Dave
January 30, 2012 @, 7:55 AM
Length: 4,300 words
Ets. Reading Time: 17 minutes
This story won the 1999 Chiaroscuro Story Contest and earned an honorable mention in Datlow's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. It was originally titled "From the Mouths of Birds", but I always hated that title, so I've retitled it simply "Jones". Another story inspired by a Counting Crows song.
To some extent, we all create our own reality. What if we could recreate it as well?
Jones
by David L. Felts
The door wasn't locked--if the locks in such a run-down motel even worked--so Jones went inside and shut the door. He paused long enough to look for the dead bird, though he knew it wouldn't be there. The goddamn thing was never there until after, and this time was no different. He shrugged and approached the withered man sitting slumped on the edge of the sagging bed.
Sticks stared with glazed, unfocused eyes. An empty syringe dangled by its needle from a vein in the back of his left hand. When he wasn't mugging old women to get the money to buy his junk, he worked as a runner for Blue Charlie. His habit had talked him into skimming. Bad mistake.
Jones worked for Blue Charlie too. His job was to fix mistakes.
At fifty-two, Jones' muscle was losing its battle to flab, but his hands were large and still immensely strong. He wrapped those hands around the unresisting junkie's scrawny neck, thumbs set in the hollow just beneath the prominent Adam's Apple. Sticks' eyes rolled back as he rode the smack train.
Staring right into the white slits of Sticks' upturned eyes--because that's what a man did when he had a job to do, stared it in the eyes--Jones squeezed.
At the end, Sticks' drugged mind must have sensed death approaching. He began to struggle, prying feebly at Jones' thick fingers. He might as well have been trying to bend steel. Long minutes after Sticks stopped moving, Jones released him. The body fell back on the bed.
Looking around the room again, he found it right away: a dead bird on the floor by the window--a little yellow thing with an orange beak, about the size of a parakeet. Never there before, but always there after, that was the way it worked. And always the same bird.
Ignoring the tightness that gripped his chest, Jones picked it up. The body was cold, much colder than it should have been. It was always cold, cold as that day so long ago, that day when everything had gone bad beyond fixing.
"What are you doing? Why are you here?" The bird didn't answer.
He cupped the cold body in his huge hands, staring deep into that belly, down into those yellow feathers. If he could only stare hard enough.... He strained until everything else faded away, darken from the outside in, until all he saw was a smear of yellow. His eyes began to sting and he had to blink.
Nothing.
He took a deep shuddering breath. Goddamn bird.
He threw it against the wall.
"That's no way to treat a dead bird," the bird said.
"So now it speaks," Jones said. "I figured that would get your attention."
The bird didn't reply.
"What are you supposed to be anyway? Why are you bothering me?" They'd had this conversation before, when the bird was in a mind to talk.
"What do you want me to be? And who's bothering who? I don't see you getting thrown against a wall."
Jones gnawed his lower lip and shrugged. The bird never gave him answers, only more questions, and he wasn't in the mood for questions.
"It's inside you, Jonsey," the bird called out as Jones left. "The universe. It's inside everyone, but only a few find it. Only a few create it. Will you?"
###
He was seated at the bar in McCalls, his favorite hole-in-the-wall suds house, working on his fourth frosty mug when Mike sat on the cracked vinyl stool next to him.
Mike, with his leather jacket, gold chains and sleek black ponytail. Mike, a young punk, not above taking a snort to get himself through the day, all attitude and no style. Anyone could pull a trigger, but it took a man to look someone in the eyes while squeezing the life out of them. But he was ruthless and Blue Charlie was a family friend, so Mike had moved up fast. He lit a vanilla-flavored cigarillo and ordered Black Velvet on ice. He waited until Trip, the bartender, had set down the drink and moved away before he spoke.
"Jonesy," he said with a nod, blowing out a stream of bluish smoke that smelled of burning vanilla.
"You know," Jones said, flexing his fingers and staring at his hands, feeling four beers worth of maudlin, "When I was your age, I worked at a slaughter house. I was a cow killer. Took a big old sledge and knocked 'em right in the head. Pow! Crushed their ****ing skull like a Styrofoam cup. Worked that job for years, 'til they moved me up to be a super. Got so I could swing that twelve-pounder with one hand. One goddamn hand. Like it was a hammer. Nobody could swing a sledge like me." He took a long pull on his beer.
"Nowadays they use this thing that looks like a jackhammer, only smaller. Set it up against their forehead and press a button. Bam! Eight-inch spike does the rest."
"That so?" Mike said, disinterested.
"Yep. Now I ask you, where's the man in that? "
Mike shrugged and sucked on his drink. "Blue says good job on Sticks." He slid a folded wad of bills along the scarred bar. "Shit, he didn't lift but a spoon or two, but it sets an example, you know? Makes people think twice. That's what you do, Jonesy, you make people think twice. Blue likes that."
Jones shoved the wad into a pocket without counting. His pension from the meat-packing plant paid the rent and not much else. "I still smell that damn place. Jesus, it stank. You wouldn't believe."
"We'll be in touch, Jonesy, next time we need you."
Life was hard, but the body went on. Jones made a fist, squeezing so tight his knuckles ached. "I deserve more."
Mike's eyes narrowed. Twin streams of smoke curled from his nostrils. "Hey, we all deserve more, you know? But I'll talk to the boss for you." He pulled another thick wad of bills from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, counting as he peeled. "Hey, here's two-hundred on top, right? A tip. You do good work, Jonesy."
Jones stared at the money. Talking to Mike was like talking to a brick. He pocketed the two hundred, chugged the rest of his beer, and ordered another.
###
The pet store reeked of disinfectant and dirty cages. Jones ignored the smell and the noise of yapping dogs. He concentrated on the small, warm form in his hands.
"You gonna buy it?" asked the clerk, a young, thin man with long hair and a goatee. "I shouldn't let you hold it if you're not gonna buy it."
Jones lifted his gaze from the bird--a yellow parakeet with an orange beak. "Nah, I'm not gonna buy it. I bought one once, but it died." He handed it back.
The clerk shrugged as he accepted the bird. "Happens. These little ones aren't very tough." He put the bird back in a large, crowded cage. "Not like parrots." He pointed to a cage containing a large green bird. "Those things live for decades, and I mean decades. We don't sell many though, they're expensive. People like the little ones because they're cheap, and all the colors--green, yellow, red-"
"Yeah." Jones stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Thanks."
"Sure. See ya."
Jones shambled out of the store, head bent against Chicago's chill October breeze. His bones told him it as going to be an ugly winter, as if The Windy City ever had any other. He should move to Florida, take up fishing.
It was one of his fantasies.
###
Seated in the ragged blue recliner in the center of his apartment's living room, Jones took a pull from his ninth beer of the night. The rest of the second six-pack--three more Buds--occupied his lap, still in the plastic rings and sharing space with his gut. On the TV, the weather forecaster, a lean young man who undoubtedly had a future, prattled about highs and lows and precipitation. It was a balmy 83 in Miami.
Jones finished his beer and dropped the empty can to the floor with the rest. He pulled another and gripped the can in his right hand, squeezing. His teeth clenched, his face grew warm, his pulse throbbed in his temples. Come on you–
The can popped, drenching his shirt and pants in warm Budweiser.
"You're losing it, Jones, you weak bastard," he told himself between gasps. "You're losing it."
He pulled another beer, popped the top, drank. He looked around the apartment, at the dingy furniture and faded powder-blue walls. In four days, he'd turn fifty-three. Fifty-goddamn-three.
How much time was left?
###
Jones sat on a green bench in Franklin Park and though about his son while tossing popcorn to the pigeons. He could hear the faint roar of jets taking off from nearby O'Hare. The sun was warm, the chill fall wind blissfully absent. A few other people had come to enjoy the respite. Not much longer before winter descended in full.
Little Billy would be a man now, thirty years old. Probably married with kids of his own. Did he look like his father? Jones wondered.
William Alfred Jones, Jr., was the product of a six-year marriage to the former Anne Marie Riley. The first four had been good years, good as any he'd had, until he'd screwed it up. His drinking and her nagging. You can be so much more, Bill. You're smarter than you think. Why do you settle for so little? Only it didn't seem so much like nagging now. It seemed more like a truth he got tired of hearing.
And his son. How he'd doted on that child! Last time he'd tried to see Billy had been on the boy's eleventh birthday.
He remembered standing on the front steps of Anne's and her new husband's town home. It took him three tries to get his finger on the doorbell. He'd only meant to have a beer or two to soothe his nerves--seeing Anne and Walt together always tightened his jaw--but two had turned to four, to six, to eight and then he'd lost count. When he'd finally laid his bleary gaze on the clock, it was already too late.
The locks rattled and he ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. The cuffs of his pants were stiff with dried blood. He wished he'd taken the time to change before coming. He'd meant to. But Rourke's Bar had been on the way home....
He held the pillowcase-covered birdcage under one arm.
Anne frowned when she saw him. "It's seven-fifteen, Bill. The party was over at six."
Jones grimaced, guilt squeezing him like a fist. "I'm an ass, Anne, I know-" he had to concentrate to keep from slurring his words "-but I lost track of time."
"From the look of you, that's not all you lost track of." Anne was so pretty it made his throat tight. Her face was fuller now, her cheeks flushing from the cold. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. "Why do you do this, Bill? Do you go out of your way to be a ****-up?" Jones winced. Anne rarely cursed, and when she did she it meant she was really angry. "Billy doesn't need that kind of man in his life, that kind of father. Understand?"
"I understand you're trying to keep me from my boy," Jones forced out, knowing it wasn't true.
Anne glared at him. "They only thing keeping you from Billy is you."
"I don't want to fight--"
"I don't either, but I'm not letting you in. Not like this."
"It's a special present, Anne! Come on, I really wanted--"
"I don't care if it's the key to Fort ****ing Knox," Anne's voice rose a notch. "You're not coming in drunk!"
"Is there a problem, Hun?" a man called from inside. The voice made Jones' jaw clench. Walter Benson was an uptown man, a prissy-looking dork who wore a suit and worked as an accountant. He was everything Jones wasn't: successful, smart, sober. His job left him smelling of ink and paper, not blood and guts.
"No problem," Anne called over her shoulder. She faced Bill again and held out her hands. "Give it here, Bill, it's freezing cold and I'm letting all the heat out."
"Let me at least show it to you," Jones said, desperate to share the surprise and his excitement, wanting someone to know how hard he'd tried.
She sighed, her shoulders drooped. "All right. What is it?"
"It's a bird. I don't know what kind, a parakeet or something. I thought Billy might like a pet, and a dog's no good in the city. But a bird...."
Anne's face softened. "That's nice, Bill, really."
Jones eagerly tugged at one side of the floral pillowcase. "Here, take a look. It's the cutest little thing! You wouldn't believe the way it whistles." He got the pillowcase up and saw the bird lying on its back among the shredded newspaper at the bottom of the cage. It was as though someone had kicked him in the stomach.
"Oh no...." He dropped to his knees and set the cage down, opening it and reaching inside. The bird was stiff and cold.
He looked up at Anne. "When I went in the... I left it in the car. I didn't think I would be that long." He wanted to cry. "Ah, shit...."
Anne bit her lip and shook her head, not bothering to hide the disgust and disappointment in her eyes. "Jesus, Bill." She closed the door, leaving Jones kneeling on the steps, the dead bird in his hands.
Jones pushed the memory away and threw more popcorn. "I never tried to see him after that," he told the pigeons. "I just sent my one-fifty a month and prayed he wouldn't turn out like his old man. I've thought about trying to track him down, but what's the use? Too late to be a father now." The pigeons' heads bobbed in assent.
"Life's a piece of wood, and sometimes the scratches go so damn deep you can't sand them out." He felt pleased with himself for coming up with that.
He tried one he'd heard on a religious channel: "In the garden of life, you hoe your own row."
"Hoe your own row," one of the pigeons repeated, a cocky gray one that reminded Jones of Walter, the way it strutted and preened. "You've got it, Jonesy. If you don't like that piece of wood, throw it back and get another!"
"What do you know about it?" He threw more popcorn, closer this time. The pigeons hustled to get it, fearless of the hulking human only feet away.
"More than you think," the pigeon replied, shouldering through its fellows to peck at the popcorn.
Jones pulled the gas-powered BB pistol from inside his coat. After making sure no one was near, he sighted on the gray pigeon. The pistol made no more noise that the sound of someone spitting.
The pigeon squawked, flopped a few times, and was still. The other pigeons scattered to a safe distance and turned to stare. Jones ignored them. He pocketed the pistol and knelt, wrapping his hands around the dead bird. It was warm. He turned it belly side up and held it close, staring.
"Tell me your secrets now," he whispered.
He saw nothing but dirty gray feathers and blood, and heard only the wind.
###
"Got a job for you," Mike said. An unlit cigarillo hung from his fleshy lips and his dilated eyes made it obvious that he'd been sampling the wares he dealt for Blue. He sat next to Jones and ordered his Black Velvet on ice, taking a big swallow after Trip handed it to him.
"I've been thinking," Jones said. "I'm not so sure about this anymore." I've been killing for too long, and I'm tired, he wanted to say. But Mike wouldn't understand, so why bother? Instead, he said, "I turned fifty-three a few weeks back. I'm getting old."
Mike slapped him on the back and brayed out a laugh. "Old? Shit, Jonesy, you still the man. Trip!" he called to the bartender. "Bring my man a beer! Unopened."
Jones shook his head as Trip set a cold can of Bud down on the bar. "Not tonight, Mike. I'm not up to it."
Mike ignored him. He turned to the rest of the bar and announced, "I got a twenty here that says my man can pop this can with one hand!"
Most of the crowd were regulars who'd seen the trick more than once and weren't biting, but three men Jones didn't recognize wandered over, the scent of a bet as enticing as that of fresh-baked cookies.
Mike held up the Bud and showed it to them. "Normal can, boys, nothing special about it. Old Jonesy here will pop it like a piece of bubble wrap."
"One hand?" one of them asked. He was a paunchy, ruddy-faced man with broad shoulders. His hands were almost as big as Jones' and thick with calluses.
"One goddamn hand," Mike said.
"I'm in," the man said after a quick glance at his buddies. He slapped down a twenty. Following his lead, the others laid their bills down as well.
Mike matched them and handed the can to Jones. "Easy money, baby."
The cold can settled into Jones' hand like a bird into its nest. He looked around the bar, seeing the expectant faces of men he recognized but knew nothing about. Kindred souls who barbecued their pain in the same sauce he did. At that moment, there was hope in their bleary eyes, animation in their careworn faces. One of their own was about to make good.
If only he weren't so goddamned tired of it all.
"Come on Jonesy!" someone called. "Show those peckerwoods!"
Mike stared, a half-smile of challenge quirking his lips. "You haven't lost it, have you Jonesy?" he asked in a soft voice.
A surge of anger heated Jones' belly. He'd show that candy-ass fancy-boy. He tightened his grip, trying not to let the strain show. His jaw began to ache, his arm pulsed. His whole world was that can, his numb hand. Despair bloomed in his chest. It wasn't going to happen. He was going to fail. The only ****ing thing in life that made him special and--
The can popped.
Cold beer soothed the burning muscles of his hand and forearm. The bar erupted into cheers. Chagrined and sixty dollars poorer, the three men returned to their booth. Jones flexed his aching fingers, heart swelling with pride. He hadn't lost it. Not yet.
Grinning, Mike gathered the twenties and tucked them into Jones' coat pocket.
"I knew you could do it, Jonesy. Now about that job...."
###
When the door began to open, Jones set his shoulder and pushed. It gave easily, sending the man who'd opened it sprawling backwards. He could have been Sticks' twin, except he was a little shorter, a little less used up, and a hell of a lot more frightened. His name was Davey, that's what Mike had said.
"I'm here for Blue," Jones said, entering the room and closing the door. He didn't want to do this. How had Mike talked him into another job? This was the last, he swore. He was done. Florida and fishing, that's where he was headed. By reflex, he looked for the bird, but it wasn't there.
Not yet.
Davey's chin began to quiver. Tears welled in his eyes. "Weren't but a fifty! I meant to pay it back! I will too, I swear!"
Jones sighed. He hated it when they whined. It was so much easier when he found them drugged up, too high to know black from white. "I'm sorry," he said, and that gave him pause. Had he ever said it before? He wasn't sure. When had it happened? When had killing become a thing to do, like swinging a sledge or popping a can?
Davey darted for the door, trying to take advantage of Jones' hesitation. Jones snagged him easily, and wrapped his fingers around Davey's throat.
"I'm sorry," he said again, tightening his grip.
Most of them fought. Even those deep in the embrace of whatever monkey rode their back seemed to realize what was happening at the last, their eyes going wide, their thin fingers scrabbling for purchase against his hands. Like Sticks. Yet there were those who took it, like a cow waiting for the sledge, body and emotions so numb from misery they couldn't feel anything, not even fear. They seemed almost eager for the release Jones was giving them.
Davey wasn't one of those. He fought, thin body contorting as he writhed in Jones' grip, kicking and scratching. His chest heaved, his eyes bulged. His lips took on a bluish tint. Jones stared into those bulging eyes because that's what a man did.
So he stared and squeezed, feeling the arteries pulse against his palms. Tighter. Staring. Seeing the pain and fear and panic, really seeing it. There was the reek of urine as Davey soaked the front of his pants. His struggles abruptly stopped. Limp now, he locked his gaze with Jones' and his swollen lips formed a word Jones read as plain as if it had been printed on a page.
Please.
With that one word, it all landed on Jones' back like a freezer full of beef. He felt his spine bow, his joints creak, as the entirety of fifty-three wasted years of life hit with the force of a wrecking ball. He found himself looking away, unable to meet Davey's gaze. Unable to look him in the eyes.
Jones thrust the young man away. He hit the floor and lay on his side, retching and coughing. Jones stood in the center of the room, arms hanging limply at his sides.
He was done.
Goddammit, he was done.
"Get out of here. I'd run if I were you. Blue Charlie wants you dead, and if I don't do it, someone else will."
Panting and coughing, Davey struggled up. He snatched a few things off the rickety dresser, retrieved a faded fatigue jacket and battered knapsack off the floor. The hinges creaked as he opened the door. He paused and looked at Jones. "Thank you." His voice was rough, his eyes bloodshot from broken veins. Jones heard the muted thump of his feet on the threadbare carpet as he fled down the hall.
Jones took a deep breath, smelling mildew and garbage. He searched the room, but the dead bird wasn't there. What did it mean? What did any of it mean? When he walked toward the door, a furious chirping arose from behind him.
Jones whirled. He thought his heart might pop out his throat. On the grimy white sheet, in the center of the narrow bed, sat a small yellow bird. His mouth went dry, the air grew thick and close. He approached the bed, a block of ice settling into his stomach, trickling ice water into his veins, making him shiver. He'd never been afraid of anything and here he was, quivering like a bowl of pudding. His hands shook.
It was alive.
"It's all about choice," the bird said. It cocked its head and stared at him with eyes as old as memory, as young as those of an eleven year-old boy. "About desire. Do you want it, Jonsey?"
Jones reached down, cupping his hands around it. The bird settled into them, fluffing its feathers. He brought it close, turning it to expose its belly. He stared at those yellow feathers, stared as he thought about that day, stared until they pulled him in, until the world went yellow, then gray, then black. His body began to tingle and he felt himself being pulled apart, shredding like wet tissue, thought and awareness spinning away, fragmenting, dissolving....
A twisting sensation--
And the world settled with a lurch.
Light flared.
"Do you want it?"
"Huh?" Jones blinked, vision swimming back into focus. The bird in his hands chirped.
"I said, do you want it?"
He turned toward the source of the voice and saw a young girl wearing a blue smock embroidered with the words Pet Corner. "You been holding it a while," she said, an edge of impatience in her voice. "You want it?"
Jones shook his head to clear it. What had he just been thinking? He couldn't recall. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I want it."
"Cage too?"
He nodded.
"Okay."
He handed her the bird. Looking down, he saw past the flat expanse of his stomach. The cuffs of his pants were stiff with dried blood. He should go home and change before the party. He went to the plate glass window at the front of the store. The street and sidewalks were wet, slush and snow lined the curb. People hurried by, hunched and huddled in their coats and scarves, breaths billowing white. Despite the cold, dreary day, Jones felt good, better than he had in a long time. He felt... different.
"It's ready," the clerk called. She set the birdcage on the counter. The little bird sat on a swing in the middle, swaying gently back and forth and chirping. Shredded newspaper covered the bottom of the cage.
"It's cold out there. You want a cage cover? Four ninety-nine for a cover. Keeps them quiet, too."
I brought a pillowcase in the car, he almost said. But it was Billy's birthday. A proper cover would be nice. So he said, "Yeah, a cover." The clerk rang it up and Jones paid.
On the way to the door, he pulled up the sleeve of his brown corduroy coat to glance at his watch. Two-thirty. The party didn't start until four. He hefted the cage, picturing the look on Billy's face when he saw the bird. A quick trip to the apartment to shower and change and then to the party. Anne wouldn't hold it against him if he showed up a little early.
Smiling, cradling the cage close to his body, he hurried from the store.
Ets. Reading Time: 17 minutes
This story won the 1999 Chiaroscuro Story Contest and earned an honorable mention in Datlow's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. It was originally titled "From the Mouths of Birds", but I always hated that title, so I've retitled it simply "Jones". Another story inspired by a Counting Crows song.
To some extent, we all create our own reality. What if we could recreate it as well?
Jones
by David L. Felts
The door wasn't locked--if the locks in such a run-down motel even worked--so Jones went inside and shut the door. He paused long enough to look for the dead bird, though he knew it wouldn't be there. The goddamn thing was never there until after, and this time was no different. He shrugged and approached the withered man sitting slumped on the edge of the sagging bed.
Sticks stared with glazed, unfocused eyes. An empty syringe dangled by its needle from a vein in the back of his left hand. When he wasn't mugging old women to get the money to buy his junk, he worked as a runner for Blue Charlie. His habit had talked him into skimming. Bad mistake.
Jones worked for Blue Charlie too. His job was to fix mistakes.
At fifty-two, Jones' muscle was losing its battle to flab, but his hands were large and still immensely strong. He wrapped those hands around the unresisting junkie's scrawny neck, thumbs set in the hollow just beneath the prominent Adam's Apple. Sticks' eyes rolled back as he rode the smack train.
Staring right into the white slits of Sticks' upturned eyes--because that's what a man did when he had a job to do, stared it in the eyes--Jones squeezed.
At the end, Sticks' drugged mind must have sensed death approaching. He began to struggle, prying feebly at Jones' thick fingers. He might as well have been trying to bend steel. Long minutes after Sticks stopped moving, Jones released him. The body fell back on the bed.
Looking around the room again, he found it right away: a dead bird on the floor by the window--a little yellow thing with an orange beak, about the size of a parakeet. Never there before, but always there after, that was the way it worked. And always the same bird.
Ignoring the tightness that gripped his chest, Jones picked it up. The body was cold, much colder than it should have been. It was always cold, cold as that day so long ago, that day when everything had gone bad beyond fixing.
"What are you doing? Why are you here?" The bird didn't answer.
He cupped the cold body in his huge hands, staring deep into that belly, down into those yellow feathers. If he could only stare hard enough.... He strained until everything else faded away, darken from the outside in, until all he saw was a smear of yellow. His eyes began to sting and he had to blink.
Nothing.
He took a deep shuddering breath. Goddamn bird.
He threw it against the wall.
"That's no way to treat a dead bird," the bird said.
"So now it speaks," Jones said. "I figured that would get your attention."
The bird didn't reply.
"What are you supposed to be anyway? Why are you bothering me?" They'd had this conversation before, when the bird was in a mind to talk.
"What do you want me to be? And who's bothering who? I don't see you getting thrown against a wall."
Jones gnawed his lower lip and shrugged. The bird never gave him answers, only more questions, and he wasn't in the mood for questions.
"It's inside you, Jonsey," the bird called out as Jones left. "The universe. It's inside everyone, but only a few find it. Only a few create it. Will you?"
###
He was seated at the bar in McCalls, his favorite hole-in-the-wall suds house, working on his fourth frosty mug when Mike sat on the cracked vinyl stool next to him.
Mike, with his leather jacket, gold chains and sleek black ponytail. Mike, a young punk, not above taking a snort to get himself through the day, all attitude and no style. Anyone could pull a trigger, but it took a man to look someone in the eyes while squeezing the life out of them. But he was ruthless and Blue Charlie was a family friend, so Mike had moved up fast. He lit a vanilla-flavored cigarillo and ordered Black Velvet on ice. He waited until Trip, the bartender, had set down the drink and moved away before he spoke.
"Jonesy," he said with a nod, blowing out a stream of bluish smoke that smelled of burning vanilla.
"You know," Jones said, flexing his fingers and staring at his hands, feeling four beers worth of maudlin, "When I was your age, I worked at a slaughter house. I was a cow killer. Took a big old sledge and knocked 'em right in the head. Pow! Crushed their ****ing skull like a Styrofoam cup. Worked that job for years, 'til they moved me up to be a super. Got so I could swing that twelve-pounder with one hand. One goddamn hand. Like it was a hammer. Nobody could swing a sledge like me." He took a long pull on his beer.
"Nowadays they use this thing that looks like a jackhammer, only smaller. Set it up against their forehead and press a button. Bam! Eight-inch spike does the rest."
"That so?" Mike said, disinterested.
"Yep. Now I ask you, where's the man in that? "
Mike shrugged and sucked on his drink. "Blue says good job on Sticks." He slid a folded wad of bills along the scarred bar. "Shit, he didn't lift but a spoon or two, but it sets an example, you know? Makes people think twice. That's what you do, Jonesy, you make people think twice. Blue likes that."
Jones shoved the wad into a pocket without counting. His pension from the meat-packing plant paid the rent and not much else. "I still smell that damn place. Jesus, it stank. You wouldn't believe."
"We'll be in touch, Jonesy, next time we need you."
Life was hard, but the body went on. Jones made a fist, squeezing so tight his knuckles ached. "I deserve more."
Mike's eyes narrowed. Twin streams of smoke curled from his nostrils. "Hey, we all deserve more, you know? But I'll talk to the boss for you." He pulled another thick wad of bills from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, counting as he peeled. "Hey, here's two-hundred on top, right? A tip. You do good work, Jonesy."
Jones stared at the money. Talking to Mike was like talking to a brick. He pocketed the two hundred, chugged the rest of his beer, and ordered another.
###
The pet store reeked of disinfectant and dirty cages. Jones ignored the smell and the noise of yapping dogs. He concentrated on the small, warm form in his hands.
"You gonna buy it?" asked the clerk, a young, thin man with long hair and a goatee. "I shouldn't let you hold it if you're not gonna buy it."
Jones lifted his gaze from the bird--a yellow parakeet with an orange beak. "Nah, I'm not gonna buy it. I bought one once, but it died." He handed it back.
The clerk shrugged as he accepted the bird. "Happens. These little ones aren't very tough." He put the bird back in a large, crowded cage. "Not like parrots." He pointed to a cage containing a large green bird. "Those things live for decades, and I mean decades. We don't sell many though, they're expensive. People like the little ones because they're cheap, and all the colors--green, yellow, red-"
"Yeah." Jones stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Thanks."
"Sure. See ya."
Jones shambled out of the store, head bent against Chicago's chill October breeze. His bones told him it as going to be an ugly winter, as if The Windy City ever had any other. He should move to Florida, take up fishing.
It was one of his fantasies.
###
Seated in the ragged blue recliner in the center of his apartment's living room, Jones took a pull from his ninth beer of the night. The rest of the second six-pack--three more Buds--occupied his lap, still in the plastic rings and sharing space with his gut. On the TV, the weather forecaster, a lean young man who undoubtedly had a future, prattled about highs and lows and precipitation. It was a balmy 83 in Miami.
Jones finished his beer and dropped the empty can to the floor with the rest. He pulled another and gripped the can in his right hand, squeezing. His teeth clenched, his face grew warm, his pulse throbbed in his temples. Come on you–
The can popped, drenching his shirt and pants in warm Budweiser.
"You're losing it, Jones, you weak bastard," he told himself between gasps. "You're losing it."
He pulled another beer, popped the top, drank. He looked around the apartment, at the dingy furniture and faded powder-blue walls. In four days, he'd turn fifty-three. Fifty-goddamn-three.
How much time was left?
###
Jones sat on a green bench in Franklin Park and though about his son while tossing popcorn to the pigeons. He could hear the faint roar of jets taking off from nearby O'Hare. The sun was warm, the chill fall wind blissfully absent. A few other people had come to enjoy the respite. Not much longer before winter descended in full.
Little Billy would be a man now, thirty years old. Probably married with kids of his own. Did he look like his father? Jones wondered.
William Alfred Jones, Jr., was the product of a six-year marriage to the former Anne Marie Riley. The first four had been good years, good as any he'd had, until he'd screwed it up. His drinking and her nagging. You can be so much more, Bill. You're smarter than you think. Why do you settle for so little? Only it didn't seem so much like nagging now. It seemed more like a truth he got tired of hearing.
And his son. How he'd doted on that child! Last time he'd tried to see Billy had been on the boy's eleventh birthday.
He remembered standing on the front steps of Anne's and her new husband's town home. It took him three tries to get his finger on the doorbell. He'd only meant to have a beer or two to soothe his nerves--seeing Anne and Walt together always tightened his jaw--but two had turned to four, to six, to eight and then he'd lost count. When he'd finally laid his bleary gaze on the clock, it was already too late.
The locks rattled and he ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. The cuffs of his pants were stiff with dried blood. He wished he'd taken the time to change before coming. He'd meant to. But Rourke's Bar had been on the way home....
He held the pillowcase-covered birdcage under one arm.
Anne frowned when she saw him. "It's seven-fifteen, Bill. The party was over at six."
Jones grimaced, guilt squeezing him like a fist. "I'm an ass, Anne, I know-" he had to concentrate to keep from slurring his words "-but I lost track of time."
"From the look of you, that's not all you lost track of." Anne was so pretty it made his throat tight. Her face was fuller now, her cheeks flushing from the cold. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. "Why do you do this, Bill? Do you go out of your way to be a ****-up?" Jones winced. Anne rarely cursed, and when she did she it meant she was really angry. "Billy doesn't need that kind of man in his life, that kind of father. Understand?"
"I understand you're trying to keep me from my boy," Jones forced out, knowing it wasn't true.
Anne glared at him. "They only thing keeping you from Billy is you."
"I don't want to fight--"
"I don't either, but I'm not letting you in. Not like this."
"It's a special present, Anne! Come on, I really wanted--"
"I don't care if it's the key to Fort ****ing Knox," Anne's voice rose a notch. "You're not coming in drunk!"
"Is there a problem, Hun?" a man called from inside. The voice made Jones' jaw clench. Walter Benson was an uptown man, a prissy-looking dork who wore a suit and worked as an accountant. He was everything Jones wasn't: successful, smart, sober. His job left him smelling of ink and paper, not blood and guts.
"No problem," Anne called over her shoulder. She faced Bill again and held out her hands. "Give it here, Bill, it's freezing cold and I'm letting all the heat out."
"Let me at least show it to you," Jones said, desperate to share the surprise and his excitement, wanting someone to know how hard he'd tried.
She sighed, her shoulders drooped. "All right. What is it?"
"It's a bird. I don't know what kind, a parakeet or something. I thought Billy might like a pet, and a dog's no good in the city. But a bird...."
Anne's face softened. "That's nice, Bill, really."
Jones eagerly tugged at one side of the floral pillowcase. "Here, take a look. It's the cutest little thing! You wouldn't believe the way it whistles." He got the pillowcase up and saw the bird lying on its back among the shredded newspaper at the bottom of the cage. It was as though someone had kicked him in the stomach.
"Oh no...." He dropped to his knees and set the cage down, opening it and reaching inside. The bird was stiff and cold.
He looked up at Anne. "When I went in the... I left it in the car. I didn't think I would be that long." He wanted to cry. "Ah, shit...."
Anne bit her lip and shook her head, not bothering to hide the disgust and disappointment in her eyes. "Jesus, Bill." She closed the door, leaving Jones kneeling on the steps, the dead bird in his hands.
Jones pushed the memory away and threw more popcorn. "I never tried to see him after that," he told the pigeons. "I just sent my one-fifty a month and prayed he wouldn't turn out like his old man. I've thought about trying to track him down, but what's the use? Too late to be a father now." The pigeons' heads bobbed in assent.
"Life's a piece of wood, and sometimes the scratches go so damn deep you can't sand them out." He felt pleased with himself for coming up with that.
He tried one he'd heard on a religious channel: "In the garden of life, you hoe your own row."
"Hoe your own row," one of the pigeons repeated, a cocky gray one that reminded Jones of Walter, the way it strutted and preened. "You've got it, Jonesy. If you don't like that piece of wood, throw it back and get another!"
"What do you know about it?" He threw more popcorn, closer this time. The pigeons hustled to get it, fearless of the hulking human only feet away.
"More than you think," the pigeon replied, shouldering through its fellows to peck at the popcorn.
Jones pulled the gas-powered BB pistol from inside his coat. After making sure no one was near, he sighted on the gray pigeon. The pistol made no more noise that the sound of someone spitting.
The pigeon squawked, flopped a few times, and was still. The other pigeons scattered to a safe distance and turned to stare. Jones ignored them. He pocketed the pistol and knelt, wrapping his hands around the dead bird. It was warm. He turned it belly side up and held it close, staring.
"Tell me your secrets now," he whispered.
He saw nothing but dirty gray feathers and blood, and heard only the wind.
###
"Got a job for you," Mike said. An unlit cigarillo hung from his fleshy lips and his dilated eyes made it obvious that he'd been sampling the wares he dealt for Blue. He sat next to Jones and ordered his Black Velvet on ice, taking a big swallow after Trip handed it to him.
"I've been thinking," Jones said. "I'm not so sure about this anymore." I've been killing for too long, and I'm tired, he wanted to say. But Mike wouldn't understand, so why bother? Instead, he said, "I turned fifty-three a few weeks back. I'm getting old."
Mike slapped him on the back and brayed out a laugh. "Old? Shit, Jonesy, you still the man. Trip!" he called to the bartender. "Bring my man a beer! Unopened."
Jones shook his head as Trip set a cold can of Bud down on the bar. "Not tonight, Mike. I'm not up to it."
Mike ignored him. He turned to the rest of the bar and announced, "I got a twenty here that says my man can pop this can with one hand!"
Most of the crowd were regulars who'd seen the trick more than once and weren't biting, but three men Jones didn't recognize wandered over, the scent of a bet as enticing as that of fresh-baked cookies.
Mike held up the Bud and showed it to them. "Normal can, boys, nothing special about it. Old Jonesy here will pop it like a piece of bubble wrap."
"One hand?" one of them asked. He was a paunchy, ruddy-faced man with broad shoulders. His hands were almost as big as Jones' and thick with calluses.
"One goddamn hand," Mike said.
"I'm in," the man said after a quick glance at his buddies. He slapped down a twenty. Following his lead, the others laid their bills down as well.
Mike matched them and handed the can to Jones. "Easy money, baby."
The cold can settled into Jones' hand like a bird into its nest. He looked around the bar, seeing the expectant faces of men he recognized but knew nothing about. Kindred souls who barbecued their pain in the same sauce he did. At that moment, there was hope in their bleary eyes, animation in their careworn faces. One of their own was about to make good.
If only he weren't so goddamned tired of it all.
"Come on Jonesy!" someone called. "Show those peckerwoods!"
Mike stared, a half-smile of challenge quirking his lips. "You haven't lost it, have you Jonesy?" he asked in a soft voice.
A surge of anger heated Jones' belly. He'd show that candy-ass fancy-boy. He tightened his grip, trying not to let the strain show. His jaw began to ache, his arm pulsed. His whole world was that can, his numb hand. Despair bloomed in his chest. It wasn't going to happen. He was going to fail. The only ****ing thing in life that made him special and--
The can popped.
Cold beer soothed the burning muscles of his hand and forearm. The bar erupted into cheers. Chagrined and sixty dollars poorer, the three men returned to their booth. Jones flexed his aching fingers, heart swelling with pride. He hadn't lost it. Not yet.
Grinning, Mike gathered the twenties and tucked them into Jones' coat pocket.
"I knew you could do it, Jonesy. Now about that job...."
###
When the door began to open, Jones set his shoulder and pushed. It gave easily, sending the man who'd opened it sprawling backwards. He could have been Sticks' twin, except he was a little shorter, a little less used up, and a hell of a lot more frightened. His name was Davey, that's what Mike had said.
"I'm here for Blue," Jones said, entering the room and closing the door. He didn't want to do this. How had Mike talked him into another job? This was the last, he swore. He was done. Florida and fishing, that's where he was headed. By reflex, he looked for the bird, but it wasn't there.
Not yet.
Davey's chin began to quiver. Tears welled in his eyes. "Weren't but a fifty! I meant to pay it back! I will too, I swear!"
Jones sighed. He hated it when they whined. It was so much easier when he found them drugged up, too high to know black from white. "I'm sorry," he said, and that gave him pause. Had he ever said it before? He wasn't sure. When had it happened? When had killing become a thing to do, like swinging a sledge or popping a can?
Davey darted for the door, trying to take advantage of Jones' hesitation. Jones snagged him easily, and wrapped his fingers around Davey's throat.
"I'm sorry," he said again, tightening his grip.
Most of them fought. Even those deep in the embrace of whatever monkey rode their back seemed to realize what was happening at the last, their eyes going wide, their thin fingers scrabbling for purchase against his hands. Like Sticks. Yet there were those who took it, like a cow waiting for the sledge, body and emotions so numb from misery they couldn't feel anything, not even fear. They seemed almost eager for the release Jones was giving them.
Davey wasn't one of those. He fought, thin body contorting as he writhed in Jones' grip, kicking and scratching. His chest heaved, his eyes bulged. His lips took on a bluish tint. Jones stared into those bulging eyes because that's what a man did.
So he stared and squeezed, feeling the arteries pulse against his palms. Tighter. Staring. Seeing the pain and fear and panic, really seeing it. There was the reek of urine as Davey soaked the front of his pants. His struggles abruptly stopped. Limp now, he locked his gaze with Jones' and his swollen lips formed a word Jones read as plain as if it had been printed on a page.
Please.
With that one word, it all landed on Jones' back like a freezer full of beef. He felt his spine bow, his joints creak, as the entirety of fifty-three wasted years of life hit with the force of a wrecking ball. He found himself looking away, unable to meet Davey's gaze. Unable to look him in the eyes.
Jones thrust the young man away. He hit the floor and lay on his side, retching and coughing. Jones stood in the center of the room, arms hanging limply at his sides.
He was done.
Goddammit, he was done.
"Get out of here. I'd run if I were you. Blue Charlie wants you dead, and if I don't do it, someone else will."
Panting and coughing, Davey struggled up. He snatched a few things off the rickety dresser, retrieved a faded fatigue jacket and battered knapsack off the floor. The hinges creaked as he opened the door. He paused and looked at Jones. "Thank you." His voice was rough, his eyes bloodshot from broken veins. Jones heard the muted thump of his feet on the threadbare carpet as he fled down the hall.
Jones took a deep breath, smelling mildew and garbage. He searched the room, but the dead bird wasn't there. What did it mean? What did any of it mean? When he walked toward the door, a furious chirping arose from behind him.
Jones whirled. He thought his heart might pop out his throat. On the grimy white sheet, in the center of the narrow bed, sat a small yellow bird. His mouth went dry, the air grew thick and close. He approached the bed, a block of ice settling into his stomach, trickling ice water into his veins, making him shiver. He'd never been afraid of anything and here he was, quivering like a bowl of pudding. His hands shook.
It was alive.
"It's all about choice," the bird said. It cocked its head and stared at him with eyes as old as memory, as young as those of an eleven year-old boy. "About desire. Do you want it, Jonsey?"
Jones reached down, cupping his hands around it. The bird settled into them, fluffing its feathers. He brought it close, turning it to expose its belly. He stared at those yellow feathers, stared as he thought about that day, stared until they pulled him in, until the world went yellow, then gray, then black. His body began to tingle and he felt himself being pulled apart, shredding like wet tissue, thought and awareness spinning away, fragmenting, dissolving....
A twisting sensation--
And the world settled with a lurch.
Light flared.
"Do you want it?"
"Huh?" Jones blinked, vision swimming back into focus. The bird in his hands chirped.
"I said, do you want it?"
He turned toward the source of the voice and saw a young girl wearing a blue smock embroidered with the words Pet Corner. "You been holding it a while," she said, an edge of impatience in her voice. "You want it?"
Jones shook his head to clear it. What had he just been thinking? He couldn't recall. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I want it."
"Cage too?"
He nodded.
"Okay."
He handed her the bird. Looking down, he saw past the flat expanse of his stomach. The cuffs of his pants were stiff with dried blood. He should go home and change before the party. He went to the plate glass window at the front of the store. The street and sidewalks were wet, slush and snow lined the curb. People hurried by, hunched and huddled in their coats and scarves, breaths billowing white. Despite the cold, dreary day, Jones felt good, better than he had in a long time. He felt... different.
"It's ready," the clerk called. She set the birdcage on the counter. The little bird sat on a swing in the middle, swaying gently back and forth and chirping. Shredded newspaper covered the bottom of the cage.
"It's cold out there. You want a cage cover? Four ninety-nine for a cover. Keeps them quiet, too."
I brought a pillowcase in the car, he almost said. But it was Billy's birthday. A proper cover would be nice. So he said, "Yeah, a cover." The clerk rang it up and Jones paid.
On the way to the door, he pulled up the sleeve of his brown corduroy coat to glance at his watch. Two-thirty. The party didn't start until four. He hefted the cage, picturing the look on Billy's face when he saw the bird. A quick trip to the apartment to shower and change and then to the party. Anne wouldn't hold it against him if he showed up a little early.
Smiling, cradling the cage close to his body, he hurried from the store.