Alchemy
By John Haggerty
We are imprisoned by our bones, entombed at birth by flesh.
He wakes up late, wishing he were someone else. His knees ache, his back is aflame. He hunches over the toilet until the dry heaves subside, and takes a shot of rum to steady his hands. Frank will smell it on his breath, but they have an understanding. If he needs a little kick to get the motor going in the morning, Frank looks the other way, because he’s still the best carpenter on the crew. “Jesus, Al,” he might murmur, but that’s as far as it will go.
He’s knocked his head against the world, and the world knocked back. He isn’t bitter—he can see his own handiwork in the patterns of his life. He never knew how to walk away from a drink or a fight, threw away treasures and clutched at trash. He’s here now and there’s nothing to do but make the best of it. He takes another shot for good measure and, with a deep breath, throws himself out into the waiting day.
* * *
As jobs go, this one isn’t bad. Frank keeps the bullshit away from him, and he can work the way he wants. And he’s making something nice, curved bay windows—it’s going to look classy when it’s done. Wood fits to wood like brothers. Like lovers. The sun burns the fog off early, the heat sweats his hangover away. His hands are steady, his back is strong. The nails go in with a single tap.
He feels inside himself a growing exaltation. He imagines the families that will live in this house, and he hopes their lives are filled with joy, that their children will never feel pain. He is working fast now, and sure. The wood melds so tightly it won’t even need paint to keep the rain out. The sun on his back is hot, a purifying fire. His sins leave him, he is made whole. He will find a good woman. He will never drink again. He imagines calling his ex, just to remind her of the days when he had that old convertible and they would drive down the coast laughing at the ease of life, the abundance of love.
By mid-afternoon he has started to slow, and at the end of the day he is thirsty and tired. A cold, mean-hearted wind has started to blow off the ocean, feeling like it’s weighted with all of the troubles in China, and all he can think about is the taste of that first drink, how it will feel cool on his tongue and hot in his throat. Just one, tonight, he promises himself. It’s been such a good day that all he needs is one.
* * *
Our bones lie in us, fossil desires. Time buries the wreckage of our lives.
All buildings end in ruin, and the things he made are no different. Nails screech, paint splits, a crowbar pulls at the wood. Somebody knows somebody who can make all of this go away cheap.
If he recognizes it in that pile of trash on the street, the sweat, the craft, that brilliant day, he shows no sign. He hasn’t been able to work for years. His knees, his hands, his liver are shot. He’s been sleeping rough, gotten used to it, as much as a man can. The good days now are the ones where he can get drunk enough to make the sidewalk feel soft, his cardboard blanket warm.
He leans back, dozing, against the rough brick of a wall, still warm from the setting sun. Something in that moment, a birdsong, a whisper of wind, makes him open his eyes, and for the briefest moment, the street, the sky, his weary heart, every atom in the world, is illuminated by a shaft of the purest gold.
THE END
Author Bio: John Haggerty’s work has appeared in dozens of magazines, such as Baltimore Review, Fractured Lit, Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly, and Smokelong. He has also received awards and honors from Bridport Prize, the CRAFT Elements contest, the Nimrod Literary Awards, No Contact, Pinch Literary Award in Fiction, and Wabash Prize in Fiction, among others. He is the founding editor of The Forge Literary Magazine. Read more at john-haggerty.com.