The Guardians

'Assholes.'

'Exactly. And I used to believe that no matter where you go, 20 per cent of the people you come in contact with are going to turn out to be assholes. You wouldn't know that's what they are, not at first, but they would always appear in a ratio of one to five.'

'Sounds about right.'

'No, it's not right. I was off'

'Twenty per cent is too high?'

'Too low. Over the last few years I've come to realize the number's closer to something like 30 or 40 per cent. Maybe it's an even fifty-fifty.'

'You think things are getting that bad?'

'They were always that bad. It just takes until you're our age to see it.'

'What evidence are you working from here?'

'Okay. Consider how most people have fewer friends the older they get. Why? You learn that the numbers are against you, that life isn't just going to be this hilarious succession of new and fascinating people to share whatever new and fascinating stage of your journey you find yourself at. It's why guys like us always end up looking back al the time. It's the only way you've got of beating the odds.'

'Old friends.'

'You got it.'

'I have a question,' I say, burning my tongue on my coffee just as Randy had a minute ago. 'How do you know you haven't been wrong the whole time?'

'Wrong how?'

'About me, say. I'm as old a friend as you've got. But what if I'm not one of the good 50 per cent, but the bad 50 per cent?'

'I don't know, Trev,' he says, saddened by the question itself. 'I guess if I'm wrong about you, it's quittin' time.'

Randy leans his elbows on his knees, sits forward in his chair to bring himself within whisper distance of me. 'You think he would have done it? If it wasn't for us?'

'Who?'

'The coach. Do you think he would have kiled himself if we hadn't—?'

'Yes,' I interrupt. 'It's what he deserved.'

'What about us? What do we deserve?'

'This.'

'A night in Ben's room?'

'Along with al the other nights of the past twenty-four years.'

I'm wondering if this is remotely true, if we've even begun to understand the nature of the cruel and unusual punishments stil to come our way, when the baby monitor bleats. An animal's cry of warning.

'The fuck was that?' Randy says.

'Your machine.'

'Realy? The motion sensor?'

'What other part of it would make a sound like that?'

'You think I actualy read the owner's manual?' Randy stands and appears about to approach, but doesn't. 'Anything?'

I stare at the screen. 'Nothing.'

'I'm not hearing anything on the mike either.'

'Might he a glitch,' I say. 'Like when you put a new battery in a smoke detector and it beeps before you press the test button.'

'That's never happened to me.'

'Have you ever lived anywhere long enough that you had to replace a smoke detector battery?'

'Tel you the truth, I'm not sure I've ever lived somewhere that had a smoke detector.'

Randy sits next to me on the edge of the bed. Between us, the monitor rests on top of the sheets, showing only the dark celar, a hissing stilness coming out of the speaker. I turn the volume up ful. A louder nothing.

After a time, Randy goes to the window. Peers down at the street. Places his forehead against the glass. 'Ben thought he was looking for ghosts up here, didn't he?'

'I suppose he did.'

'You ever wonder if he was the one who was dead al that time?'

'Ben only died last week, Randy.'