Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

He was tall and very thin. His sleeves did not fit his arms; they hung on him like a loose sail on a mast. It was doubtful that he had changed his apparel in quite some time; his blue jeans frayed at the knees and the seams and bore all sorts of suspicious stains. The soles of his sneakers did not offer much cushion from the unforgiving concrete. His left hand rested loosely on the neck of a bottle; his right propped up behind him to support his weight. At one time, he might have been a handsome individual, with strong facial structure and thick curly hair; but those had been eroded into gauntness and an unruly head of hair and an unruly beard to suit. Bits of leaves and food had permanently lodged themselves all over his person, and he seemed impervious to minding the state of his body or clothing.

Presently he began to talk to himself, not in a threatening or insane manner, but rather very simply, very matter of fact. The imbibement of much alcohol impacted only slightly the diction and particular cadence of his voice; he spoke in a deep, slow, intentional tone.

“Now, Jack, you know the plan. Out here on this island, just finish the job. Just finish the job.”

He looked up mournfully at the stars and paused.

“Now, Jack, it’s one thing to have war. War, you’ve got them, you’ve got us, at best we end up writing a national anthem, at worst we’re goners. But it’s war—it’s them and us, man to man, gun to gun. Hm. Gun to gun,” He lifted the bottle and took a chugging gulp, and then shuddered slightly. Setting it down, he shook his head a little, and then became distracted with the bottle label, turning it toward the moonlight.

“A man has got to make a living,” he said suddenly, and nodded his head up and down fervently. “A man has got to be a man and a man has got to make a living. How else will he survive? He’s got to buy and sell his way through the world, there’s just no other way. He’s got to use what he has.” A pause.

“Man to man, gun to gun--yes” he repeated thoughtfully, and fell silent. The breeze passed coolly over his brow, evaporating droplets of sweat that stood out glistening.

From the road to the left of the Supreme Court, another figure appeared. Jack’s eyes flitted quickly, almost instinctively, to the movement, and after a momentary, nearly imperceptible tightening of his posture, he lapsed back into the same sprawling manner, his gaze drifting to the sky. The other figure, a man, approached, walking steadily and easily.

He wore a long brown coat that buttoned around him and concealed the lower third of his face. He was not tall, but not short; his gait bore the brash confidence of a man who is sure of getting exactly what he wants. He had a large forehead and bushy eyebrows that reminded one of caterpillars. Passing under the shadow of a tree, his figure was thrown into darkness, but soon reappeared. Now visible in his hand was a brown paper bag. There seemed to be a bottle or two of some sort protruding from the open top. Without a word, he climbed nimbly up the steps and sat down next to the other. The second individual also looked up at the stars, which were especially clear on this night.

They did not speak for a while, each searching the heavens, one deep in thought and the other deep in liquor.

“So, Rick, what did you bring tonight,” spoke Jack finally, in a bright and cheery tone, turning to his companion with expectation that he made no effort to conceal. The second man pulled from the brown bag two dark bottles and set them by the feet of the drunk.

“Clear sky tonight,” said the newcomer. He spoke with a sort of quiet gravity.

“In March, too,” responded Jack. This elicited no reply, and so Jack reached for one of the bottles, twisted open the top and continued. “Hey, you should bring the real good stuff next week. Remember, like we used to do.”

“You know I will be busy next week, I told you that.”

“Betrayed,” said the drunk in a joking manner, tapping his forefinger to his head and grinning. “And on the Ides of March, how appropriate.”

The newcomer seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then abruptly pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the drunken man. The latter grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, and then stuffed it in his pocket.

“Don’t you want to check it?”

Jack laughed in response to this question.

“I already know what’s in it. When have you ever failed me before? Never. I’ll see you on the west side of the moon.”

“Fair enough,” shrugged the other, his eyes on the sky. And so they remained, silent, until the man in the long jacket glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was almost one in the morning, stood up and wordlessly slipped back the way he had come.

The district of Washington D.C. slept under the night sky. It slumbered like a tired politician, after a long day of committees and conferences, research and rhetoric, speeches and subcommittees, rushing from one place to the next, and one happy hour special too many, sure to give it a slight headache at dawn. It had glowed in the evening, with couture gowns and sparkling gems, smiling faces and red lips, many languages, secrets whispered, pacts formed. It had produced piles of legislation. It had expounded upon the economic, the social, the corporate, the agricultural, going round and round and hopping to and from the aisle sides like a child playing hopscotch. After this exhausting day--and it was only Tuesday--it grew tired, and as the hours crept past midnight--first one, then two,