Joe miller's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Joe stepped into the wet light of the open mic stage. Underbog's damp air pressed against his hood. He shuffled forward, boots clicking on warped boards, and cleared his throat through the heavy cloth. The crowd waited. He wanted this. He wanted them to gather, to lean in, to laugh because of him. He delivered his first joke in a low mumble, the punchline catching on the fabric over his mouth. Then the room went quiet. Not polite quiet. Brutal quiet. A mug clinked somewhere. Joe stood very still, counting his own breath like coins, waiting to see what he would do next. His gloved hand moved to his belt. He drew the engraved pistol slow, holding it flat across both palms. Lamplight caught the swirls along the barrel. The crowd shifted. A chair scraped. Joe set the pistol down on the stool beside him, careful as a price tag. "That stays there," he mumbled, "until somebody laughs." Someone in the back coughed. Nobody laughed. Joe straightened his shoulders, the silence now a debt he had agreed to pay, and reached for the next joke. He tried three more. Each landed in the same dead air of the Slow Drip Saloon. A boot tapped. A glass slid. Joe's gears ticked too loud beneath the cloak. Finally a small girl near the front pointed at his hood and giggled. One laugh. Wrong target. He counted it anyway. Joe picked up the pistol, holstered it, and stepped down off the stage owing more than he came in with. Outside, the night air felt like the mouth of a cave. Joe walked the muddy road with the silence still riding his shoulders, heavier than any cloak. He thought of the person he had left, and the joke he had not finished, and the long six years between them. He could not go back yet. Not like this. He pulled his hood tighter and turned toward the far edge of town, where the rougher crowds drank. If the saloon would not laugh, he would find a room that had to.