Roulette

I work with a guy who’s coming unhinged. Like, we think he’s going to come to work one day, pull out his Colin Ferguson bag, and spray the whole place down.

I think this is kind of funny, but I’ve been told it’s not. In fact, I didn’t like the way I was told this was not funny, because it was done in a stop-me-in-my-tracks sort of way, where the person who was telling me it wasn’t funny was trying to make me feel like an asshole for laughing at someone who’s quite obviously having serious psychological problems.

When the guy who’s coming unhinged eventually comes unhinged, I’ll be the first to go. This is because we’re at the point where I’m consistently busting his balls about being so tightly wrapped. At the beginning of each night, I congratulate him on surviving another week. At the end of each night, I wish him good luck in making it through the week to come without harming himself or others.

At first, I think he found this funny. Now, I believe I’ve been added to his list.

I don’t blame him for adding me to his list. I’d be on my list, too, because I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole because I made fun of the guy for offering me more bouncing work. He asked me if I wanted to work on his “crew.” This fascinated me. I couldn’t help myself. He told me his “crew” would be working at “certain select” bars and clubs around New York, and that he’d love to throw me some work.

I asked him who would be on his “crew.”

He told me his “crew” would be constituted of guys he trusted, understood, and could get along with on jobs.

I supposed, out loud, that his “crew” would be constituted of twitchy, tightly-wound, chain-smoking bouncers who appeared as though they were about to snap.

He said it wouldn’t, and then he gave me a look that signified, to me, that I’d been added to the list of people he’d be aiming for during the massacre.

I told him to please aim for the head so I don’t suffer, and he nodded.