Jotham is written by Alicia E. Goranson and read by Soleil Golden.
Transcript:
The thing about slander is that it only lasts a couple decades in leftist orgs. It matters forever. Nobody forgets a betrayal for a break-up or a threat made to the wrong person under duress. But the shockwaves only last a couple decades at most, by Jotham’s estimate.
They say Jotham sold out, screwed over his friends to go off and play with the big boys and girls in the aristocracy. Jotham used to be a superstar on the ground, in bars and clubs, talking about mutual aid, the rights of people in poverty, and the ramifications of racism, fascism, ableism, and transphobia. He was so good at it, laying down rhyme and rhythm. Ginsberg even gave him a hug in 50’s New York City, and probably more after the club was closed.
Jotham was a great organizer, getting bodies down to the civil rights marches and migrant workers’ rights protests. But in the midst of it all, something changed in Jotham. His club material grew more about modern life, less hard-edged, more encompassing, more directed away from the words that needed saying. Soon, Jotham was sharing tables at VIP rooms in the city, flashing pricey watches, and even secretly performing for Boeing executives at private parties. His friends wondered how a change like this could happen.
They didn’t know Jotham. Jotham had always been playing them. As a child, he worked the 19th century mills, joining gangs as soon as he was old enough to stop adults from pushing him around. Jotham joined the trade unions when few others had his back. He knew good whiskey when he drank it and wanted a life where he was free to enjoy it. Jotham was a good fighter and a better talker because of the nights he spent looking down the barrel of guns. He learned rhyme and rhythm from his fellow unionists. He learned organizing from his girlfriends. His days at the mill were packed as much as his evenings and you do not spend as little time for yourself as Jotham did without being scorched inside. He never had a day off. He dreamed about getting beat so hard he wouldn’t have to work. Like the women he worked beside on the line who dreamed of working the secretary’s chair where they could sit all day.
Then Jotham’s life became only nights. Sleep was off the table; only organizing. Only standing up to the Pinkertons. Only protecting his friends. Damn, he loved escaping all that on stage. Up under the lights with a hundred drunken eyes on him, where he repeated awful poetry he’d scribbled in the wee morning hours. “What does the night get me?” he wrote. “Drunker. Harder. Rustier. And maybe, if I’m in luck, one new friend.” People liked that one.
The decades passed. He moved to Seattle and, what else, joined the local Anarchists to do everything he’d done in Chicago. This was what Jotham knew, on stage and off. Here, however, he was noticed. In the streets, in the clubs. New, fresh blood. In the late 60s, he got the offer to move up in the world. To relax, to rest, for the first time. To work behind a desk in a small room laden with hardwood. To wear fancy wool coats in the winter and fine suits in the summer. His friends said he’d sold out but he was still there for them. He still spoke well for them in the halls he had made his new home. His bruising days were over and after two decades, it didn’t matter who he had left behind. Now, he was the mediator to the rich, the facilitator of all manner of acts. Jotham is at peace with this, after a lifetime of toil and labor. Everyone, even Jotham, deserves a break.
-END-
Portions of the materials are the copyrights and trademarks of Paradox Interactive AB, and are used with permission. All rights reserved. For more information please visit worldofdarkness.com.