We could have gone back to work at old man Metzger’s nursery, shoveling gravel and six varieties of manure, each guaranteed to singe the nose hairs off a rhino. We could have caught up on the gossip, snide jokes, and nasal bickering tossed around by Betsy and Selma in the pig-hole they call the employee’s lounge. We could have gone back to collecting our Friday paychecks, enough for a week’s supply of Ramen noodles and five nights at Andy’s rundown neighborhood bar.
We could have left before any real damage done, and I was considering just that, getting ready to grab Pluto by the back of his collar and drag him out of there, already thinking how we’d laugh about this moment in years to come while tossing back beers and smirking at women. We could have turned back.
Then Pluto shot Gert Franklin and it all went to hell.