Jovial & Old Hat

by Jameson Grem

Don dondon don … don! The bellows of a visitor’s knock marched down the narrow stairwell and then dispersed inside the small cavern below. It might have been lost among the watery notes slinking and sighing from the phonograph’s horn if its cadence didn’t clash so horrifically with the bass line. But since it did, Jovial was robbed of the pleasure of missing an off-hours guest. 

The bartender’s attention raised from the polished surface of a glass he was rubbing into a painful shine and looked to the small clock he kept hidden away on the counter beneath the bartop. It was still an hour to open. Yet, whoever was at the door knew the correct cadence for this week, which called for a cursory investigation at the very least. 

Jovial set the glass down and shifted half a step to the side where there was a pipe running along the wall from the smooth stone ceiling to about his eye level. He flicked aside the thin bronze cover dangling over its opening and peered inside. He was greeted with a murky view of the topside entrance of his subterranean establishment -- and more importantly, he was able to see the person awaiting entry. 

“Ugh.” 

Though the figure was nothing but a bulky shadow in the low light of a fresh evening, he would recognize that silhouette anywhere. Old Hat had business. 

Resigned to his fate, Jovial stepped away from his spyglass and deftly slapped a button on the underside of the bar. When he heard the heavy door open above, he slipped back into the storage room and re-emerged pulling on the long-beaked Plague Doctor mask that had become his signature look.

To show a modicum of respect, he nudged the volume dial on the phonograph down so that speaking -- or more likely listening on his part -- would be made easier. He could then hear the footsteps slowly, carefully picking their way down stone steps, and the creak of the railing as it bore a heavy grip. The tender reclaimed his glass and plucked a fresh rag from the disinfecting box, but looked expectantly towards the archway framing the bottom of the stairwell. 

Moments later, Old Hat oozed into view, draped in swaths of dusty black fabric so tattered, Jovial was hard-pressed to make out the style of the outfit. In the dim golden light of the bar, they looked like a shabby black smudge from which a tiny, rosy-cheeked porcelain face peeked. This smiling countenance was partially obscured by the wide brim of an oversized hat which drooped from its own weight, much like its wearer. Jovial had always thought Old Hat looked like an old, worn out crow, but despite appearances, this was The Smoke Ring’s most highly regarded dealer of information. Their presence here, before hours, was curious, indeed. 

“Hah! Qual’s Left Hand!” they cursed, “I could swear you dig yourself deeper into the ground every week, Jovial – As if the pussing code isn’t enough!” 

Jovial did not respond and resumed polishing. 

Undeterred by the bartender’s infamously poor manners, Old Hat tossed one end of their battered boa over their shoulder and shed a few sorely needed feathers. Then, with all the grandiose of an old duchess draped in pearls, they made their slow, searching promenade across the bar to a pair of tired old easy chairs. The seats had been placed together and angled to look out across the room with the intent of enabling eager lean-overs and whispered gossip. Even without a partner with whom to exchange such delights, Old Hat claimed one of these as their throne when they dropped their sizable backside into one with a muffled ‘whumf!’ and stared at the bartender with a posture of aloof entitlement. The old chair wheezed beneath the heft, but valiantly remained standing.

“A tumble of Djint, Jovial, if you will.” 

The responding tilt of the bartender’s head sent deep shadows across the bone white surface of his mask. He kept his thoughts a guarded secret behind it as he wordlessly uncorked a bottle and poured a finger of its inky contents as requested. With gloved fingers crowning the rim of the bronze tumbler, he slid the drink across the bar, but made no effort to take it to his visitor.

“Here you are, Old Hat.” 

A beat of silence followed. The tinny whine of a horn rose up into the air, wailing out a passionate solo to fill it. The chair creaked as Old Hat leaned forward and regarded their host in emphasis of the fact that they were waiting. But Jovial had already selected a fresh glass to polish and seemed perfectly rooted to his position behind the bar. 

Impatient, the old crow conceded the match of wills with a soft clearing of their throat and pushed themself back out of the seat with some difficulty. In a huff, they ineffectively smoothed their hands down the front of their outfit, and spoke again as normal. 

“Why, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll join you here at the bar.”

“Go right ahead,” Jovial invited. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Fer?” 

Old Hat hopped up onto a bar stool and adjusted their namesake to be able to see Jovial from beneath it. “Well, I won’t waste either of our time by dancing around it,” they prefaced as they pinched the chin of their mask and slid the bottom half of it away to reveal their true lips -- puckered, shriveled old things the color of asphyxiation. This mouth had ended many lives at a word, Jovial mused. It was as great a killer as the plague. And now seeing it poised to sip from one of his glasses, in his bar, he regretted more and more having let this thing in. 

They lifted the Djint to breathe in the syrupy scent of the spirit, and then sighed out in appreciation. “Such a treat these days. You are a saint - an absolute saint - for providing this service to the dregs of society, Jovial.” The praise seeped out of Old Hat thick as blood, and Jovial felt the first tremors of anxiety beginning to tickle at the insides of his belly. He nodded his thanks while they finally indulged in a sip. “Mm.” Their lips briefly peeled away to reveal grey teeth behind them in a pleased grimace. “Delicious.” 

“You were saying, Fer?” Jovial tried to steer them back to revealing their intent as time marched persistently on towards open. He finished polishing the last glass and moved on to methodically disinfecting his bar tools next, trying to ignore his growing paranoia that Old Hat knew. Why else would they have come, if not to blackmail him with knowledge of his part in the rebellion? They could ruin him – smother the entire movement in its infancy. So what was he going to do about it? 

“Ah, yes, yes.” Old Hat raised up a little from the vague puddle they had been slowly melting into under the effects of the liquor. “Well, there really is no delicate way to put it, Jovial,” they said and splayed their hand in his direction. “It has come to my awareness -- and, of course, I cannot reveal my source --...that you are up to some rather interesting things in your free time.” 

Jovial felt the ice cold stake of dread drive into his gut and stilled, holding a pestle in one hand and a disinfecting wand in the other. So they did know. …Or it was a bluff to bait him into exposing himself. Hoping his body language hadn’t already given him away, the bartender tilted his head by a shallow degree hoping to indicate curiosity. He didn’t trust his voice, so he remained silent, giving the old bird his undivided attention. 

Old Hat’s death lips smiled, pleased. “That is to say, Jovial, that I know who you are and what you’ve been up to.”

“It’s already abundantly clear you know about this bar, Old Hat.” Jovial, his mind making mad grabs for clever ideas, side-stepped as casually as he could manage towards the other end of the backbar, making as if to continue his cleaning duties. He wasn’t sure why; there wasn’t anything there that could cleanly remove this festering pustule from his plans. 

“Oh, stop it, fer, I detest – positively detest – when people try to pretend that I and they are fever-brained!” 

Jovial stopped his rummaging beneath the bar and looked back over to Old Hat with his hand resting atop the case Sacar had delivered a few hours before. Overdose would be a feasible demise for Old Hat, he was thinking. But then the old crow said something unthinkable: 

“I know that you and,” they bobbled their head side-to-side, a small and reluctant concession, “…unknown others are behind the recent upset in The Bird Cage. I know it …and I want in.”