as hell outside, he is wearing a frayed jacket with the collar turned up. He takes a seat at the counter and looks up at the news - a segment about how to bring your credit score up.
"What'll it be?" asks the bartender.
"O'douls. Or anything nonalcoholic," says the man.
Carl and Stan both eye him from behind the thick awnings of their eyebrows. Carl continues on about being unemployed. "I got three more months and then I got to file for an extension. But even then, things are still looking bleak."
Stan chimes in,"I still have to pay for my boat repairs. I had to let go that kid, Payton yesterday. British Petroleum only gave us 5 grand and that's already gone. They say more's coming but I doubt it. And there they are, running million dollar PR commercials to ease their conscience."
"Damn criminals," says Carl.
The third man raises the collar up around his neck and zips up his jacket. "You in the fishing business?" he asks without looking up.
"That's right. Out of work. Both of us. Hit hard by the times. How about yourself there, Mr. O'douls? You workin'?"
"Yeah," says the third man. "Overtime."
"What's with the non alcoholic beverage?"
"I felt I needed a drink, but my nerves are too frayed. This is comfort enough. I take a drink, my arms fall off, basically," said the third man.
Carl finishes his boilermaker. "Well, you're working. That's good."
On the news, there was a segment about weddings all along the gulf shores being canceled because of the oil. Wedding planners were seeing their business disappearing. Everyone in the industry, from photographers to caterers were feeling the pinch.
"Mind changing the channel?" says the third man to the bartender. There is a tremor in his voice. His eyes remain downcast. His collar is now a protective shield.
"Hey. What's the problem there?" asks Stan.
"You don't wanna hear about the BP disaster? Tell me about it! God damed criminals!" shouts Carl. "Gimme another boilermaker!"
The third man seems to be withering under weather all his own. He pulls his sleeves out past his hands as if he is freezing.
"So what do you do?" asks Stan.
"I work for... Them... The criminals..."
"What's that?"
"I work for British Petroleum. I've been working non stop for weeks."
"Son of a bitch," breaths Carl. "You son's of bitches. What is it that you do, exactly?"
"Well," says the third man. He wipes the sweat out from around his eyes. "I'm a part of the team that's spraying corexit. Worked a three week shift, and now I'm off a few days. Then I go right back out."
"You muther fuckers just about ruined the entire community."
"I know," said the third man. "It's plain as day. We're doing our best."
"My ass!" shouts Stan. "You guys gonna make good on reimbursing the businesses that are suffering? Hell no! Crooks! Liars! Your priorities are your god dammed shareholders, that's it!"
The bartender speaks up, "Take it outside, fellas!"
"Gladly," says Stan. He slams his fist onto the countertop and a single peanut rattles in its bowl.
"Easy," says Carl. "Take it easy. Look at the guy. He's fried. 'Sides, he ain't nothing but a spoke on a wheel. A fucked up wheel on a fucked up unicycle."
Stan calms down, but new veins are coursing along his forehead like rivulets of rain on a window pane.
"Look. I'm sorry," says the third man. He is trembling. He covers his eyes with his hands. "You don't think I know all this? It's on the news twenty four seven. We haul ass, burning out at the edges, and nothing we do is good. No job well done. We all feel like a modern day Sisyphus..."
"A what?" asks Carl, gritting his teeth menacingly.
"Greek mythology, a greedy and corrupt king was punished in the afterlife by having to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to have to watch it roll back down and start over for all eternity."
"Don't go feelin' sorry for yourself. And you ain't gettin' no sympathy from us," says Stan.
"I know it," says the third man. "I lost my best friend in that blast on that rig. I got friends falling ill. I got oil in my blood, in my pores I can't get out. Won't ever get out. My best friend's family is suffering. Thousands of families are suffering. There's nothing we can do. We do our best, but it's worthless. Oil keeps bleeding out. We spray chemicals we don't have enough research on. Whatever we do, we come back to this," The third man points to the television. Balls of tar and a dead dolphin graces the screen.
Carl points out to the ocean. "You belong out there," he says. "You don't belong here anymore. You don't belong anywhere anymore. You belong out at sea. For good."
The third man finishes his O'douls. "The community is suffering, you know? But what if civilization were more advanced. What if every human being were collectively hardwired to help with any crisis, with any cataclysm? Instead of watching the news and shaking their heads, what if everyone just got on a plane and helped. What if everyone in the world wrote a check for ten dollars. Like a collective fever trying to fight off a cold. Worldwide. Then instead of a few businesses going out hundreds of thousands of dollars, we got everyone in the world just out ten bucks."
"Kumbaya, fucker," says Carl."The worlds got bigger problems beyond our own. You slimy fuck."
"Maybe I will take a real drink," says the third man. He begins to sob. "How's about a whiskey?"
"I don't think so," says the bartender.
"Yeah, we don't think so," says Stan.
"Time for you to leave. You're upsetting my customers," says the bartender.
"Of course," says the third man. "I understand. We all gotta blame somebody." He gets up and walks over to the door, and pulls his collar up over him as he steps out into the light. He hunches over as if it's raining – stormy weather all his own.
Outside the air is so dry it could even be flammable.
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