Expatriates By Scott Rooker

When one expatriate greets another expatriate, the usual way is through a wink and a shake. Often times spirits are offered: a toast to the bond of the expatriates. They smile and smoke their cigars. Deep down they are seething with disgust. There is nothing in this world an expatriate hates more, than another expatriate.

I hid my disdain behind teeth as I shook the expatriate’s hand. I drank my shot of whiskey and excused myself to the stone balcony. The piano sing along, which had materialized from thin air, failed to notice my absence. Their laughter echoed through the hall.

I lit my cigar, and puffed heavy, looking out into the black silhouettes of the trees on a navy sky. I thought a little bit about the family I had abandoned back in Omaha years ago. Would I be human if I didn’t think them, occasionally? I knocked back another whiskey, and as I was listening to the mosquitoes in the shadow of the night, I heard footsteps from behind the lattice. It was the expatriate. He just stared at me and smoked his tobacco, turning the little cherry.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He stepped into the moonlight, puffed, and said, “Forgive me, feller. I didn’t quite catch your name back there. I’m Benny Holding.”

“My name is Paul Cone,” I said.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He grinned, leaning with his hands on the stone, then said with a wink, “Paul Cone. You look awfully familiar. Tell me, have you ever lived in Omaha, Nebraska?”

I knew at that moment I had to murder the expatriate. I calmly put out my burning cigar. Then I walked over to the ledge. I clasped the jacket of the man, grabbed tufts of his hair, and threw him head first over the balcony ledge, down the stone wall and into the ivy covered cliffs below. Dogs were barking.

I walked back to the party, sweating through my shirt. I set my empty glass upon the mantle and said loudly, “I have murdered the expatriate!”

© 2014 Scott Rooker

Scott Rooker is an artist, musician, and writer from Raleigh, North Carolina.

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