The Truth According To Hank

Maybe he won't call. Maybe the phones are down. Across the city. The country maybe, because he could be anywhere. Asia, Africa, Antarctica. Some continent beginning with an A. Like Americas. Do they all begin with A? Why aren't there more variations on a theme? Who decides this stuff? Hank would know. Hank knows everything. Names of capital cities, solutions to quadratic equations, how to peel a mango with your teeth without getting all the stringy bits caught up in the space between them. Especially the front two. Hank can rewire a broken lamp, drive a double clutch long haul trailer, climb microwave towers and install sattelite dishes for radiowave transmission and speak fluent American Sign Language. He makes stellar profiteroles, too. Hank's a truth teller. The truth according to Hank. Hanks speaks truth to power and damn the torpedoes, screw the consequences, he will be heard. That's what makes Ziggy nervous. More often than not, Ziggy has to clean up after Hank. Smooth over the rough edges, assuage bruised egos, repair broken windows and trashed hotel rooms. There's no arguing with Hank. No negotiating or compromising or meeting people half way. No sirree. Hank's way or the highway. Or the dumpster or locked trunk or trip down river. Ziggy's been best friends with Hank since third grade. Ziggy's only friend. Hank has dozens, maybe hundreds. Acquaintances. People who owe him favours. People Hank are indebted to. Ziggy's the clean up guy. He feels like a streetsweeper, running around with a pushbroom and bag on a stick, deleting the detritus of Hurricane Hank. Changing passwords, erasing files, expunging records, firebombing garages. Now he waits. There's a window, a time line, a routine he's come to know by heart. Even though it's always the same Ziggy never loses hope that one day things will be different. One day. Like today. Maybe the phone won't ring. Maybe Hank will have a change of heart.

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