Life as a Hat

By the time I find him, Henry is nothing but a crumb on the floor. All of his bravado and sweet spirit is crusted into dried pools of spit and blood at the corners of his mouth. I can feel myself getting stronger, quicker. Each step feels a little more confident and solid in its execution, I am able to toss off two of the heavier Jandos like they are pieces of lint instead men with bulging steroid-filled veins, their circulatory systems outlined broad relief. When I get closer I see that they have taped Henry's hands behind his back and tied his wrists to his ankles at an angle no man over forty should be expected to bend. They've taped pennies over his eyes and stuffed a rag in his mouth. He is small, he is broken, he is not the man I met that night seven summers ago. One of bastards has marked all over the visible parts of his body with a magic marker, strings of ugly words weave over his skin. I can only hope that they are not a biography of his treatment before I arrived.

"He's not dead," Mr. Jando says. He's sitting in a cheap vinyl lawn chair, a stogie clenched between his massive yellow teeth. "If that's what you were thinking."

"I'd know if he was gone." I say. I am amazed at the calmness in my voice, its familiar rough edges have been sanded down so that I sound like a yoga instructor or a children's announcer.

"Yes, of course. I forget the rules sometimes." He digs the hot end of his cigar into the metal arm of the chair. "I expect he will be any minute though, by the way you crumbled my boys."

"I s'pose," I say. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. A drippy nose has always been an indication that I'm about to start crying. I bite my lip, bite my tongue, and dig the business end of my knife into he palm of my hand.

"Don't you want to know why you here? Why he's there?"

"I thought..." I have no finish, no clever retort. Henry's limp body is in my periphery, I can't concentrate as he stares at me through his new copper eyes.

"To put it simply, I need a favor." Mr. Jando pulls another cigar from his from his inside pocket, runs it along the underside of his nose, and then offers it to me. I decline.

"I recommend you oblige, kitten," he gestures to Henry with the cigar, then shoves the cylinder into his mouth and bites off the end. He strikes a match and puffs as he holds the flame to the end of the cigar. He offers it to me once more.

I stick the wet end in my mouth and pull the peaty aroma to the back of my throat, "Then I'm all yours."