more clearly. Ultimately, responsibility lies with the individual. Edwin is very careful not to get his hands dirty. After all, that is not his role. He is not a villain. He is merely a consultant.
Barry can almost remember that he has an appointment with Edwin. But it’s not clear. His thoughts never are. But he has this generalized feeling that he has somewhere to be. He’s pretty sure his destination is in the direction he is walking, but he can’t get a grip on it. As he lumbers along the sidewalk, a beautiful little girl crosses his path. She is holding a beautiful little kitten. Barry has limited experience with beauty, so he doesn’t really know what do to. He stops before he tramples her and just stands there, breathing through his mouth. The little girl is terrified. She holds the kitten up to Barry. “Do you want to pet my kitty? His name is Candy.”
As if it is the most natural thing in the world, Barry eats the kitten and keeps walking.
For a long time, Barry thinks about how scratchy Cotton Candy is. Then he remembers that the address of the place he needs to be is written down on a piece of paper in the wallet that hangs around his neck. For the next twenty minutes, he terrorizes passerbys by walking up to them and shoving the wallet in their face. “Where?” he demands. Eventually someone points him in the right direction.
The security guards at Windsor Tower have pretty much seen it all. Even before Barry shows them his paper, they are pointing towards the express elevator to the penthouse. The sooner they get this guy out of the lobby, the less likely whatever it is he’s going to do will be their fault.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Barry BASH!
The elevator bell echoes through Edwin’s cavernous lobby. Agnes does not look up. She has schooled herself to resist a great number of urges which she perceives as appeals to her animal nature. She does not drool when bells ring. Nor does she automatically look up from her work.
She makes her final notation in a file, closes it and looks up. “Do you have an app--Oh GOOD LORD! Ah- hem.” Agnes struggles to regain control of herself. She is not the kind of person who is easily rattled. But when faced with a visage that clearly belongs to the Pleistocene Era, it takes her a moment. It is one thing to suspect that many of those you share the earth with are some species of subhuman, but to actually have a caveman walk through the door is something else entirely.
Barry’s wide-spaced eyes and low, sloping forehead give no indications of intelligence. The general sheen of dullard in his eyes is enhanced by three letters, C R O, that are worked in scar tissue across his forehead.
Agnes decides it is best to proceed carefully. In a loud, slow voice, she asks, “Are. You. Lost?”
Barry shrugs.
“Do You Have An A Apoint Ment?”
Barry holds up the small wallet of papers that hangs around his neck. On the front, in large block letters, is his name.
“Of course,” she mutters under her breath. She forces a smile and reaches for the appointment book.
In his office, Edwin sits quietly behind his desk, paging through a volume by a Polish man named Dzerzhinsky. When the intercom buzzes, he closes the book carefully and places it on the desk with some degree of reverence.
“Yes Agnes?”
“It appears that a representative of the Union of Cavemen, Local Number Rock, is here about our yearly contribution of fire.”
“Is his name Barry?” Edwin asks.
“The creature is so labeled.”
Agnes shows Barry into Edwin’s high, sunlit office. At this point, most people take a moment to comment on the decor, or marvel at the view. Barry just throws his carcass into a chair. The chair, a very tasteful and expensive piece that is hand-crafted from maple and artisan leather, collapses under Barry’s weight. Barry doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps it is because this kind of thing happens to Barry all the time. Whatever the case, Barry looks at Edwin and sucks on his fist.
“I have heard that you are possessed of unusual talents,' Edwin begins carefully.
Barry takes his fist out of his mouth and holds it above his head. A thin line of drool stretches from his mouth to the knuckle of his middle finger. Barry looks at the strand for a moment. When it snaps, he drops his arm downward and smashes a hole in the floor beside what is left of the chair. Edwin stretches over his desk and considers the damage. “Impressive,” says Edwin.
Barry raises his hand to strike again. Edwin acts quickly “No, no, no. Another demonstration will not be necessary.” Barry stops. He does not look happy, or at all familiar, with the exercise of self-control.
“I have been informed that you are at a loss for what to do with your talents.”
“Barry BASH!” he roars.
“Yes, of course but what do you bash? Or more to the point, what should you bash?”
Barry shrugs.
“Well,” says Edwin, rising from behind his desk, “ I can help you with that.” Edwin moves gracefully in front of a projector screen that is dropping from the ceiling. The title screen on the presentation reads, “Barry Banister, Bashing for Profit.”
“Barry, you have a set of unique physical talents.”
“Barry BASH!”
“Yes. That is exactly what I’m talking about. You are an incredibly destructive individual. And, if I may venture a personal insight, an incredibly misunderstood one as well. If I’m right, all your life people have told you not to break things.”
Barry nodded.
“Yet all your life--”
“Barry BASH!” This time the floor escapes unharmed, but a Travertine topped end table is pulverized by a flick of Barry’s finger. Edwin decides he’d better finish his pitch quickly, while he still has an office.
“That’s right. And how much money have you made by bashing things?” Barry looks confused. In truth, “Barry Bash” is his all-purpose response. But it doesn’t seem appropriate here. Barry is a one-note kind of guy. But like a Neil Young guitar solo, he makes the most out of a limited tonal range.
Edwin advances the presentation to the first slide. It is a picture of a gigantic sporting arena. “Now, as a general rule, I am not a fan of destruction. My purpose is to build wealth. Building wealth means creating value. Maximizing the scarce resources of time and talent.”
Barry looks around the room for something else to break.
“But this is the exception to the rule. Municipal authorities paid nine million dollars to demolish this building.” As he says this, the still picture transitions to video and Barry sees a series of precise detonations that result in the building’s collapse.
Barry giggles and claps his hands together concussively. “BOOM!”
“Yes,” Edwin says, “Boom. So what I propose is that we move you from the destruction business, to the de- construction business.”
Barry gives Edwin another one of his world-class blank looks. Edwin loathes to be so blunt about it, but he recognizes that it is time to take a simpler tack. “Do you want to get paid to wreck buildings?”
Barry becomes excited again. He nods vigorously. “Barry BASH!”
Edwin directs Barry to a small table on the side of his office. On the table is a contract. On top of the contract is an ink pad. Edwin offers Barry a ball-peen hammer.
“Merely smash the ink on this contract and we have a deal.”
Barry ignores the hammer and, laughing, smashes his fist clear through the table. Ink soaks into the contract. The deal is closed.
Edwin walks Barry to the elevator, talking mostly nonsense and using soothing, gentle tones. As the elevator doors close Edwin says, “We’ll be in touch when we have a project.” With Barry was safely out of the office and
