Jonathan had not drunk a single drink of alcohol in his life except for that terrible night in the sod hut when he put on George’s frock coat; he knew the effect of the whiskey on him had contributed to what happened then, and he did have – or had developed –rigidities of spirit that wouldn’t always serve him well as a freeman (however well they’d served him as a slave). Furthermore, he felt surrounded, under threat; some of the threats were vague, as ill-defined as shadows, others were right out in front: the Wanted posters, for example, that just might rip him away from this world of things so fresh that even the air he breathed was different. But the lure of eating out the heart of a defeated enemy was the strongest element of all – of drinking his drink while he lies dead – so Jonathan my grandfather lifted his glass, remembering to hold the stuff, which if anything was wickeder than George’s 110-proof red, in his mouth for a while, remembering to close his throat before swallowing; and so he showed a sophistication that College, who was watching him with the glee of the already-initiated at a particularly fierce initiation, most certainly had not expected.
‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ College said, ‘you are indeed a great man. Where’d a wild-eyed savage like you learn to drink this brew?’
The men in the bar had developed a special version of half-shout, half-speak that penetrated the din while adding to it. Jonathan would have liked to explain a little to this fascinating person who had worked with him all day without a single word of abuse and seemed to take pleasure in what Jonathan already knew – as well as pleasure in telling him what he didn’t. But despite bone and a new design, the teeth hadn’t really succeeded; speaking was difficult and shouting impossible. He made a self-deprecatory gesture instead.
College tried to imitate but gave up almost immediately and launched instead into a discussion of railroad lore while Jonathan wrestled with the anxieties, the promises, the threats – as well as the noise, the commotion, the smoke, the smell – that surrounded him and so missed some connection that he might otherwise have caught.
‘– the simplicity of it that fills the soul with pleasure,’ College was shouting, ‘simple as a goose girl, goose girl, maybe chicken girl: Why did the chicken cross the road? Am I making myself clear?’ He searched Jonathan’s face. ‘You must know that rare old joke. Don’t you? Yes? No? Ah, glory be to God, what an opportunity. I’ll educate you: Why did the chicken cross the road? Will you make a guess, sir? No? To get to the other side,’ College laughed merrily. ‘Don’t you see? The chicken crossed the road to get to the other side.’
The phosphorescence in Jonathan’s head shimmered. All that crossed his mind on the subject of chickens was that he hated them. The Stokes had a cock that serviced all the hens twice a day, even the dead ones. The live ones used to run like hell to get away.