PUT A LID ON IT

Folks always said soon as Big Luke Mackey quit workin he'd break down and die. Day he and Polly decided to close The Mason Jar he stroked out in the kitchen while frying bacon. Polly found him convulsing by the stove, bacon burning in the pan. Johnny Brewster, one of three men not law enforcement in Alma County who wore pistols in plain sight, helped Polly get him into the bed of their old Chevy and they drove all the way to Macon with Luke in the back, empty Natural Lite cans and spent .20 GA shotshells rolling around him while he gazed fixed and queerly above at the sky, bluer than blue and sharper than any July morning he'd remembered. As Johnny and Polly gathered Luke up to get to the truck, Polly assured what customers remained that he'd be fine and they should stay at their tables and eat up what was left of their breakfasts. It's in the good Lord's hands now, she said, and Johnny hit her heels with trail of Amens descending in tone and potency.

Japeth Barrow shook his head where he sat. He aint gone make it, he said. He done et up with everythin. Di-beet-us. Cancer. Everthin else. Reckon he woulda died right here just now and Lord take him into His arms and ask him why in the hell he live so bad. The table of men laughed at Barrow as he lit a cigarette. You want rest of my ham, Tommy? I aint gone finish it. Tommy waved him off. You member that Thanksgivin we all had at Mackey's house on the lake when he grill up them chitlins and fire went down low and he spray fluid on it and it burn up in a cloud of flame and smoke and char them chitlins and he end up scrapin all the char off em and serve em on a platter like nothin ever happen. The table of men laughed.

That's where he got the name for this place, Tommy said. He get up at dawn and start drinkin corn liquor from a jar and by time he set to cook up supper he drunker than Cooter Brown. Michael Toombs says to him, Big Luke you oughta open up a etin place an call it The Mason Jar. Luke aint say squat. He just drunker than hell and all stiff and quiet and et up with drink. Aint seen nothin so sicknen as that plate of hog guts he bring to the Thanksgivin table. Be damned if half the family aint et it up. Fraid he gone shoot em all if theys don't. Big Luke set there at table's head sippin from his jar, .22 Colt pistol set in front of em. Same one he used to shoot squirrels dead with when he was Huber Mayor. He aint did much mayorin then, Barrow said. He aint did much of nothin but drink and shoot up shit. Miracle the Jar last as long as it done. Only place I known where your plate of food's different price evertime you come through. Aint matter how much or how little I get. Less ever time. Have a plate bucklin under sausage and streak-o-lean and biscuits and eggs and grits and Luke ring the register for no more'n three bits. He aint even look down at what I got. The table of men laughed.

Three hours later they are all still sitting at the table. Still sipping coffee. Still eating. Still talking. Eyes wandered while others spoke. Quilt stapled to the far wall: MASON JAR EST. 1989 - LUKE & POLLY 4 EVER. Spike buck here. Ten pointer there. Alma County record. Dressed out at 210. Feral hog, whiskers grayed and tusks yellow as smokers dentures. Table near front door loaded up with jars of pickled peppers, eggs, wild onions. Gallon jars of pickled hog feet, ears, snouts, tails. Basket on top. Index card says, PRICE ON JAR BOTTOM. PUT MONEY IN BASKET. HONOR SYSTEM. WE AINT WATCHIN BUT GOD IS. Joe Lane Ford walked through the door. Where everbody at, he said. Right here's everbody, Barrow said. Where Big Luke, Ford said. Hospital, Barrow said. What in hell for, Ford said. He dyin, Barrow said. About ten years too late, Ford said. Aint like he young. Sumbitch got to take half a Viagra to keep from pissin on his feet ever mornin. The table of men laughed. Who the hell gone cook me up a hamburger then, Ford said. You cook it your own damn self, Barrow said. Shitfire, Ford said, and walked on back to the kitchen.

When the doctor walked into the waiting room to tell Polly that Big Luke had passed Johnny Brewster was outside smoking a Tampa Nugget cigar. Polly went to the window and looked at Johnny and she pounded on the glass and he looked up and saw her crying and he unholstered his pistols and started firing. A huge black security guard wrestled Johhny to the ground. What the hell you think you doin? he said. Firin my guns, Johnny said. You aint able to discharge no firearm on this property, guard said. I aint dischargin, Johnny said. I givin Big Luke Mackey his 21 gun salute minus nineteen.