The Jesus Fish and Slaughter Bird

By Clark Casey

An epic novella about four 20-something lost souls who meet in a bar in Manhattan in the early 1980s. The rollicking narrative follows them for 20 years of their turbulent (and often funny) lives into the turn of the century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clark Casey
• Release date: Jun 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458028716

Clark Casey

Clark Casey is a glass-completely-empty kind of guy.

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The Jesus Fish and Slaughter Bird

by Clark Casey

Copyright Clark Casey 2011

Published by No Dead Trees Press at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Midtown Mirages

It was winter 1983. Bandanas were an acceptable accessory, not just tied around the head, but wrapped around the arm or leg; nobody found any irony in the fact that the President of the United States was trained in the art of deceiving people; and a recently discovered hole in the ozone layer was threatening sales of easily applicable hair care products.

It had been 3 years since Vesper and Rosco had seen one another, but when Vesper lifted his head from the bar and muttered, hey asshole, it proved to be time not lost. They held mugs of beer up to the light, then their lips swooped down and attacked the rims like birds in flight.

After the third beer, Vesper announced solemnly, "Well, if dat ain’t da Jesus Fish, den I don’t know what da hell is. Just walked in with what I suppose ya’d call one dem Slaughter Birds."

She had a pale pretty face, makeupless but for the blush left on her cheeks by the winter wind. Her wholesomeness cheapened the other spandex-clad girls from New Jersey and Long Island. She wrenched her wrist from a fluffy ski jacket and incongruously large breasts jiggled in place beneath a simple white sweater. Then she arched her back with a provocative yawn that nearly gave the male contingent of the bar whiplash. The fertile mounds stretched their modest garb with enough fantasy to feed the multitudes.

Nice jugs, too, Vesper remarked. Dat is if you like dem sort a floppy knockers.

Beside the Jesus Fish stood a smaller and more overtly attractive girl coated in vibrantly clashing hues of eyeliner and lipstick. Her hair was feathered back and primped forward in the latest style, showcasing a tiny rouged face. It looked like an elaborate frame around the small painting of a gifted artist who clearly didn’t know when to stop.

I’ll lead. Rosco rose to his feet summoning some courage. You cover the Slaughter Bird. Remember what I told you about them, he warned then leaned in tell the bartender, When I get to the other side of the bar, no matter what I ask for, just hand me two Jack and cokes. You hear me? No matter what I ask for.

Hey, I ain’t taking one for da team, Vesper whined. If she’s da true Jesus Fish, it’s one ting, but if I hear her yammering away about safety schools and ex-boyfriends, I’m not sticking around. Deal?

Alright, already, Rosco said as they cut through the crowd to the other side of the room where it was less crowded due to the draft from the door. A few men were already hovering in the vicinity of the two young girls, waiting for their in, searching for an unusual piece of jewelry or a telltale college sweatshirt to remark upon, but none had yet made their move.

Rosco leaned in sideways between them and signaled for the bartender. The Jesus Fish gave him the up and down, then promptly turned away. He made a quick scan as well: lips of pink, skin of alabaster, auburn bangs framing a cherubic face. Her plainness, on closer inspection, was striking in that it was without a single flaw.

Two Crowbars, Rosco called out decidedly to the bartender. One drink went back to Vesper, and Rosco stood quietly waiting for his change.

A Crowbar, huh? She wrinkled her brow. What’s that?

Used for opening up sealed vaults, Rosco replied with a clumsy smile, inviting an aura of mystery. If she’d been good from afar, but far from good, he would’ve asked for two Midtown Mirages and gotten the hell out of there.

So whatta you’s do? Rosco asked nervously, letting the accent he had tried so hard to get rid of slip out. Like when you’re not working and stuff?

The Isolating Effect of Eyewear

They weren’t exactly pickup artists. Just two guys who’d been burned before. Vesper, by a cigarette that had clung to his lips while he was trying to bluff a poker hand; Rosco, by a girl in Florida. She said that she loved him, then turned around and decided she wanted to become an ophthalmologist.

How can I be with a girl that wants to help people see better? Rosco’s voice had crackled over the payphone outside Bullwinkle’s Saloon in downtown Tallahassee, roughly 24 hours earlier. He had perfect vision. He was also an abstract painter. She’s leading people in the complete opposite direction.

Get on a train, Vesper had advised. "Come back to New Yawk. Everyting’ll be better here—I raise you’s cheapos five bucks," he called out over the receiver. It was poker night in Astoria and Rosco could imagine the usual suspects at the table in Vesper’s basement: George the Greek, Stuttery Pete, and Nick the Greek. They were a little short on imagination when it