dmseay

A copy of Siddhartha on the coffee table, marked on page seventy-five. Remote control lies in the couch between cushions. The snake plant has gotten taller. Carpet is brown.

Porchlights turned off. Streetlights fade. The sun comes up. A hazy morning. He sits and drinks coffee in the living room with blinds open. A wrapped cigar next to the ashtray.

Memories. A Greyhound bus traveling across country at night. There’s nothing seen, but you know it’s there. Desert stretched out for miles. Faces appear in the dark. He slurps his coffee.

She came to him in his younger days. An Irish girl with freckles and brunette hair. She asks to sit next next to him. The girl has on headphones and hums a Cranberries song. She looks at him and smiles. He pulls out a flask given to him from his father. He raises it just a bit before he drinks. Cheers, he says.

What happened to her? He asks himself. Where was she going? He drinks more coffee. Oh yeah. Phoenix. She was going to Phoenix. Exploring the great Southwest.

At first, they make small talk. Where are you going? Where are you from? That sort of thing; getting to know one another. She takes her headphones off when he talks. Places them back on her head when he finishes. Linger is playing. She hums louder.

You’re very pretty, he says to her. She nods. Not a word is heard. Lips are read.

Thank you, she says.

I wonder about her. He has another sip. Phoenix? Of all the places in America, she chose Phoenix. He shakes his head, thinking, all I wanted was to kiss her the whole time.

Green mountains, which will soon turn red, rust, gold, and brown, surround a small town. It is late August in  Vermont, and the truck is cold at night.

A traveler sleeps behind the wheel on College Street. He looks at houses with lights on inside windows; candles burning. Couples asleep. Parents and grandparents stretch out in king-size beds under blankets knitted in the spring. The traveler shakes and trembles with his car radio playing songs from a long time ago. He folds his arms and waits for dawn.

Inside a cottage, a husband awakes. The traveler sees him walking around in a brown robe. He disappears and then returns to his chair in the front room with a cup of hot spiced tea, looks out the window, and disappears again.

What’s he doing in there? The vagabond asks. What’s he up to? A breeze blows. Pine cones fall to the ground. 

The home owner is dressed now with a jacket on. He puts on a ball cap and looks out the window again. He walks away and comes to the front door carrying a thermos and two cups. He waves at the man in the old pickup truck.

Hey, the bearer of gifts says. Roll down your window. The driver looks at him. He reaches over into the glovebox and grabs an old Boy Scout knife his father gave him. He hides it in his loose-fitting slicker. Would you like some hot tea? It’s pretty cold out here.

The homeless visitor nods his head. He looks at the home owner, who pours a cup.

Where are you from? He asks.

All over, the young man responds.

You’re not casing my house, are you?

No, sir. Just trying to sleep.

Soon, it will be colder. Leaves will change. It’s like a magic show, he says. You should stick around for it.

OK.

Have you eaten?

No. Not very much.

I’ll go get you some brownies. Wife made them.

The man goes inside his home and counts out five chocolate delights. He looks out his glass door and sees nothing. The truck is gone. Disappeared. It’s like magic.

He sits on the edge of his bed naked, belly over lapping, chest drooping, hair disheveled. She lies on the other side, a shiny slip covers her body, blankets have been kicked off, her pillow is wet from drool. He touches her hip, and she rolls over. Mumbling incoherently, talking about a dog she had in her childhood. A streetlight shines through the window.

Trashcans have been knocked over by some rabid coyote in search of food. The animal finds banana peels, orange rinds, half eaten McDonald’s, tin cans, and cigarette butts. A butter wrapper sticks to the side of the can. Damn it, he says. Coyotes. Dawn is about to break.

The husband places a robe over his arm and heads to the bathroom down the hall. He pisses in the toilet. Balls hang in the water. After two attempts, it flushes. All my cares gone, he laughs. Done away with. Life goes on.

While brushing his teeth, she joins him. She sits on the toilet while he brushes side to side.

What time is it? She asks.

Sun’s coming up, he tells her.

I asked what time it was. She wipes herself. I can see the sun is rising. I see that. I want to know what time it is.

It’s close to five-thirty, he says.

Did you hear them howling last night? She flushes the toilet. It runs. She shakes the handle.

I heard them. Saw the damage he did. Damn coyote, he says, looking in the mirror.  I’m getting older.

We all are. Why don’t you kill him? She asks. Stay out there overnight and shoot it, she says. That’s what a man would do.

Fine. He says. Alright. I’ll camp out tonight and wait for him. I’ll shoot it. Like a man would. He laughs.

I don’t know. Poison it, she says. Just get rid of him. He’s a nuisance.

Great. I’ll go on a shooting spree. Killing all coyotes.

Might as well get the groundhogs, too, she smiles. Kill them all, she says. Exterminate them.

He walks down the hall to the living room. Opens the blinds and looks at the scattered trash. Damn coyote.

A copper cash register. Penny candy in jars on a counter. Bottles of pop in a fridge behind glass, displayed in single order; Coke, Fanta Orange, Dad’s Root Beer, different cream sodas, and Squirt. The sign above says ALL FLOATS $3.25.

Sitting in a corner is a fat woman with a cigarette burning in an ashtray. She’s watching television on a small black and white set. She laughs and coughs while knitting a sweater of different colors; red, white, and blue with gold stars across the chest. She takes a drag and says out loud, that Barney. She takes a drag and coughs some more.

A kid walks into the shop. He twitches. His nose runs. He looks at the sign. I want a root beer float, he tells the old woman with drooping breasts. How much is that? She points above the selection of sodas.

What does the sign say? She asks.

Don’t know, the tall boy tells her.

Can’t you read? She puts down the half done sweater. Squishes out her cigarette. Three dollars and twenty-five cents, she says slowly with a blank expression.

Well, he looks at her, I want one.

Grab a pop, she tells him. Bring it over here. What kind of ice cream you want?

Chocolate. I want a chocolate root beer float.

Fine, she says, as she scoops balls of frozen dairy into a large Styrofoam cup.

The boy looks at the different candies on the counter. Jolly Ranchers, Pop Rocks, lolli pops in big round circles, small chocolate bars for a quarter each. They call them fun size.

She hands him the float and asks for the money. She is greeted by a small pistol he holds in his hand, drawn from his jacket pocket. 

Oh my, she says. I ain’t got much.

Just empty the drawer,  the teenager tells her. Dollars, dimes,  all of it.

She places the money in a brown paper bag and hands it over to him. He slowly backs out of the store with the gun pointed at her.

Don’t you call no one, he says. Not the police, not anybody.  You understand?

The old woman nods her head. What about the float?

Keep it.

Sweaters in ninety degree weather. Old pizza crusts in a box marked Luigi’s found in a trashcan. Taxis rush by on Eighth Avenue. The Port Authority takes in more kids from the Midwest in awe of a city, a country they never knew existed. Businessmen  carry brief cases with secrets inside. A hooker offers her services.

A small bar is open at seven in the morning. Some Irish joint serving Guinness and corned beef  sandwiches on rye with mustard creeping over the sides. Fat slobs with brogues eat and drink after working the third shift. Distancing themselves from their wives. Soon, the horses will run at Aqueduct.

He looks in the window. Waves at the bartender. Holds a ten in his hand. Petey motions for him to come on in.

The barkeep sets him up with a sandwich and a pint. He eats and drinks slowly. Chewing every little bite, sips on stout, washes it around in his mouth before swallowing. Sits back and enjoys a smoke from St. Pete.

He feels human again.

Saltine crackers. A jar of peanut butter. Some Cheezits left in a box. The old man rummages through his bookshelf and behind The Brothers Karamazov is a can of tuna hiding from him. The date expires a month from now.

He opens the can with a rusty opener. Pours the tuna water into a plastic bag hanging on his door knob and picks at it with his dirty fingers, placing the fish on a Saltine. He devours the whole thing in one bite, wishing there was more.

Phil Schaap is on WKCR talking about Bird. Speaking on the subject of Parker with strings. Telling stories about old movie theaters where Bird  played before shows and intermission.

The radio is transistor. Schaap reminds us that a lot of people don’t even know what a radio is these days. That time has passed, the old man whispers. It’s all leaving us behind, he says to his cat. And what do we have? Better technology? He laughs. People are looking at a phone constantly instead of talking to a woman at the same table or a barstool next to them. Better indeed.

Time moves on, he says to El Gato. Time moves on. And a few of us get left behind. We few. We lucky few.

Downstairs, a neon sign blinks in the pawn shop window. The bail bondsman has his lights on. A fountain flows in front front of city hall. Bums dip their feet in the cool water. Women stand outside of the county lockup, waiting for their men to be released. An old El Dorado drives by.

In a bar on Main Street, men drink whiskey; talking about crime and punishment. Old timers watch television as they salt mugs of beer. The late, late show is on Super 55. The Sands Of Iwo Jima is watched in silence. All of them wishing they were John Wayne. Siren sounds from far away gets closer. Another fight between two drunks over on Broadway. A squad car for each. Blood drips from mouths. A gash to the forehead on one. A broken nose on the other. No one notices. No one ever does.

I heard Lenny’s in lockup, Junior says to another guy down on his luck. Got caught pimping out girls over on Pontiac.

Heard about that, Bobby says. Also heard he trashed some windows over at the massage parlor on Calhoun. Them joints are owned by Macedonians. Tough motherfuckers. Best not to mess with them.

I hear you, Junior agrees.

Good thing he’s downtown, Lenny offers a cigarette.

Shit, Junior says. They’ll find his ass eventually. Count on it.

I guess. I guess eventually we all pay a price, Lenny tells him. I know I have.

Me, too.

Winds stir up and blow down Main Street. An ambulance is on its way to Lutheran. Under the bridge, there’s a fire in a barrel. Bums watch the flame as it burns on into the night.

The two sat opposite each other in the booth. They used to sit on the same side. A lit candle on the table between them glows orange. He’s drinking a straight-up whiskey while she twirls her hand around a glass of ginger ale. She’s had her fill of drinks. They sit quietly.  Looking away from one another.

Menus are placed on the table by a waitress who wishes them a good evening. Sicilian flatbread is the special tonight for an appetizer, and fettuccine Alfredo is the special main course. It comes with a salad, she tells them. Take your time. I’ll come back in a little bit. She notices the couple is silent.

He tells the server thank you while she looks through her purse. He takes another drink and swirls the liquor around in his glass.

I forgot my reading glasses, he tells her. Could you tell me what my options are? She grabs the menu from his hands and slides it between them.

You’re always forgetting something, she says. Always something. She points at the eggplant parmesan with the red sauce. There. Have that, she tells him. You always liked eggplant parmesan. You’ll eat it. You’ll eat anything, she whispers.

What’s that supposed to mean? He asks.

Forget it. Just forget it, she says. If you’ll excuse me. She walks away from the booth and heads towards the door.

Blank walls. Nothing on them. No pictures nor paintings. Just white. Even the baseboards are white. Window frames white as well. A real sense of nothingness.

He sits on a torn couch. Rips in the seats exposing foam cushions that browned over the years. Marks on them. Stains. Spilled beers. Wiped off mustard streaks. Piss.

A coffee table is in front of him. Old pizza crusts in a box. Stale. He teeths on one like a baby with a toy or a dog hanging onto rope. He chips a tooth.

Goddammit, he says. Not another one. The molar is stuck to the crust. The old man pulls it out and examines it. Brown. Yellowish brown, he says. Years of bad dental hygiene. He drinks half of a warm beer. This is living, he laughs. This is living.

Streetlights shine through the windows casting shadows. He stands up and goes to look outside. The sound of a train in the distance is getting closer and closer. He digs through his pockets, looking for cigarette butts or loose change. Nothing, he says. I got nothing.

The train whistles louder. He’s thought of jumping it. Leaving this behind; the bare white walls, ripped couch, littered floor. Jump on that train and leave, he says out loud. But, where would I go? Some other town? Another rented room?

Stick with what you got. He lights up an old Newport butt. The taste of menthol is gone. Tastes of ash.

Watching three flies climbing the front window. They’re going nowhere. Trapped between glass and blinds, escalating to the top, then climbing back down to the wood frame. They do not move side to side. Just up and down.

They’ll never be caught. The flies are too smart for that. Sure. People kill their kind all the time with newspapers folded, fly swatters bought at the dollar store, a broom sometimes for high places, ceilings, and such. A can of Raid.

Looking at the insects, wondering how they manage to escape most times. Quick movements. Rapid speed. Faster than the human hand. People think they’ve caught them, but they really haven’t. The species will never die. Just multiply.

They’ll out live us, the old man said. We really can’t stop them. He blew smoke into the air. We have a short time on earth. The flies? They’ll live through the apocalypse. The second  coming.

He stood up and looked at the flies. He laughed at himself. Alone. Always alone. They’re all I’ve got.