by Matthew Crow
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, my voice a staccato inflection over which I had no control.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Jonah? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I near enough have. How are you Michael?”
“Me? Well I’m just swell, friend. I’m just swell. Out on the open road you’ll be pleased to hear. And the price of a cup of coffee! I tell you, it’s enough to make you wonder who’s the crook out there. Lot changes in ten years Jonah,” he placed the axe head on the hearth and sat back down. “I hope my face doesn’t upset you,” he said with a wry, rictus smile. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Now, now, don’t you be getting upset. Let bygones be bygones. That’s my motto. Go on, take a good look. I see your eyes darting back and forth, not knowing where to look. It’s pretty aint it? Truth be told I forget all about it until I catch sight of myself in other people’s reactions. Poor lady at the diner nearly fell to the floor when I asked for my pie.”
I forced myself to look him in the eyes.
“There? That better? Now that the elephant’s out of the room and I’ve forgiven you so admirably, how about you bring us some refreshments? Ed takes tap water, likes to keep a clear head you understand. Mine’s a beer. I’m legal now too, have been for some time. Boy do things change in ten years - ” he said leaning back in his seat as I stood up, dazed and somnambulant like the living dead, “ - boy do things change.”
“So this gentleman moves into my room,” Michael continues, sipping from my beer as Ed sits silently, his water untouched. “And transpires he has a cell phone. I daren’t ask how he got it in, let’s just say the mouthpiece remains as far from his lips as can be, if you follow... ” Michael guffaws and slaps Ed on the arm. “Anyway, I had enough of talking in that place, so I took to listening. Boy is it magic what happens when you start to listen. Ed has this down to a fine art. As did you, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“How did you get out so soon?”
“Same as you, only I took the fast track. The platinum scheme. You start collecting, phone conversations, whispers, rumours. I found myself relaying these minor details to those with keys, and before you know it I was a free man. Honesty’s a costly luxury Jonah. Given the choice between happiness and pride I’ll take happiness any day of the week. How about you, buddy, how’s life been for you so far?”
“I suppose... things are... what the hell are you doing here Michael?” I asked eventually, seeing no reason to acknowledge the charade of conversation when I wanted only one thing: his total disappearance from my life.
“Well well well, you have the house but not the hospitality my friend. Say, aint that a country song?” Michael threw back his head and laughed. “I was in the neighbourhood. Heard from someone who knew someone who knew someone that you were knocking about this neck of the woods and thought who’d be happier to see me than my old pal Jonah. Hell, we been making sure it was you for weeks now. See, there are a few practical issues with us being here. Terms and conditions applied to my swift exit. Didn’t want to risk accosting the wrong man and finding our liberties revoked once more. It was made clear that a repeat visit would not go quite as smoothly by the some of the boys the day I moved out, you understand.”
“Now you’ve seen me you can be on your way.”
Michael stood up and began pacing the living room, arriving back at the hearth; the axe head back in his hands. “Well Jonah I won’t lie, I’m disappointed. Here I’ve told Ed about my great friend Jonah, the kindest most gentle raconteur you ever will meet. I tell him what this man can’t do with words is nobody’s business, that you’re clever, that you’re kind. And Ed over here he insists on a road trip to meet this very legend. Only now he must be crestfallen. You sad Ed, sad at Jonah’s unremarkable reception?”
Ed didn’t respond.
“I don’t want trouble,” I said eventually, dragging each word to the fore with all my might. “I got a quiet life out here.”
“Deadly silent,” said Michael, opening and shutting a small box I had crafted on the mantelpiece.
“I just want to be left alone. Not too much to ask. It’s good seeing you Michael, really it is, and I can’t say I’m not relieved that you’re doing okay. But you and I were different people back then, people that don’t bear repeating. I think it’s for the best that this is the end, don’t you?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“No,” he said eventually. “I think we’re going to stick around for now. Now, now, hey, don’t be looking so worried. We won’t cause no harm. Your secrets are safe with us, my friend. This is a nice setup you got yourself Jonah,” he said, staring out of the window. “Type of life I wouldn’t mind taking for my own. How about you go about giving us some pointers, meet us for a few drinks, then that’ll be it. Like we were never here. Seems a shame to have come all this way for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just a few hours of your time. How about Wednesday night? Beers. And before you start arguing it’s our dime, that’s a given. Yes siree, all we ask is your company.”
“Fine,” I said, standing, desperate only for them to leave. “Whatever you want. Just say where and when,” I walked to the door and Ed stood up.
“Then it’s a date!” said Michael turning swiftly. “Wow Jonah, it’s sure good to see you. Sure is good, thought once we were pulled our separate ways that was the end of that chapter. It’s nothing short of a miracle if I do say so myself.” He walked to the door that I held open and Ed followed. “Wednesday night, we’ll be in touch as to where and when. Until then we got us some business to attend to.”
“I’ll see you around, Michael.”
“That you will my friend,” he said as he walked out of the front door, followed by Ed’s bulking weight. “That you will.”
“Thanks for coming this weekend,” said Harlow, the next day. I had removed myself from the lunchtime rabble and sat alone with a crust of bread in a dirt hollow just a short stroll from the action of the building sight.
“Thanks for having me,” I tried.
“Sure did make an impression on the missus. Seems to think you’re some kind of gentleman. Caleb’s go okay?”
“Excuse me?” I racked my brain. “Oh, yes sir, giving it a trial run.”
Harlow moved closer to me. “You okay boy? Haven’t seemed yourself all day.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You sure that’s all?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well so long as you’re sure. You ever need to talk, you know where I am.”
“Thanks.”
Harlow nodded and began walking away.
“Say, Harlow... ” he turned to face me. “Thanks for having me at the weekend. I haven’t enjoyed anything that much in as long as I can remember.”
“Any time kiddo, any time.”
That evening I arrived home to a handwritten note on my doormat:
Howdy Pal,
Great to see you so well. As discussed Wednesday would suit us best, if it’s all the same with you. Let’s say eight thirty at the old Tavern on Main Street. We look forward to your company!
Regards,
Michael
I folded the letter and went out to buy enough bourbon to stun the entire state football team.
Why did you write to me, Verity? What positive were you hoping to draw from a lifelong exchange with a convicted criminal? I often meant to ask you this, but suppose the time was never quite right. Initially I was wowed by the luxury of a personalised message from a sweet stranger; more so that it lacked the frenzied urgency that the spider scrawls of death row fetishists mostly suggested. And then before long it seemed too rude a point to raise, having become established in one another’s lives so quickly. You lifted me in ways I never thought I could have been whilst I was inside. You gave me an audience, something to love and guide where once I felt so bleak. Yet still I am at a loss as to what exactly I was to you, initially, before we had even th
e vaguest idea of one another.
Sorry if this appears rude. It is not intended to be as much. Nor, I hasten to add, is this in any way a preamble to the severance of our relationship. I need you now more than I ever have before. I’m just curious, that’s all, as to the nature of our ever-shifting roles. Am I your creation or are you mine? In truth I daresay it no longer matters, it is what is and that is that. Like I said, I’m just curious and wallowing once more in self-pity.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
With love,
Jonah (Your Eternally Grateful Stranger!)
Dear Jonah,
Eve came rushing into the trailer in floods of tears and locked herself in the bathroom. I had been sitting on the floor, smoothing the corners of some of your oldest letters, readying myself to pen yet another note. The bolt of the door locked, a tap was turned on, and then one long, animalistic wail sounded out, followed by two solid hours of sobbing.
I let her be for a while until the reality of two girls and one bathroom became an issue I could no longer ignore. I considered the practicalities of a wide-necked bottle. I even gave thought to the flexibility and aim required to hit the sink. But vanity prevailed and so I was left with no option but to intervene. Keeping my legs pressed as tightly together as I could I walked over to the door almost doubled over in agony. I knocked. No answer. I tried again.
“You need in?” she said eventually, her voice cracked and distorted through swallowed tears.
“Eve, what’s the problem, sweetheart? You can tell me. I could help.”
There was a brief pause, then a reluctant sliding of the bolt, before the door opened with a creak. Eve stood, half naked and red faced, her eyes still streaming. “Oh Verity, I’d do anything for love... but I won’t do THAT,” she said, taking herself to the bedroom and wallowing deep within the covers where she remained, lachrymose, for the remainder of the day.
And with that Dylan was relegated to one more notch on Eve’s increasingly whittled bedpost.
She had been gone since leaving for The Iguana Den the night before. The agreement I had made drunkenly seemed to still stand, and so after a brief phone conversation we found ourselves traipsing back across the sand flats in the lunchtime burn. Inside there were sounds of real life as opposed to the hushed tones of night owls and alley cats that I had grown accustomed to. Minus the benefit of mood lighting it seemed exposed, as though its clean white towel had been whipped away and all that was left was a less than perfect body.
Behind closed doors sounds rang out. I heard two girls shriek and then laugh. In the distance a dog barked twice then settled. A hairdryer blew suddenly and then snapped as though choked. A sixties pop record played through tinny speakers. In the main room of the bar, in front of the stage, Kingpin played poker with three men. They turned their heads instinctively at our intrusion though in no way attempted to acknowledge us. No sooner did they recognise Eve’s face than they returned to the game at hand. Eve took my arm and led me behind the stage to where, she told me, the real magic happened.
Miss Jemima sat in front of the largest of the mirrors, carefully painting on two lips with a brush and red oil.
“My dears, what a surprise. And just in time. I don’t like to be disturbed until my face is in place.”
“Miss Jemima,” Eve walked over and kissed her on the cheek. “You remember Verity.”
“How could I forget?” She moved towards me and kissed my hand. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, and what fun we’re going to have. Follow me, dear,” she said, leading us out through a side door. “Verity... that’s an unusual name. You don’t find too many Verities round these parts.”
“No ma’am,” I said.
It’s true. My name is a cruel hangover from parents whose income was one generation removed from the very bluest of collars yet whose tastes, sadly, were not. I am all too aware that were I born into a dynasty of some sort - of old money charm and faded grandeur - it could conceivably bear some watermarks of hereditary celebration or even ironic humour. As is, it speaks only of the misguided notion that obscure and polysyllabic will somehow equate to success or, at very least, aspiration later in life. In such circumstances the opposite is almost always true.
“Come girls,” she said. “We’re working to a deadline.”
Eve followed first, I trailed behind. As I stroked a hair from my cheek I felt something stick to my fingers. Looking down, the tips were coated in red blotches of her make-up, as though I’d been bitten by a viper.
We spent the next half hour rifling through costume drawers, deciding on colour, fabric and style. Eve tossed a threadbare feather boa at me and howled with laughter. I begin to enjoy myself despite any initial misgivings.
“I take it you’re housed?” asks Miss Jemima, once my finery has been decided.
“I have my own place.”
“It’s real nice,” says Eve, flicking a thong from the largest of the carved chests across the room at me. Two sequins had somehow stuck themselves to her neck making light bounce sharply into the eye of anyone who stared too long. “She’s even letting me stay, we’re our very own odd couple.”
“I can’t say I’m not relieved. We accommodate the fallen women where possible of course, though in my experience they’re often fallen for a reason.”
“I’m pleased to be standing on my own two feet, for now at least.”
“And long may it continue. Come now, change into those there clothes and let’s see what you’re made of.”
Back on stage the lights have been dimmed. The bar is cooled by its artificial darkness and the poker game carries on as normal. Next to the men, Prudence is stood, silent and solemn, barely an inch from Kingpin’s side. Miss Jemima walks to the table and whispers something in his ear. He looks towards us and holds my gaze. I feel myself chill. His eyes seem to deconstruct on the spot, what exactly he is looking for I am not sure, but he seems to find it and with a nod to his guests they stand and leave the room followed by Prudence and we are alone once more.
From nowhere a slow beat begins to sound. Eve walks to the centre of the stage and begins a simplified version of the dance she performed the first night I saw her, every so often glancing in my direction. Miss Jemima walks behind me until I feel her skirts brushing against the bare skin of my leg.
“Eve can be... how shall we put this? Excitable to say the least,” she whispered as Eve swung her hair around until her face was hidden. “I wouldn’t want to feel like you’d been coerced. You think you’re up to it, darling? Say now or forever hold your peace.”
“I think I could be.”
“Alright. Well now imagine a room full of people. Men. Braying, salivating, wild horses that you alone have to tease and tame all at once,” she leans even closer, scanning for a reaction. “Still game?”
I pause for a moment as Eve winds to a halt at the base of the pole and spreads across the floorboards with the grace of an ice cube melting in the sun. “Absolutely.”
She tells us that we’re artists, mastering our craft. That the pace and rhythm must remain measured; each layer unfolding to the right beat, the pleasure of our audience maintained at all times before the final reveal. There are, of course, prerequisites of the vocation. The reveal itself must be of a certain standard. We must be toned and tight enough as to appear desirable, yet retain a certain fallibility which suggests that one could, if only in their wildest dreams, be in some way attainable. Yet despite this the insistence is that the prelude itself is half - if not three quarters - of the battle. It retains its own significance. Too fast and they’ve shot their load before they’re so salacious they’d hand over the deeds to their homes just for one more inch. Too slow and they become bored, the bottom of the bottle holding more appeal than the folds of fabric and flesh shifting before them. You have to spin your web with care, she says, and select the perfect moment to catch even the most reluctant of prey. The spider dance is a ritual as old as time, the trick is patie
nce, time, and knowing when best to strike. It is a skill only few acquire wholly, but those that do can live a long and fruitful life from skills of the flesh.
It comes to my turn and I feel my stomach churn. I walk to the stage. Eve has now taken to the front row of seats. She wolf-whistles but I do not turn around. Miss Jemima stands at the furthest edge of the stage, her corpulence nothing but a convex extension of the shadows in which she bathes. The music changes track seamlessly and I find my shoulders begin to shake slightly. I breathe deeply and force myself to relax into the repetition of the beat. A light catches my eye and for a second I am dazed, uncertain of both self and surroundings. I hold out my hands and grip firmly onto the greased pole.
I can’t say exactly how long I was up there. I disappeared from my own head, I allowed my body and limbs to steer their own course. I felt the dip of my legs, the brush of metal on skin. A sharp scraping as my knees dragged across the floor. The only consciousness was a slight effort to synchronise any movements I made to the tune of the song. I twirled and twisted to the empty room. I thawed beneath those lights and, Jonah, I’m not ashamed to admit it, I began to enjoy it. The sounds stopped, my scant audience disappeared and it was just me and my body, moving as I pleased.
Then the sound really did stop. Silence crept over me and suddenly I became aware, mortified even. No reaction from my crowd of two. I wanted to die. I wanted to run and scream and cry. Then a pat, then another, and another. Eve began hammering applause from the front row and whooping with delight. The sounds buffered the shame I felt though still did not appease me as I had hoped it might.
She rose from the shadows, her features finding themselves in the glare of the stage lights. Miss Jemima walked towards where I stood, now shivering, sweating, beside the pole. She stopped in front of me and looked me up and down. “My dear, what exactly was that?”
