Free Jonah Man by Christopher Narozny

Jonson. Jonson tilted his head back, tasted something like kerosene cut with uncooked grains of rice.
    Home brew, the older said.
    Whose home?
    Jonson stepped to the table, pocketed a string of shots before
his turn was up.
    You know, he said, moving aside, a third head might bump you up in the order.
    You looking to get back in?
    Might be.
    What are you offering?
    Song, dance, a little piano, he said. And I can deliver a line as good as anyone.
    We don’t have a lot of dialogue just now.
    I could add that dimension.
    True. It would have to be worth paying for.
    The mute banked the eight ball; Jonson placed a second ten on the table.
    Funny our paths never crossed before, the older said.
    Half my act died, Jonson said. Took her a good long time.
    The older drained the flask, slipped a second from his pocket, broke it in before passing it to Jonson. Jonson hesitated, felt his eyes strain to keep the balls in focus. He looked across the table, trying to determine if the mute was immune, or if the liquor was working on him, too. He took a sip, passed it on.
    Your turn, the older brother said.
    Jonson rushed his shot as though trying to outpace the alcohol. The mute stepped up, finished the game.
    All I got now is some ones, Jonson said.
    When the flask came back around, Jonson weighed it in his palm, found it no lighter than the last time he’d drank from it. A shard of pain cut through his chest. He wrapped his lips around the mouth, blocked the liquor with his tongue. Smiling, he passed the flask to the older brother, then picked up a cue stick and stove it across his head. The older stumbled, turned, came at Jonson. Jonson kicked out his knee, brought the splintered wood sideways down his face. The mute backed up; the
attendant stepped out from behind his desk, club in hand.
    You got some hustlers here, Jonson said.
    That right?
    Tell him, mute, Jonson said.
    The mute said nothing.
    Oh, bullshit, Jonson said.
    He leaned down, grabbed the older by the hair, held the jagged end of the stick to his throat.
    Cash on the table.
    The attendant edged forward.
    You’re good where you are, Jonson said.
    The mute pulled a fistful of crumpled bills from his pocket, began counting.
    I want what I would have won, Jonson said, raising the stick. All right, the mute said. All right.
    You see, Jonson told the attendant.
    He bent down, pocketed the flask on his way out.

    Five cents got him in for what was left of the shows, two cents more got him a bag of roasted peanuts. He sat alone in his row, savoring each nut, taking slow sips from the older brothers’ flask. He stared ahead, unaware of what was happening onstage—only that there was color, movement, sound—then a spate of stillness, quiet—then color, movement, sound again. He tongued the mouth of the flask, fingered the corners of the bag in search of a last nut.
    He stopped at a liquor store, emptied a fresh pint of whiskey before returning to his son.

    The window had fallen shut while he slept; the room smelled of vomit, shit, alcohol. Someone was shaking him. Jonson rolled
onto his back, saw the old woman who managed the place standing over him, felt her bare foot on his chest, felt his temples pulsing in time to the baby’s screams.
    Out, she said. Out, out, out.
    What?
    Too many complaints.
    Now?
    Now.
    Let me get dressed, he said. Change my son.
    I’ll be in the hall.
    Jonson stood, looked the room over, realized that he had never bothered to look it over before. For him, it had been parts with no sum: a tub, a window, a wall bifurcated by a steel pipe. If he sat in the tub facing in one direction, he saw the door but not the window; if he sat facing the other direction, he saw the window but not the door. If he stood looking outside, he had no sense that he was standing with his back to a room that contained a tub, a door, a steel pipe.
    Come on now, the landlady called.
    A minute, Jonson said.
    He opened the window, relieved himself into the alley below.

III
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