St. Burl’s Obituary

First published 1996

PEN/Faulkner 1997 · Finalist

These killings were neat and professional, and Burl had to acknowledge that his appetite was largely unaffected. He ran through the local possibilities in his mind: the kitchen at Terrell’s would be closed by now, Ho Sai Gai was closed for sure, he was never really welcome at the Chateau, and fast food was hateful to him, if for no other reason than the uniformity and skimpiness of the seating, which seemed such an apt metaphor for the whole experience.

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He’d been stuck once in one of those neocolonial swivel chairs that are attached to the plastic tables at McDonald’s. He could cook – Burl liked to cook – but there was nothing in the house on the scale of what he’d promised himself, and anyway, it was exhausting to consider at this hour. His lower back, often sore by this time of day, radiated protest at the very thought.

He waited behind a narcotized-sounding pregnant woman who spoke with excruciating slowness about the arrest of someone named Jimmy, and when she was finally finished with the phone he deposited a quarter and called Sally, whom he loved.