The Bad Job

"Why do you do it?" I asked Ira. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, the weasel.

"It’s just for the money," he said softly. "It’s not like I have a choice."

"You could quit, you know."

"It’s more complicated than that."

I wanted to hit him. Ira was a coward, that was the matter with him. I felt a real hatred for him as I looked at him, the short man with the thinning hair and weak cyan eyes. Weak, that was the only way my brother could be described.

"Ira," I said, trying to stay calm. "You are... you’re a messenger is what you are. You call people when their family members are killed in combat to give them the news. What kind of fucking job is that?"

"It’s not that bad, Lizzy, and I mean, I can’t exactly quit. Someone’s got to do it and no one else wants to. But the people need to know. What’s more important, my conscience or their knowledge?"

"I don’t know." I sighed. "Ira, I’ve known you since before I was born. I don’t... I care about you. This sucks. Get yourself some nice job."

"And a nice house and a nice wife while I’m at it?"

"Seriously, though." Making an effort to see things from Ira’s point of view, I felt kind of sorry for him. He was trying to be a good person, sort of. And he was right-- someone had to break the news. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else, someone else’s sibling.

Just as other people’s sibling’s deaths were what he had to talk about all day.

At a loss, I glanced at my watch and noted the time gratefully. "I’ve got to go, Ira. I’ll call you. Maybe we can work something out. I really do want the best for you."

"Just as I want the best for you, Lizzy."

We hugged and then I left his apartment, thoughtful.

He had a problem that I knew I would spend a lot of time thinking about, trying to solve.