dmseay

I watch night go by, and I think to myself, she’s right. I don’t know Miller. I don’t see the beauty within. The search for the soul. The quest for both chaos and peace. What do I know? Sex. That is all my mind is capable of handling. It is a constant throughout the day and night. Even as a child, it was constant, a strange ongoing chase for the physical touch. Yet lost in the mind. Or, was it?

There are streetlights shining down on small Ohio towns as we cross the border from Indiana, where youth never leave and the old stay to die. But, I left. And when I did, my father wished me good riddance; my mother simply stood there in shock, thinking to herself, how could he do this? How could our boy leave paradise? She was never the wandering or wondering type.

I remember when I first tried to kill myself; viewing the ambulance from above as we drove rapidly through town, lying on a stretcher, feeling nothing but warmth, an embrace; I wanted to leave this town, this state, this apple pie philosophy topped with a scoop of vanilla; where’s the spumoni?

Awaking in that hospital bed after hours of sleep, no one was there to greet me back home from my trip to heaven’s gate. My father was not there. My mother was not there. Friends and enemies to celebrate my journey were not there. I just lied there in bed. Feeling nothing. No remorse, no guilt,  nor shame. I wanted to be dead, I thought. But then sexual thoughts entered my mind as if it never left. And even in that half dreamlike state, I had an erection that showed through white sheets I was wrapped in.

It was the nurse I wanted. Not a Bible or a book of virtue, but a brunette nurse who smiled at me and was soon replaced with my mother standing over me.

She did not shed a tear or yell at me. She simply whispered that the road to hell was paved with sin. And then she walked away.

So, no, I do not know Miller. His beauty escapes me. I know not the soul. Only the flesh. And yes, it is weak.

I watch America go by from the seat of an Amtrak train. A scotch and soda in hand as trees, rivers, and streams go by in front of me. Large cities and towns of the Midwest and Eastern parts of these United States while I read Baudrillard’s amazing insights on this country; a Frenchman traveling America with keen insight as to our triumphs and failures. From East Coast to West, he saw it all, the beauty and the ugliness. What humor.

I continue looking out the bar car window, fascinated by what Baudrillard has said of my native land. It’s a lot to take in, New York, the skyscrapers, people in lines waiting. Minneapolis, with its huge mega mall called The Mall of America. Again, the lines of people. What are they wanting? Why are they waiting? I knew what I wanted. I could no longer wait.

A woman sits at my table. She reminds  me of Cleo. Her red hair and emerald eyes. The tight-fitting sweater shows a near perfect form. She drinks coffee and reads Miller’s Sexus; a big, thick book filled with insight on the human condition and what it takes to be a true artist.

Do I talk to her? I know I would be perturbed if my reading was interrupted. She puts the book down and looks at me. Two readers engaged with one another. What is that you’re reading? She asks. I tell her a French philosopher’s view of this land of ours. She smiles.

I see you are reading Miller, I say. I’ve read Tropic of Cancer and Capricorn. But, never Sexus, Nexus, or Plexus. Tell me about it.

She reaches under the table and touches my thigh. Smiles, and says, you wouldn’t understand. You are tickled by the sexual writing of Miller. Have you really read him?

I guess not, I tell her. She laughs.

Rosy Crucifixion indeed.

I am sitting in a diner on Belmont under the L tracks eating a cheeseburger, so greasy that it swims on its own. No help. No paddling like an infant. Just fluid strokes in a pool of grease. The bun is soaked.

We meet here from time to time. Sat side by side on stools watching the old cretin flip grilled cheese sandwiches and put mustard on hot dogs as he rattles on and on about the old country. Telling tales of when he was younger and swam in the ocean. Or fished on his father’s boat for sardines. This fool. He had a choice to stay in beauty but chose to come here to the land of opportunity. He says he came here with nothing. Not a stitch of clothing nor a dollar in hand. The old Greek told Gladys she had the eyes of a troublemaker. And then he’d laugh while looking at me as if to say, run for your life, kid.

And perhaps he was right. I should have ran. Far away from her and Cleo, too, for that matter. They were both demanding too much. Destroying me. Preventing me from writing. A voice inside my head told me to leave. Get out of Chicago. Just do it. But first, one more night with Gladys and one more night with Cleo. Lord, forgive me of my sins.

Was I never in love with Cleo? No. Although I was in love with what she offered. Fine foods,  beautiful music, a sophistication about her. But, I was never in love.

And as for Gladys? My heart went out to her. She could have any man. And maybe she was having them all on her plate with gravy and mashed potatoes on the side with a fat juicy ribeye, smothered in wine butter. One never knows. I didn’t.

I thought she chose me. Of all the men in Chicago, I thought she chose me. I was never a meal. Only dessert.

What made her this way? I do not know. Those eyes and hips. I will  never forget her. But that laugh. That evil way she had about her enticed me more. She drew me in. Was she honest? It’s hard to say. It always is.

Throughout the dawn of time, people have lied. Gladys lied, Cleo lied, and I lied. We were all living a lie. And when living a lie, you fear the truth. You fear it will come to you. And that will be that. The trick was to move on before you were caught. That’s what the voice told me.

So, I called my old friend Thomas Schmidt, don’t you know. I knew he’d come through for me. I told him I was desperate, down on my luck. You’re always down on your luck, David. He said. I’ll meet you at Melrose in an hour. How much do you need? I told him a grand should do it. And, on the other end, there wasn’t a cough or a laugh or a snicker. He just said, OK.

I sat down at the Melrose and ordered a huge fluffy omelet with spinach and cheddar and onions with buttered toast and marmalade, hashbrowns as well. I didn’t have a dime to my name. Thomas was late. But, I didn’t sweat. I knew my savior would come.

Here David. He said. Take this. He handed me a wad of dough. Let’s talk business. I had to stop myself from laughing at him. I’ve loaned you over two thousand dollars. And I’ve been very lenient. However, I’m expecting the money back with interest. Again, I almost fell out of my seat. Sure thing, Tommy. I told him. Sure.

I walked out of that diner a new man. And I never contacted Thomas again. Who was he to tell me interest would be added. Nothing is free in this life. Nothing. Or is it?

It is four in the morning, and I am listening to Mozart on WFMT. The music is playful and lively. It is joyous. A happy piece with strings only. And yes, that damned cello comes through with its seducing sound.

She is asleep as I think about Gladys and her wool coat, unbuttoned, lifted up over her thighs, with snow falling as the city moved around us. And though I know nothing about her, I feel as though I know everything .

A fool? I think she is not. She knows what she is doing. Calculating? Perhaps. I am not sure. Gladys is a product of my lust. I went out in search of her. I found her. Will there be consequences? Who knows.

What has happened with Cleo? She is no longer as she was when we first met. What does she want from me? As I am thinking these thoughts, there is a tap on my shoulder. She is wearing a short silk robe with her breasts exposed, her legs perfectly smooth, eyes glowing in the dimly lit room.

Come with me, she whispers in my ear. The sprite grabs me by my cock and leads me into the bedroom where she pushes me down upon the bed, straddling me, grabbing me, kissing me and staring into my soul. And although she is there in the moment, I am not. I’m a million miles away thinking of ham sandwiches, liver pates, French baguettes, dark mustard, and Gladys.

Mozart continues playing as we sit up in bed sharing a cigarette. She tells me there is no one like me. Says I am an artist waiting for his moment to come. I know she is lying. Or, she is not honest with herself.

There is now the sound of a piano played softly. Quietly, as we lie back and fall into sleep. Her cheek is on my chest. Her lips are parted. What have I done? I ask myself. What have I done?

She grabs my hand and kisses me on my cheek as if we were old lovers rekindling a flame. She is wearing a wool coat and shows just a bit of bare skin. I notice freckles on her breasts and ankles uncovered.

You’re going to freeze to death, I tell her. Not if you keep me warm, she says. And I try my best to keep her warm, placing my arm around her waist, pulling her in by my side. I notice that her hips are wide. Her brunette hair collects snow falling from the heavens.

Come with me, she says as she yanks me into an alley. This woman is kissing me and holding on for dear life, lifting her coat to expose no clothes at all, only her body. Make it quick, she demands. Make it quick.

The morning sun is beginning to come out over the city. We kiss. Do you still want that cup of coffee? I ask her. She laughs, kisses me again, and says, I am now awakened.

Snow has stopped falling. City plows are sweeping the streets. We climb the stairs to Kurtz’s Tower, and she bids me good morning. Come again, she says. Come again.

She unlocks her door and walks in, closing it just a bit. Her green eyes look at me one last time. She whispers, I am Gladys. It is nice to have met you.

The door is closed.

A pebble thrown at her window. A slight tap on glass from down below. A light shines through blinds. Another pebble thrown. This time harder. It bounces off and lands by the dumpsters, which smell of piss and vomit. Brown snow surrounds them.

Now, a snowball, handcrafted, and packed, crystallized. I toss it gently, and there is no response. It explodes into a million pieces. Every little bit of it mixing with the snow it came from; back to the mother’s womb. Perhaps I should go back to the womb as well. Leave this current life and start anew. What good is it to always be in want? I know the Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. Right? If only that were true. But, the Lord is no longer my Shepherd. I have abandoned him. Or, he has abandoned me. It’s hard to say. 

The good book says he will never leave us unless we rebuke him. Have I rebuked him? This sinful life of mine filled with lust and greed and cursing and worshipping false gods. What have I done? 

I used to envy no one. I was never greedy nor scornful towards my fellow man. In fact, I wished nothimg more than to help humanity. But then Cleo came along with her bag of goods, and I found myself wanting more. More money, more food, more sex, more warmth, more wine. I have thrown my soul away. I have rebuked God. And for that I will pay the rest of my days.

Finally, a light comes on. The window is opened. She looks down upon me like an angel smiling on a sinner. Hello, I say. She nods and smiles. My name is David. Would you like to get a cup of coffee?

Yes. She says. Yes.

Sitting at a coffee shop, I find myself recovering from the clandestine Christmas celebration, thinking of the woman in the window of Kurtz’s Tower; how she spoke to me in that alto voice as if singing. Singing to me alone; not scared to express her feelings. A true artist.

Yet all this is not true. She is in my head, dancing and spinning to classical pieces, then turning and twisting like a contortionist at ease with herself. All with Goethe looking down on us.

Did this happen to me? It is too great for me to differentiate what is truth and what fiction is anymore. What has actually happened versus what I wish to be.

These words on paper. I search for truth every day and come up short of the mark. Is Cleo real? I no longer could tell you. She baffles me yet at the same time, is so easy to figure out. She is a lover and caretaker all in one. She is a liar and a thief of souls. But, she has not stolen mine. Cleo feeds me wonderful pates and fruits in bed with jugs of wine. She tempts me every morning with that beautiful cello she plays naked between her legs. But could it be that I am the instrument she plays upon? My soul is the strings she plucks.

Once again. What is real, and what is fiction? I have a feeling I will find out soon enough. God forbid if this ever gets published. For murder will surely happen. Cleo will strum so hard with her bow that it will cast out the devils and angels within me.

What am I doing? I am going mad. Madder than a hatter. Do I belong back to sleeping on the L? Back to scrounging for food and dollars? Or was that fiction as well? I ask myself these questions as I sit in luxury on Dearborn where it is easy to reflect. Yet hard to remember.

Tonight, I will go to Diversey and look up at the ballerina’s window. Maybe she will dance for me. Perhaps there is nothing behind the blinds. Just darkness.

How I wish she appears tonight. I hope. I pray. Prove to me that I’m not crazy, but merely in love.

It is six o’clock in the morning, and I’m listening to classical music on WFMT. I am alone. She is gone. Gone to Ohio for the most Christian of Christian holidays; Christmas.

There is no tree with lights on it nor silver balls, or hardened cookies from the fatherland. A lone Christmas cactus sits in the window with pink blooms on it. This is my symbol of hope. My symbol of renewal. I pray to Christ almighty it does not die.

I water it just enough every other week. Just enough for a drink to a plant that needs so little. Sometimes, I wish I was a Christmas cactus, blooming only twice a year. Requiring  no attention as I sit in the sun and grow. But, alas, I need much attention.  Despite my survival techniques of when I first came to this city, I need care. In fact, I scream out for it. I yell at the top of my soul. Feed me, clothe me, take me in, love me. I am unable to make it in this world on my own. Is this true? Yes and no. 

Like everyone else, I only want the good parts in life and partnership, while at the same time, I miss the suffering, which wasn’t really suffering at all.

And the question is, why wasn’t it really suffering? Answer, because I’m insane. A real loon. Even in my youth, I invited loneliness and melancholy. In and out of hospitals. Different medications. Lots of yelling out at society like a mad man.

Yes. Even back then, I wanted to be a cactus. Or dead. Something that didn’t feel. Does this make me unique? I hope not.

So I sit here at Christmas time alone. I am miserable but completely happy. Totally at peace. Disturbing thoughts enter my mind and fill my soul, yet I am pleased.

There is food in the refrigerator and drink to be had. Who needs Cleo’s love. She has left all and sundry for me while she is gone. I do not miss her.

This runs in my family; this borrowing and never paying back. My father, bless his soul, a true citizen of these United States, filed for bankruptcy three times. He’d max out his credit cards until they were bursting at the seams. The old man borrowed from this bank, and that bank, trying his damndest to break the system. Hell, he even threatened to sue when financial institutions sent nasty letters and horrible phone calls came during our Sunday meal.

Sunday is the day of the Sabbath, he would say. What are they doing committing blasphemy on this day? Probably New York Jews dialing phones, he said. First, they kill our savior, and now they want money paid to them ten-fold. They always want something from us. Always, he yelled, then asked for the roast beef and gravy to be passed his way. I never had the heart to tell him it was the Romans who killed the son of God. Like I said, a true American.

But there was a tender side to the old man as well. Despite his racist comments and ongoing paranoia, he did have a soft spot. He cared for my mother deeply. He cared about humanity; somewhat. And he would often be quite charitable; giving money away that he’d just borrowed. It was the damndest thing I’d ever seen. Giving money away that wasn’t really his. It was his way of giving society the middle finger. Like I said, a true patriot.

That’s where I get it from, my borrowing and spending and giving away tens and twenties to people on the street who were down on their luck or just plain crazy. 

A man in rags pushing a grocery cart, I’d slip him a bill. A thrue schizoreno, give him or her a fair amount as well. Why not? Are they not entitled to the American dream? Yes. Yes, they are.

And though my giving left me without, it made me a better man. Paid today, gone tomorrow, was my rule. No savings. Nothing in the bank. Always behind. My father taught me well.

Those who are capable are the unlucky ones. The group I belong to is so, so fortunate. No ability to hold down a job but keeping our heads above water, as they say. What is the trick? I asked myself. To lie, cheat, and steal was the answer.

I befriended several people in my life and have taken advantage of them all in one way or another. Take the case of Thomas Schmidt, a proud man of German stock. A true fighter for the regime of America. One who believed in capitalism in its complete form, yet he had a heart. And with that heart he gave to me constantly. 

Once he said to me, David, I believe in you. One day, you’ll be a great man at something. You just had to find what that something is. His advice spewed like water in Buckingham Fountain. Reaching high in the air with colors of hope shining from it, an amazing sight, and a beautiful sentiment from Thomas Schmidt, to say the least. You’re just down on your luck, my boy. You need a starter. A kick to get you going, he told me as we sat in The Gingerman one night drinking beer on his dime. Say old sport, he smiled. You need some cash to start your new life with? he asked. I nodded. I felt and heard his next words before he even said them. I’ll loan you a grand, old Thomas said. That should do the trick. Meet me here tomorrow, and I’ll give you the cash. He smiled. But, on one condition, he said. Once you’ve established yourself, you must begin paying me back. Deal? He extended his hand. I nodded and shook hands with an angel.

A thousand dollars blown in two nights on booze, women, fine meals. For once, I could take Cleo out on the town. For once, I felt as though the world was at my fingertips. And, when Cleo asked where this money came from? I told her a lie. An untruth. Which always comes back to haunt you.

An advance, I said. A small publishing house wants to take a chance on me, I told her. They like my writing. So they gave me two grand to live on for now so I can write my novel. That’s wonderful, she said. Now, you are a true artist. No, I said to myself. I’m a journeyman thief.

After two days, I called Thomas and told him in a worried and stressed voice, almost in tears, that I had been robbed at gun point on my way home that night. I told him I was back to being broke. 

Don’t you worry, David. I’ll loan you another grand, he said. A fellow like you only comes around once. Meet me tomorrow night at The Duke of Perth on Clark Street. I’ll bail you out.

I thanked him as tears overcame me. Why was I crying? I was thankful to him and to God.  All that giving on my part was beginning to pay off. Was it really paying off because of past generosity? I’m afraid not. It paid because I had become a true American. A patriot, you might say. A great liar.