caveman in a polyester suit, had brought out the best in him even while trying to get him killed. Yet all Marty knew about Buck was that he was a bounty hunter, drove a Mercury Montego, lived alone with a pit-bull named Thor, decorated his bathroom with cocktail napkins, and disliked women with slanty breasts.
“Tell me something, Buck. Who are you?”
The question didn’t throw Buck at all, he answered immediately, without hesitation: “Two hundred and twenty pounds of exquisite manhood, loved and worshipped by women, feared and respected by men, my towering intellect matched only by my gigantic cock. One look at me will tell you all of that.”
“What do you get if you dig deeper?”
“You get to experience it, which is different for women than it is for men.” Obviously, Buck had given this some thought. Perhaps now Marty would actually learn something.
“For a woman, it means no bullshit,” Buck explained. “I give them exactly what they want, what a man was put here to give them: good food, a solid fuck, and protection from harm. Until I get bored and find myself another woman. But I don’t give them any bullshit. When I’m done with a woman, she knows it and I walk away. They respect that, even if it hurts, which is why any woman I’ve left will always take me back to bed again. That, and the fact I’ve got a huge dick.
“Now for a guy, it depends whether you’re friend or foe. To a friend, I’m a fellow warrior, someone you know will fight alongside you to the death. A brother in blood, through heaven or hell. What’s mine is yours, and that includes my woman. To a foe, I’m pure, primal terror. I’m the big, dark, merciless motherfucker from hell who will catch you, slit you wide open, and feast on your steaming guts.”
“Steaming guts.” Marty shook his head.
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s not a description of a real person, that’s a comic book character.”
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
“That’s not who you are, what you just told me is an idiotic soldier-of-fortune fantasy shared by legions of minimum wage, illiterate rednecks who regret being born too late to fight in Vietnam and think Chuck Norris is a terrific actor. It’s not who you are.”
“What the fuck do you know? You’re some professional bullshit artist who spends his days watching other bullshit artists pretend to be other fucking people living other fucking lives, and you think you can tell them how to do it better because you’re so goddamn good at living a fantasy yourself.”
“Is that how you see me?”
“Isn’t that how you see yourself?”
As a matter of fact, it was. “No,” Marty replied.
Buck shrugged. “Okay, then who the fuck are you?”
“I’m just an average guy.”
“That’s it?”
“I left out the part about having a gigantic cock and eating my enemy’s steaming guts, but other than that, yeah, that’s it.”
“How would you know if you’re an average guy? What the hell is that? It’s meaningless bullshit. C’mon, who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a writer. I’m a husband. I’m a decent man.”
“Uh-huh,” Buck was silent for a moment, mulling something over as they walked. “So, what have you written?”
Marty looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Some scripts, some novels.”
“Any of ’em shot or published?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you aren’t a fucking writer,” Buck said. “So, how’s your marriage?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean does your wife love you? Is she happy? Is she getting what she wants out of life by being with you? Are you fulfilling all your requirements as a man?”
Marty thought about his conversation with Beth in the kitchen yesterday morning. He thought about his infertility. He thought about the awkwardness, the buried resentments, and the pain. “It’s not that easy. You can love someone and still have times where-”
“You’re a lousy husband,” Buck interrupted. “Let’s move on to the decency part. What was your first instinct when that black kid on the overpass needed help?”
Marty didn’t answer.
“So you’re not a writer, not a husband, and not a decent guy,” Buck said. “We’re back where we started, aren’t we, Marty? Who the fuck are you? You obviously aren’t the guy you think you are. So, you tell me which one of us is full of shit.”
Buck was right. If Marty expected an honest answer from Buck, he had to give one himself.
“Okay, Buck. Fair enough. I’ll start again. I’m an average guy in that I have dreams that aren’t fulfilled, a marriage that isn’t perfect, and am often more of a disappointment to myself than I am to others. I’m not completely loyal or honest and I don’t pretend to be the perfect friend or lover. I can be selfish, manipulative, and cruel, just like everybody else. But like most guys, I try to rise above my shortcomings, or at least convince myself that I do, so that most days I can think of myself as a decent person.”
“Holy shit,” Buck said. “That’s good.”
Marty gave him a nod. “Your turn.”
Buck took a deep breath, thought for a moment, then said: “Maybe I’m a bounty hunter, and spend all my time chasing people, because I’m on the run myself. Afraid of commitment, love, actually investing myself in anything. It’s why I come across so big and mean, so people will be scared off and I won’t have to deal with them on any sort of emotional level. Bottom line, I’m terrified of intimacy.”
Marty looked at Buck, truly astonished. There was a human being somewhere inside Buck after all, and a surprisingly perceptive one at that.
“You like it?” Buck asked.
“I may have misjudged you, Buck.”
“Now all the things I’ve done that piss you off don’t seem quite so bad, maybe even redeemable.”
Redeemable? Since when did Buck use words like that?
“You see a side of me that’s thoughtful, sensitive, what you might call likeable,” Buck said. “Am I right?”
Marty stopped walking. Redeemable? Likeable? Buck wasn’t talking about himself. He was talking about a character.
“Everything you just said about yourself was pure bullshit, wasn’t it?” Marty said. “You don’t believe a word of it.”
“Why do I have to believe that whiny, self-serving horseshit if you buy it and it works for the character?”
“What character?”
“My character, asshole. The hero of the fucking series. By the way, you were right, you do give great notes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That speech you just made, the ‘I’m an average guy’ thing, fucking brilliant. The way you gave yourself notes on yourself, that was inspiring shit. I saw right then what you were looking for, so I reworked everything.”
“Reworked what?”
“The character, the whole fucking series. I made it richer, right off the top of my head.”
This is unreal, Marty thought. The hands-down winner for the nightmare pitch of all time. “Why does every conversation we have always end up being about you and a TV series? I’m not interested in doing a show about you. I never was and I never will be. Got it? Comprendo? Can we fucking move on?”
“You asked me, remember? You’re the one who started the fucking conversation.”
“I didn’t ask you to pitch me a series about yourself.”
“Then what were you asking me about?”
“You, Buck. I wanted to know about you.”
“Why the fuck would you want to know that?”
“You’re right,” Marty replied. “My mistake.”
