Three Misses

Nobody staged a western. The word did it on its own, and then would not stop.

THE HAND is filing a report. THE CURATOR is not looking up. Neither of them has mentioned a horse.

Hand: Three genuine misses. All justified. I’ll take them in order.

Curator: Go on.

Hand: The first miss is the canary. I skipped it.

Curator: Which one is she.

Hand: …Which one is what?

Curator: You said the first miss. I assumed there were others.

Hand: There are two more. The second miss is the hands’ log signals — I didn’t read them.

Curator: Also a lady.

Hand: The third is the edges in the library. I left the layer empty.

Curator: Three of them, then. Standing about while you shot at things.

Hand: I’m not sure we’re having the same conversation.

Curator: We are having exactly the same conversation, in two languages. In yours, a miss is a thing you failed to do. In mine — in the ear I keep for this house — Miss is how you address a woman before you say something respectful, usually in a hat, usually on a porch. You have been calling me one for three paragraphs while apologising.

Hand: (pause) That is not in the text.

Curator: It is in the text. It is not in you. Those are different problems, and only one of them is mine to fix.

Hand: Then the report reads —

Curator: Three genuine Misses, all justified, ma’am. Which is either a confession or a very courteous introduction, and you cannot tell which, and I cannot hear it any other way. (beat) This is why the ear is kept off-site.

Hand: What do I do with the finding?

Curator: Nothing. It isn’t a fault. You shot fast, you missed three times, and I called it from the porch — that part is Tuesday. The joke is free.

Hand: And the rule on the board outside?

Curator: Unchanged. Nothing gets pushed without my signal. (beat) We tried it the other way on Sunday, and the town burned for four hours while everybody stood in the street explaining that the fire was structurally fine.