At 9 PM precisely the doors will close. The steel will sound like the passing
of a freight train and a lock will be fastened neatly at the bottom and he will
run his fingers down the rivulets--the gentle waves--feeling a satisfaction
born of complete routine. With all the automatic compulsion of a watch hand
ticking its seconds.

Mr. Cleaver is not a niggerlover. He has nothing against the niggers, the
spooks, the jungle bunnies, the coloreds, the blacks but he does not like them.
He only likes to keep a clean shop. He wipes the counter every 10 minutes. He
wipes the cash register every 19 minutes--the largest prime number before 20.
Beyond 20 minutes is unthinkable. Beyond 20 minutes he begins to get antsy and
picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Viciously. He has drawn blood
before. He dusts and restocks the shelves every 15 minutes. There is a room in
the back with various confectionery, big bars of chocolate, colorful bags of
potato chips, clear glass bottles of soda pop, darker glass bottles of alcohol,
beer, whiskey, wine, olive oil. All this is brought out of packaging and
refrigeration and arranged on his shelves like bowling pins and attacked with a
small, white duster--the kind used by the french maids in the movies. Mr.
Cleaver is sometimes ashamed of this comparison, though it is purely internal,
and then the fingernails will bleed. But he has trained himself not to think of
it often.

His hands are clean. He frequents a small bathroom in the back. It has the
dimensions of a closet. It has a small mirror that has a large diagonal crack
breaking all the light it reflects. A small picture is tucked on the bottom
left, black and white, a pale, delicate young woman, sitting beneath a tree,
with a smile aligned perfectly with the mirror's corner. It
has a porcelain sink with metal knobs and a steel, movable faucet. It has good
water pressure. And Mr. Cleaver knows that the water is clean. He knows the
right people. He calls them every 2 weeks. They know him by name.
They know him by voice. They know him even before he calls, strictly 12:00
noon, every two weeks, a Tuesday. And in a way he is a comfort to them, as much
as they are to him. He is a sign of simple order to the 17 people working in
the water maintenance plant by Lake Dolores. To them he is the patient
regularity of sunshine and though they lie to him, half-lie, they
nonetheless speak with as much earnestness as though they were telling the
absolute truth. Mr.  Cleaver trusts them and his hands are under the water at
least 3 dozen times during the course of the day. His eyes draw always to
the picture on the mirror. It's hard to tell the true numbers; some things Mr.
Cleaver does not count.

On the night of April 18th, 8:49 PM, two niggers pull into Mr. Cleaver's shop.
Mr. Cleaver has nothing against niggers, but it is nearly closing time and his
shop is mostly frequented by whites, people whose names he knows. Whose
children's names he knows. The perturbation of the average, the metric mean, is
calamitous. Mr. Cleaver starts to sweat. The two niggers are quiet. The tall
one, with a long, horselike face and sideburns, whispers something to the other
one. The shorter, squat one, with well-defined muscle tone, chuckles. They
weave like cats between the shelves, brushing their hands against the cans of
aerosol sprays and window cleaner that Mr. Cleaver has carefully arranged.

The niggers wear crisp business suits, ironed, well-maintained. They walk with
the assurance of accomplished men. Each step with the weight and gravity of
fully realized dreams.

They dally, making small talk, leaning against opposite shelves. The tall one
pops open a bottle of cola, the squat one brings out a pack of cigarettes from
his breast pocket and lights one. 8:53 PM. Mr.Cleaver's fingernails seem
suddenly soiled.

"We're closing." Mr. Cleaver's voice comes out hoarse and rigid. He hates
himself and instantly the hatred is directed outward, like a beam of light
bouncing off of polished glass.  "What's that?" Says the tall one.  "We're
closing." He points to the white clock standing above the frozen goods. He
raises his eyebrows to compel them to look. They see. 8:56PM. The pressure is
mounting inside his stomach.  "We won't be a minute." Says the squat one. The
tall one nods and the niggers return to their conversation. Mr. Cleaver can
feel every blade of time sliced out by the clock.  8:57. 8:58. His fingers
smell now, he is certain. He needs to wash. He needs to clean the nails. He
needs to close the shop. He clears his throat. It doesn't work. He tries again,
louder, intending to cut into their quiet conversation.  They look at him with
a dull, condescending stare.

He hates them now. The forefinger's nail digs savagely into the side of the
left thumb, lifting its sheath until it becomes painful. There is a gun below
the counter, a Mossberg 590. A 12 gauge. Black. Red and golden shells in an
unopened white package right next to it. Dust over the whole thing, the gun and
shells and the packaging. There were things Mr. Cleaver did not clean.

Unconsciously, with almost the same automaticity as his other routines, his
hand reaches for the gun. It is cool despite the spring heat and despite the
warmth of Mr.Cleaver's frail, sweating hands. 8:59 PM. Every millimeter the
second hand spans is a pound of stone sinking his stomach. Slowly, his other
hand fumbles for the white packaging, closing around a shell. Slowly the gun
slides across its shelf. His other hand joins the first, shell between
forefinger and thumb.

Slowly the niggers return to the counter. 9:01 PM.