St. John

“Some things don’t need no argument,” said Ike. “One thing is an argument, the next don’t have no argument attached.”

Back in the shadows, at the other end of the bar, Billy repeated a point he’d made several times to no one in particular: “Too many fucking choices. How am I supposed to know?”

He was, in fact, studying a catalog that pictured and described ice-making machines. He already owned two, one in the back just off the kitchen, and a smaller one in front of him under the bar. The second was on the fritz. Once it was Frogman’s, now it was past repair.

“It is a goddamn argument,” he insisted. “The argument is between which fucking machine I should buy.” He spoke with frank irritation now.

“How so?” asked Walter, drinking his Diet Coke. He’d not ordered lunch. He expected to have some with Isobel, though he’d not yet mentioned her to Billy or Ike.

“Steak,” Ike said to Walter, preempting Billy. “That’s one. You grill it. No argument about that.”

“Unless you’re a vegetarian,” Walter said.

“That’s no argument,” said Ike. “Vegetarians don’t like steak grilled, fried, or any way, so that’s no argument.”

Walter said, “People who eat vegetables and people who eat steak. They argue all the time.”

“Could be,” said Ike, smoke emerging from just about everywhere. “But that’s an argument about one or the other, not about one. You see? You got nothing in common, you got no argument.”

Walter said, “Ike, every question has at least two answers.”

“Well,” said Ike, “then just answer me this. What you like better, fuckin’ pigs or goats?”

Billy looked up from his catalog. “Ike, you’re crazier every day.”

“Follow me here. Walter? I tell you I like to fuck a goat better. That’s my personal preference. What about you?”

Walter turned to face Ike head on. He made his face as straight as a ruler. “I have never fucked a pig or a goat and don’t plan to. Therefore, I have nothing to say on that.”

“Then we ain’t got no argument. That’s my point exactly.” Ike blew a grand cloud of smoke and waved it toward the outside air.

Billy returned to business, “Walter, one’s fourteen hundred dollars. The other’s two grand.”

“Same size?” asked Walter.

“Yeah.”

“Any other difference between them?”

“Not that I can see.”

“You want to save six hundred bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Done,” said Billy.

Ike stood and bowed in all directions, basking in his self-appointed victory, then reached inside his shirt pocket to fish out a bent and gnarly butt and hang it from his lower lip, “No argument at all. Why you even got to ask?” He winked at them both and lit the cigarette.

Billy scurried to the register, mumbling something, grabbed the blue chalk, and wrote:

$1400/$2000/No Argument

And he made the chalk squeak extra loud.