Jonathon Priestly slouched, maudlin upon his bar stool, as if resigned to the relentless beating of

gravity. His head rested upon the bar, as he peered one-eyed across its full length; his gaze settled,
at last, on the suds of his upset beer.

Distantly, the sound of billiards, indistinct babble and laughter, fogged the outer breaches of his
consciousness. It won't be long before the bartender checks this quiet repose with harsh words—the
bitter censorious commands of the righteous order. There is something insupportable to a certain
class in the man who has found a quiet oasis, who exhibits signs of a momentary disconnect—
perhaps, it is fear of entropy, or, slow decay, since, everywhere demands spaces, artificial
emplacements of joyous frivolity, life; the sacraments of a declining culture-

Suddenly, there was loud rap on the rosewood bar. Jonathon jolted upright, catching the blurred
outline of a hirsute and reproachful bartender, signaling towards the exit with a wave of his
dishcloth.

“If you want me to leave, you ought to say so," groaned Jonathon in a resigned, brittle voice,
"Don't brandish your filthy rag as if to scuttle a rat.”

“Alright,” said the bartender in a conciliatory tone as he wiped the bar clean. “You're not as bad as
all that, but still, I'll have to ask you to leave; we're closing soon, anyway.”

Jonathan staggered to his feet and, with a flourish, half-bowed with as much composure as he
could muster. Then sauntered out into the cold, mizzling rain of a chill Southampton night. Street-
lights, harsh and critical, the moon like a fat zygote, looming, curdled with dropsy and promising
regret.

What supernal misfortunes!

Drunk— and for the fifth night.

The week prior Jonathon's mother had died of a stroke quite suddenly before him. He could still
see her face, its sudden collapse, like a burnt blancmange; locked jaw; arms seized up— purred like
a cat, then, she fell, striking her head on the oven. He could do nothing. And in an instant, it was
over. His mother gone forever in such a grotesque, thespian depart.

And only the week before, Jonathon had lost his job of ten years at the paper mill. He knew
better than to use the overhead crane to transport 800-pounds of rotating reels to the drying
cylinders. Yet in a callous bid to clock-out in time for the betting window of the local horse-race; he
loaded the final batch onto an overhead crane reserved for dynamic loads, when the supports, to his
horror, snapped. And though the reels careened and thundered into the loading bay below, injuring
none; it was nevertheless, a gross and unpardonable violation of safety regulations.

In turn, Lucy left him, naturally, as once he lost his job, he hit the bottle, hard. And it was two
years sober, and all her past entreaties, disappointments, struggles, support—simply a waste.
She took off—all her clothes, her records, even the giant centerpiece Buddha. And still he can recall
his arms violently jamming the window frame, roaring forth her name into the rain and flother, as
she packed her life into the yellow-blinking taxi below.

Thrice, then, there was tragedy.

Jonathon, half-mad with grief, now spent his days in a constant drunken fugue, hopping from one
bar to the next, pondering only what fate might befall him next.

Staggering down an alleyway into a street, and out into the boulevard; he was led by the compass of
a familiar orientation: homeward—vaguely north. The rain, cutting, biting into him, softened and,
wiping his face, he mopped his red hair free of his sight. The River Test danced upon a gray, endless
plate. He reached into his pocket and, finding a beer coaster intended to skim it across the face of
the water. Only, upon pulling it out, he saw the words: “The Hanged Man”—a tarot card.
“Mars is retrograde.” croaked a voice behind him.

Jonathon spun suddenly, feeling child like hands upon him.

A bald, aged midget with his lapels upturned, frantically palmed at his hand and, upon securing it,
gasped: “Look there!” pointing out beyond the river to its horizon. “See how Bahram moves back—
shuttle-duttle; wandering vagrant in the charnal void; all red, and blistered, like an old busted
Buick.”

Jonathon, instinctively freed his hand, feeling violated by something tainted. He stepped back,
still feeling the residual sweat of the midget's palm. The midget in mock-fashion jumped back;
clapped his hands, and commenced a frenetic, jig-like dance. “I'm a business man—ain't got no
trade.” He raised his hands to the air, hallelujah style, and refrained, sotto voce: “I'm a business man
—I aaaint got no trade.”
"No, sir..." he lowered his hands dejectedly, swept the boulevard with his dark, insect eyes, "No
trade, sir. No game. Name is Hal. Haleburt. Come to tell ya—time's up. Time's up, like a fat, spent
clock, sir.
"You've done yourself a disservice coming here. Ghastly place!" He pulled at his lapels, as if the
world was biting into him, "Not a place I'd chose to perish, sir."
"Who are you!" barked Jonathon, stepping forth to confront the stranger. There is no way a
midget could overpower him—perhaps, a gun? Overwhelmed by a strange fear, he scanned the
midget's face for any sign of murderous intent.
"You've had an entire lifetime to figure that out, and you squandered it, idly; rather slovenly, if I
may say, sir. A con...cupi...scential life of ardent desires, replete with lustful romps, and craven,
cowardly, toadyish, disgus--ting—a glut of almost cormorant proportions, and for this" He kicked the
steel coast railing producing a loud ding, it rang out like a tibetan bowl and, baring his teeth in a
laudatory snarl, scoffed:
"Admirable, if weren't so pitiful, sir. Admirable."
"Christ, you're mad!—and the last bloody thing I need right now!" Jonathon pushed passed the
midget and, finding his feet, sprinted towards the city lights, desiring to be home, and as far away
from the odious creature as possible. Laughter erupted behind and seemed to echo overhead in the
thundering clouds: "Where are you running to, Jonathon? Are you even running? No game. No
gimmick, Johnny."
His feet suddenly felt light, and then lifted, as if spirited away. There was no longer any
communion between his body and his will. A glorious red light lit up the river, as above, to his horror,
mars, now gigantic in size, occupied almost the entire night sky. The wind, whipped into a frenzy,
rushed about his ears, as thunderous and raucous waves of river water, lashed and swept violently
against his feet, threatening to carry him out into its abyssal depths. Only, they were not his feet.
Not Johnny's. Who was Johnny? Now, I remember! I fought with the bartender, busted his lip. That's
right, I was playing billiards, and he said: look fella, you're laughing too loud. I cracked him one. I
regret it now.
There was a ringing now, strangely, he felt his tongue wagging, as if lashing in all directions,
with the wind. He thought his anus was a bar stool, and for a moment, he wondered how many had
sat there—what the price was, if he had ever sat there himself.