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“Oh this is a classic. It’s called Pierced From Within by Suffocation.”
“How can suffocation pierce from within?”
“No, no. The band is called Suffocation. The song is just Pierced From Within. Can’t really tell by what, but I’ll make a safe bet and assume by Satan. Possibly self-hatred. Maybe both.”
Rhett doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I look at him again and realize that he’s grinning, wide shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I have to smile too.
“I’m not solely into death metal, you know,” I say.
Rhett composes himself enough to ask, “Oh yeah? What else is getting blasted into that brain of yours?”
“I happen to love gangsta rap.”
“The more violent and misogynistic the better?”
“Of course,” I say seriously. “I’m a sucker for rules within the office, but outside? I’m all about degrading them hoes.”
Finally Rhett can’t hold it in any longer. He bursts out in laughter, slapping the side of the wheel and actually wiping a tear from his eye. “Tupac is turning over in his grave right now. Shit, that was not what I expected to come out of you turning on the radio.
“As hilarious as this is though, I can’t handle it any longer.” He reaches over and turns the dial. Instantly the car is transported to old school country. Rhett breathes a sigh of relief. I boo.
He looks at me aghast. “Did you just boo Johnny Cash?”
“Too soft.”
“Yeah, because you like your eardrums raked across hot coals. Some of us are fine with a little enjoyment in our music.”
I have to give it to him. I’m aware that my music tastes aren’t typical crowd-pleasers. After a couple minutes, Cash switches to something a little more modern. Rhett’s into it too, nodding his head along with the beat.
“So you’re a country guy. I’m surprised,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“You know a lot of farmers?”
He scoffs. “You don’t need to live in the country to like the music.” He pauses and then says, “Though I do wish I had grown up out here. In a place like this.”
We’re driving through a town that’s so small I’m confident it wouldn’t register on Google Maps. There’s not even a single traffic light — just a four-way stop where a general store, a farming equipment supply store, a liquor store, and an empty lot meet like conspirators in a grand scheme.
“Where?” I ask. “Behind that liquor store?”
“No! Out there,” he gestures toward the snow-covered fields that are now rushing past our windows. “Actually have some damn space, not be cooped up surrounded by fifty thousand people everywhere you look.”
“What the hell do people even do out here?” I ask.
“Lots of things,” Rhett insists. “They farm. They have tailgates. They fix trucks and tractors, drink moonshine.”
“All of these examples sound like you got them from country songs.”
Rhett shrugs. “Well maybe I did. It’s… nice. It’s real, even if it’s not all it’s cracked up to be in the songs. Better than sitting in a boring office making big numbers bigger and counting the days to retirement.”
“Is that what you do?” I ask, ever curious as to his actual role at the Westing Bank.
“I—” Rhett starts but then stops. He shakes his head. “I do whatever Mother asks me to do.”
“Which is…?” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he says. And just like that, we’re back to silence.
