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putting on the weekends and acquiring some of the equipment necessary for golfing. He watches the Masters’ Classic and studies their pars and handicaps.
    The rich are saying something else now. The rich wish to know which card Mr. Pellisher requires. The rich can produce MasterCharge, etc., upon request. The rich are logged and registered in computers all over the world. The wealth of the rich can be verified in an instant.
    Mr. Pellisher has filled out all the needed forms. He has written down all the pertinent information. He has been helpful, courteous, polite, professional, warm, efficient, jovial, indulgent, cordial, ingratiating, familiar, benevolent. He has served the rich in the manner they are accustomed to. There is no outward indication of malice or loathing. But inside, in the deep gray portions of his mind where his secret thoughts lie, he hates the rich. What he’d really like to do is machine-gun the rich. Throttle the rich. He would like to see the great mansions of the rich burned down, their children limned in flame from the high windows. He would like to see the rich downtrodden, humbled, brought to their knees. He’d like to see the rich in rags. He’d like to see the rich on relief, or in prison. Arrested for smuggling cocaine. Fined for driving drunk. He’d like to see the rich suffer everything he ever suffered that all their money could heal.
    But he knows it can never be so. He knows that the richcan never be poor, that the poor can never be rich. He hates himself for being so nice to the rich. He knows the rich do not appreciate it. The rich merely expect it. The rich have become accustomed to it. He doubts the rich ever even think about it.
    He tells none of this to the rich. He would like to, but he cannot. The rich might become offended. The rich might feel insulted. The rich might stop doing their business with him. Mr. Pellisher feeds off the rich. He sucks their blood, drawing it, little by little unto himself, a few dollars at a time, with never enough to satisfy his lust, slake his thirst.
    The rich are leaving now. They are sliding onto their smooth leather seats, turning the keys in ignitions all over the world that set high-compression motors humming like well-fed cats. Their boats are docked and hosed down with fresh water. Their airplanes are getting refueled and restocked with liquor. Their accountants are preparing loopholes. Their lobsters are drowning in hot water, their caviar being chilled on beds of ice.
    Mr. Pellisher waves to the rich as they pull away from the curb. But the rich don’t look back.

OLD FRANK AND JESUS
    Mr. Parker’s on the couch, reclining. He’s been there all morning, almost, trying to decide what to do.
    Things haven’t gone like he’s planned. They never do.
    The picture of his great-grandpa’s on the mantel looking down at him, a framed old dead gentleman with a hat and a long beard who just missed the Civil War. The picture’s fuzzy and faded, with this thing like a cloud coming up around his neck.
    They didn’t have good photography back then, Mr. P. thinks. That’s why the picture looks like it does.
    Out in the yard, his kids are screaming. They’re just playing, but to Mr. P. it sounds like somebody’s killing them. His wife’s gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair fixed. There’s a sick cow in his barn, but he hasn’t been down to see about her this morning. He was up all night with her, just about. She’s got something white and sticky running out from under her tail,and the vet’s already been out three times without doing her any good. He charges for his visits anyway, though, twenty-five smacks a whack.
    That’s . . . seventy-five bucks, he thinks, and the old white stuff’s just pouring out.
    Mr. P. clamps his eyes shut and rolls over on the couch, feels it up. He had cold toast four hours ago. He needs to be up and out in the cotton patch, trying to