Read Online My Dearest Jonah by Matthew Crow - Free Book Online

take me where I wanted to go. I suppose I just have one of those faces, so easy to slip anonymously into a crowd; indistinguishable from just about any other human
being in my age bracket. At times this has worked in my favour. Before the onset of video cameras I was hurriedly sketched by many an artist as some sort of all-encompassing Caucasian male,
approaching six foot (I am, in fact, six foot one, and have more than once felt the urge to contact various authorities to insist as much, lest I be forever underestimated). The face of any man
you’ve ever met, that’s me. Though recently I have become more distinguished. Lines have formed where previously there was only skin. I am beginning to look like my very own novel;
through the stubble - never too long, always suggesting greater things to come - and the ever so slightly bagged eyes is the implication of a life fully lived. This is not entirely the case. If
anything it was a life lived several times over, and almost never correctly. I hadn’t really noticed until today, it being the first time in memory I have truly felt the urge to impress
face-to-face. All I could think was that no amount of time and detergent in the world will make me look anywhere near the person I want to be seen as. But there’s merit in effort, as my
mother used to say, and so it began.
    I bathed and dried myself. Shaved for the occasion and felt bald and vulnerable without some small barrier between myself and the world. My hair slicked back into a dark sheen befitting some
fifties teen in a prototype coming of age movie. It’s all I know to do. Having spent my life either cropped to the skin or raggedly unkempt I am not entirely sure what a gentleman is supposed
to do with his hair, so I comb it as close to my head as possible and simply pretend it’s not happening. Pockmarks that line my cheeks and jaw are unavoidable and unchangeable, so I rely on
the decency and embarrassment of others simply not to bring them up. It seemed the more I did the more anxious I became. Like with the rejuvenation of my backyard; the moment I began to break down
the surface, more and more problems seemed to sprout up like pox on an infant. I began to wish I’d simply arrived as I was. Myself and nothing more. Though by this point returning to my
natural state would have been as conscious an effort as the elaborate adaptation I had created, so I remained some skewered version of myself.
    The trousers I chose were black and belted, bought one day when I had the drunken notion that I might, if presented correctly, be able to find an office job and scale the ranks to become a
glittering corporate success. I chose a black jacket and white shirt, both unworn and both, once more, purchased with the intention of costume in a bid to masquerade myself into yet another
unlikely role (bellboy and croupier, since you ask). To finish I added the one and only pair of black shoes I had in my closet whose leather was, thanks to my skill with a magic marker, almost
entirely without cracks within fifteen minutes. That said it took another ten minutes and an eye-watering encounter with the scalding faucet to clear the ink from my hands.
    And then I was ready.
    I approached Harlow’s garden, as instructed, though the gate, sidestepping the rigid front door like a lifelong pal. Even from the furthest edge of his street I could
hear noises of happy chatter and quiet music. Drawing closer, sweet smoke and a mouth-watering trail of burning fat filled the air. I opened the door and stepped into the yard.
    Complete and utter horror.
    Every man there was in shorts and tshirt. The greatest effort had been made by Max, who in what I suspect was a substitute for any sort of personality had donned a garish Hawaiian shirt somewhat
at odds with the overcast day.
    Memory is funny old thing, but I swear even the radio paused when I entered.
    “Well if it isn’t my accountant!” Harlow hollered as I made my way urgently