Psalm

His father was larger than life.

Every concert seemed small to the giant of Carnegie Hall. Jonathan wasn’t sure if it was the music Saul loved, or the power he possessed over the audience, the captivation of his hand gestures. Saul was born of music, baptized a musician, blessed a conductor—he would’ve been larger than life, even without the orchestra by his side.

It was Wagner’s Lohengrin, and the venue Jonathan couldn’t quite recall. As far as he could tell, his father was the venue, as he seemed to tower over the stage. The whiskey from earlier had gotten into his system, and for once Jon was glad he got to sit in the back, as far away from his father’s raging ego as possible. He was also glad he wasn’t wearing his good suit.

He felt himself about to puke, and the audience launched in a standing ovation. He had many things to be grateful for that night; first the backseat pass, second the suit he’d worn to high school prom alone, and third the fact that he couldn’t see his father’s smug face beyond the men and women standing in front of him. Surely, he ought to cry tears of joy.

“Jon,” a man beside him said, “Stand. For your father.”

Jonathan looked up, inspecting the rigid form, the clear blue eyes and white hair. “Abner,” he confessed, “I might be slightly inebriated.”

The white man arched a brow, before turning back to the stage. “You don’t say.”

“I don’t know if I can stand up,” Jonathan elaborated, “I’m having trouble staring straight.”

“We’ll be off soon. I’ll inform your father.”

“Abner. Abner.” Jonathan covered his mouth, gulping something down. The pale-haired man turned to him, looking more concerned than his father would have. “I think I might--”

The applause was distracting enough for no one to notice Abner pull out a paper bag from his satchel, quickly shoving Jonathan’s mouth into it. The orchestra manager grimaced as his boss’ son cleaned his intestinal organs out into the bag, more annoyed than surprised. “Bag, bathroom,” Abner told him, glancing from left to right for any witnesses, “Go.”

The audience was still in applause as Jonathan fumbled out of view and into the bathroom, collapsing next to granite sinks and crawling towards the stalls. There was a single violin playing in the background, beautiful in its indiscretion. With a glimmering light over his head and marble the color of Jupiter’s surface below his knees, he puked out his soul like a common drunk, clutching onto the toilet seat.

There was no more applause.

Jonathan leaned on the side of the toilet, staring at the light above him. Eyes glassy, lips stammering, as if he was about to speak in tongue. The violin continued, reciting the third act of the very play his father had finished from a straightforward melody. "Jonathan! Wie mochte das geschehn?” Jonathan laughed to himself, in his melancholy. “Wie konntest du dich so vergehn?”

The clarinet stopped. Jonathan paused, opening his eyes, trying to look up. Rubber soles squeaked against the floor, a bowstring appearing outside of Jonathan’s stall. Attached to it were two dark hands, calloused and worn. Attached to those was a body, and to that, a face. A childlike, gentle face. “Mister?” the boy approached, cautiously, “Would you like me to call somebody? You look--”’

Jonathan raised his hand, shaking his head. “Don’t—don’t,” his vision was shaky. He remembered brown eyes, as smooth as melted chocolate. “Leave me. Please. I can’t afford to--”

Something leaped from his throat, once more, and he forwarded his grievances to the toilet. He could see the stranger drop his bowstring and a violin, then, leaving the stall and returning with something else in his hand. Jonathan looked up, observing the smaller, darker skinned boy bring a bottle of water to his mouth. “My father, he had a tonic he used to drink, cured all sortsa hangovers,” the boy consoled, chuckling, “But I ain’t a drunk, so I don’t carry it around with me. And water’s a blessed medicine, anyway, so it ought to be enough until I get the recipe.”

Jonathan pulled the bottle away, shoving it aside. “I told you to leave,” he said, but his baritone had shrivelled into a tenor.

The boy smiled. It was only then, in the creases that formed beside his dark nose, Jonathan realized that the boy couldn’t have been more than nineteen. About Jonathan’s age, if not younger. The boy looked down at his water bottle, smirking. “You’re only provin’ my point, Mr. Kish,” he said, nudging it his direction, “It ain’t hard. Just a lil’ water, it won’t hurt ya.”

Jonathan glared at the boy, wrinkling his nose at the stained blue custodian uniform. Still, he took the bottle back, taking gradual sips into large gulps. “Thank you,” Jonathan coughed, running his fingers through his chestnut brown hair.

The smaller boy smiled. He grabbed the violin from the floor, drawing it to his shoulder. “Your father’ll be lookin’ for you, Mr. Kish,” the boy said, “You oughtn’t stay here for long.”

Jon scowled, leaning on the stall and beside the custodian. “How do you know my father?”

He looked at him, shrugging. “I admire his work,” he set his bowstring down. “He holds the orchestra at the tip of his fingers. Any musical piece he controls is just as much his as it is the composers’.” The boy, he dragged out a G, slowly growing in pace. It sounded vaguely like Tartini. “You must be proud of him.”

Jonathan froze. He capped the bottom of the bottle on his knee, staring at it. “He’s a different man once he puts down the baton. I have no reason to be proud of him,” he downed the bottle, one more time. “He has even less reasons to be proud of me.”

The boy turned to him. Grinning. “Is that why you’re drunk now?” he asked, jokingly. “You want to embarrass your father?”

The other boy chuckled, setting the bottle down. “I’ve more than accomplished that,” he leaned in, slightly, watching as the custodian boy strummed at the violin. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mister…”

The boy continued playing, the only indication of him paying any attention to Jonathan being a small flutter of the eyes. “It’s David,” he replied. “Nothing more.”

“David.” The name was a sweet adagio on his tongue. “Are you a good player?”

David chuckled. “Perhaps,” he said, “You ought to judge for yourself, Mr. Kish.”

An Authors Note: I may or may not write an anthology based off Bible characters, and you could call this my practice run. It might not make the final cut, I find it a little too non-descript and trivial. Feel free to tear it apart, though I understand if it's a little too blurry at this point to really judge.