COLLUSION / Mark Schoofs / /T3 OYS," SAID THE BOSS last Friday afternoon, "you two ought to Dbe able to keep an eye on things." He said he had business over in Auburn. "Personal. Won't be back till after hours." What with the plant shut down it didn't much matter when he came and went. "But," he said, tapping the security guard badge on my shirt, "you two'd best stick around. Till 5:00," he said, handing us our paychecks. "See you Monday at 8:00." "Henry," said Nate, "there ain't the need for two guards at this place. Calder just hired us so he wouldn't get spooked by the quiet." He took a look out the window and watched Calder's truck pull out of the lot. "If he takes off we don't both need to stay." Calder's truck disappeared down the road. "One of us'd best hang around though," he said, handing me a coin. "Flip." "Just don't let Marge see you leave," said Nate. I bypassed Marge's office, skipped the locker room too, disdained the shower and change of clothes routine, slipped out the loading dock door. "Just don't let Marge see you punch my card when you leave." On my way home I stopped at an old-fashioned corner grocery store to pick up some eggs. There was just this one old fellow there, sitting at the till in a brown chamois shirt and wearing day-old whiskers that made his cheeks look gritty. He was busy on the phone but eyed me closely as I walked in the door. Just as I got to his counter with my carton of eggs, he cupped his hand stiffly over the phone, looked up at me with a curious mixture of haughtiness, hurt, and grudging forbearance, and scowled. "You mind?" he asked, as if only some sort of a scoundrel would. "No," I stammered. His eyes had fixed mine. As he put the phone back to his mouth I thought I saw a hint of conquest playing at the corners of a smile. He bent over the wood counter and muttered, wryly, "Say what?" I took a look out the window and deciphered, reading the letters from inside out, an old sign on the pane: "Snyder's Groe." I could barely hear Snyder mumbling into the phone. There wasn't much of a conversation to be made out from what he was saying. With a bit of a show I plunked the egg carton down on the counter. No response from Snyder. He just sat there twiddling the phone cord and mumbling an occasional "uh huh" or "okay." The phone looked like it had been there for at least forty years—the black casing was worn, in spots, to a dull, lusterless gray, 52 · The Missouri Review and the coils of the cord showed, as it stretched, little nooks of indelible grime. On an impulse I opened my carton to check for bad eggs. There were none. But the neatly arrayed eggs, each self-contained as a little universe and white as milk, nearly surprised me. They didn't seem to belong there. They looked chaste, set apart, almost venerable in an odd sort of way. It felt strange to think of eating them. "Don't say," mumbled Snyder into his phone, adding "That right" and "You sure" in succeeding interludes. His lexicon was growing! Maybe the conversation is coming to a head, I thought. I flipped my egg carton shut. And Snyder fell silent. Now what? Had he been put on hold? Or had the party at the other end found a new topic to ramble upon? Why didn't Snyder put him on hold? The place sure didn't look like it could afford to lose business. The wooden floors were badly rutted and the whole place smelled faintly like forsaken bologna. I remembered a cartoon I've seen hung on the office walls of various contractors and mechanics. It shows three round, Casper-the-ghost-like creatures literally rolling in laughter; the caption says, "You want it when?" I didn't expect that kind of arrogance...