dmseay

It’s hot, he said. Hot in here. He checked the thermostat. Seventy-four? This thing is at seventy-four degrees, he raised his  voice. Did you set it for seventy-four? he asked his wife. She sat quietly, doing needle point. Stitching baby blue yarn together. I’m turning it down, he told her. Too hot. Not to mention the cost.

I like that temperature, she responded. Reminds me of summertime. When the sun is out. People mowing their yards. Going to see our son play baseball. I like that. And it’s so dreary outside. And cold. I need heat. I need memories of summer.

I see. We’ll compromise. He said. I’ll set it at seventy. OK. How does that sound? She nodded her head in approval.

I hate winter.

I know you do. He dipped his pipe into a can of Prince Albert. Packed it and lit up. She put her project down on the coffee table. He turned on the TV.

Winter makes me sad, she said. I always think of terrible things.

Uh huh. He continued watching television. Lawrence Welk was on. Bobby and Cissy were dancing a waltz. An accordion played.

Thinking back to when he was sliding down that hill in the park. I told him it was too steep. Told him not to. She picked up her needles and began stitching again. This time at a slower rate. Then the car. We should’ve never gotten him that car. She looked up at her son’s picture above the mantle. We made mistakes, Thomas. She said.

We didn’t drive the car, Annie. We didn’t speed.

Should have been more strict.

Thomas went back to watching the show. He blew gray smoke from his mouth. Anger was setting in. He puffed faster.

No discipline, Annie said. We spoiled him. She stitched quietly while he flipped through channels.

It’s cold in here, honey. Please turn it up to seventy-four, she said. He nodded his head and did as he was told.

The heat kicked up higher. Snow began to fall. She closed the curtains.

Naima plays on the radio. The lamp lets off a dim light of yellowish orange. A beer can acts as an ashtray. Quarter filled bottle of whiskey.

Now Miles is blowing Summertime. I sit in a metal folding chair with a small television in front of me. The screen is blank. It’s been blank for years. Never gets turned on. Just like women I’ve known. Just cold screens offering nothing. No pictures inside of them. Their true colors hidden.

I wonder what’s inside? A picture tube, wires of different colors? A squeaky speaker? It just sits there. They have just sat there. I try to turn the knobs but nothing comes on. Silence.

They’re playing it cool. So cool. Women and television sets. I wonder what’s on? Wild Kingdom? Some soap opera? PBS showing Live From Lincoln Center?

There’s a lot in there. Cable would be a waste.

The humidifier leaks. He rubs his hands with alcohol. Medications lay on a table. Sounds of semis going up and down Highway 41.

It’s dark outside. A lamp, lets off little light by his La-Z-Boy. Flowers in a vase.

She wakes up and walks down the hall. Pictures hang on the walls. Parents, grandparents, and kids they had, now gone.

Sitting on the sofa, she lights a cigarette and blows out the match. He sits in silence. Rocks back and forth. Smoke is blown into the air.

Do you remember Robby? She asks. He nods his head. That boy was destined for trouble. She laughs. So was that boy, Jimmy. Couldn’t keep a hold on them. Seems they were always getting into trouble. Her husband turns his face away. Continues rocking.

No wonder they’re dead, she says. It was only a matter of time. He nods quietly. Moans a bit.

They were your responsibility, she tells him. Boys should listen to their fathers. You never demanded they do so.

The old man gets up from his chair and looks at an empty gun cabinet that used to be filled with shotguns. He just looks in the glass at himself.

You want eggs? She asks. He shakes his head and walks out to the back porch. Birds flying south. Deer running in the woods. The sounds of shotguns going off.

He just stands there. His wife joins him. What day is it? He asks.

Thanksgiving.

Kids playing in a sandbox. Swings blown in the wind, making a creaking noise. Rusted chains. Two women sit on a park bench with a bottle in a brown sack between them, passing it back and forth.

Careful Jimmy. Don’t throw sand, one woman says, while the other takes a drink, lips around crinkled paper.

Susie, put down the rock, honey. Put it down, says the other mom. That’s good, dear. Go back in the sandbox, sweetie. Go on, she says. Good. Now stay there. The daughter runs sand through her fingertips.

The two women sit quietly, still passing the bottle to each other. Rings missing on both women. One blonde and the other brunette. They sit in silence.

Jimmy? What are you doing? Play with your truck, Jimmy. Yeah. Drive it. Can you make a road for it? The son nods his head and smiles. No front teeth.

They’re growing up fast, Susie’s mom says. Soon, they’ll be dating. Have jobs. Getting married.

Jimmy’s mom still remains quiet and still. She takes another drink and lights a cigarette. Hands the pack to her fellow mom.

I hope he grows up fast, Jimmy’s mom says. I want him out of the house when he turns eighteen.

You’re just going to kick him out?

Yes. The day after his birthday.  Best gift I can give him. He’ll learn to be tough. To situate in the world. The two go back to silence. Jimmy’s mom finishes off the bottle. She weaves over to the trashcan and throws it away.

I have no idea what will become of Susie. I just hope she doesn’t wind up like me.

The swings are still blown in the wind. Sounds of kids laughing. The moms sit and watch.

I used to walk down Dearborn in the Gold Coast. Pretended to own a brownstone or a condo. Imagined driving a fancy car. Something that would zip on Lake Shore Drive. Thoughts on drinks and women at The Drake; a real man about town. All these dreams. Just dreams.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk down Halsted to Lake and get in line with the rest of them. All of us, in search of a paycheck. A days work. Sweeping floors at McCormick Place. Lifting kegs of beer over our heads or dragging them down a flight of stairs to the basements of  bars. Stacking pallets. Separating trash from recyclables. A day’s pay for a day’s work. All for minimum wage. God bless us all.

At the end of the day, another line to stand in. One by one, we all wait for the line to move forward to the cage where a fat man sits handing out checks. The blacks, Mexicans, down hard on their luck whites, the drunks and crackheads, the sober yet disillusioned, all waiting for what we are about to receive. May it truly go to your good.

Fifty-six dollars in hand. A bar that’s seen better days cashes the paper for a two drink purchase. I buy a cheap Old Style on tap for a buck. Tip the bartender a dollar and walk back up Halsted to my sleeping room on Belmont, passing through River North, Lincoln Park, and Lakeview. Walking by restaurants filled with people eating French, Spanish, and other fine meals. Past bars with happy hours. Among folks going by in SUVs, BMWs, Range Rovers, and neat little Italian motor scooters.

My legs are tired. The stomach is empty. And tomorrow is another day. Lord, forgive us of our sins.

He used to watch her dress in the morning and undress at night. Years ago. She wore a black nightgown and wiped the makeup from her face. He hid his fat body under covers. Laid his head on a pillow and waited for her to turn off the light. How he wished she’d kept it on.

Goodnight dear, he said each night. She said goodnight as well and rolled over with her face turned away.

At first, they’d make love before falling asleep. On down the road, they simply said, goodnight. Eventually, they would say nothing at all.

He suddenly stopped watching her dress and undress. She quit talking all together. She expressed her thoughts with notes around the house. Gone to the store, it read. Or, don’t forget your lunch. Just words with no drawings of hearts or cupids. It was as if she was writing for a complete stranger.

One day, she did speak. The wife said she was no longer in love with him. Said she met a new man. Some guy from church. And they were going to run away together.

The husband did not say a word. He watched as she packed her car and took off down the road.

He wondered when her new lovers’ time would come. His time when she would leave him for another man. When she would walk out on him. Jealousy makes a man crazy.

So, he began to drink heavily. A bottle of scotch each day. The cheap stuff. He stopped going to work. Stayed at home mostly.

He kept the front door unlocked, so if she did come back, it would be open for her.

Candles on tables and nightstands. Glowing orange and yellow flames. A pad of paper with a pen on the bed by his side. Sheets with blue ink marks. A pillow wet from sweat. The window fan blows warm air.

He wakes up and reads a poem he wrote the night before. Something about her. Always about her. A woman who left him years ago in the middle of the night around three. Nowadays, he wakes up at that time and goes out looking for her all over town carrying a flashlight in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. He calls out to her as he walks past bars, diners, empty parking lots, dumpsters in alleys.

Virginia, he yells. Come on over here, Virginia. Lights come on in apartments above Main Street.

Do you know what time it is? People used to scream at him. These days, they just dream right through it. Asleep in comfortable beds with lovers, wives, and dogs as he shines a light on porches, dark driveways, backyards, over wooden fences.

Virginia, he raises his voice. Come home now, he says. But, no one is there. No movement at all. He just walks and wails until the sun comes up. Leaving him empty inside. Waiting for her to return home. Wanting to hear a knock on the door or the phone ring. But it never does.

He puts on old scratchy jazz records. Mingus playing Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. Miles blowing Blue In Green. On Green Dolphin Street by Bill Evans.

He sits on his broken bed and listens. Remembers making love to her with these songs in the background. Dancing naked. Sipping wine. Drunk on love. 

Water drips from a faucet. Light bulbs burned out. A fan in the window oscillates. Perry sits, waiting for the rain.

It’s mid-September, and there’s been no rain all summer long. Dry. Grass is brown. Dust blows by. The river is low.

He lights his pipe and blows out the match. A candle burns beside his chair. His coffee cup is empty.

A scraggly beard patched on his face covers scars. Liver spots have been there a long time. He puffs on his pipe and looks at a blank TV screen. It hasn’t been turned on in years. He just looks at the blank picture and mumbles to himself. Track marks on his arm.

Years ago, he says out loud. Years ago, I was wandering around in the desert. Cacti with blooms on them. Tumbleweeds blown across the highway. Prarie dogs. Coyotes.  Running in packs. Sleeping under stars with nothing but space. Miles and miles of space, he says. He stops talking and stares at the cracked ceiling.

A truck drives up on his property. His driveway is brown patches of weeds. Some gravel remains. Gray stones, pebbles, crunched by tires. A young man gets out. He carries a brown grocery bag filled with bread, milk, beer, peanut butter, needles, and smack. He walks up to the door and enters without knocking.

Dad. Dad? He raises his voice. Brought your weekly supply. Dad? He goes to the back room where he sees his father in deep thought. Perhaps praying. Am I interrupting you? Perry looks over at the boy and shakes his head. I brought you some Lone Star. He tosses a beer to the old man. Some groceries. And this. He pulls out a baggy filled with heroin. Thought you might like this. Tim says. I’ll cook some up for you.

It can wait, the old man says. It can wait.

Sure?

Yeah. Sit down. Take a squat.

There is not another chair. Tim sits Indian style on the dirty floor. He sees a mouse in a trap. It’s rotting away. The boy leaves it on the floor.

So, I was thinking dad. I might move out here to the trailer with you. Would you like that?

Who you running from?

The young man looks at him. I don’t run from people pop. They run from me. The two of them laugh. I figured you might like the company. I’ll fix the place up. Figured after this dose we could clean up a bit. What do you say?

I want to go back to the desert. Wear my boots again. Sleep under stars.

What do you want me to do, dad? 

Drop me off in New Mexico. There’s a diner there on Route 40.

Dad. There’s several diners on Route 40.

Any one of them will do. I’ll get a meal there and then hike into the desert.

That’s a long walk pop.

Yeah. I’m ready to die.

The two of them looked outside at Tim’s truck. Rusted. Beat up. A crack in the windshield.

Think it’ll get us there? The father asks.

Is that what you want? Tim responds. The old man nodded.

Do you remember your mom?

Yeah. Yeah, dad. I do.

She was a looker. Shame she left us.

I thought we left her.

Maybe. Is that the way it went down?

Tim nodded. And now you want to leave me. He laughed. Where’s your stuff? Perry points to the back room.

Got some underwear and shirts, he said. Can we get some cowboy boots?

Sure.

I’d like to die in them.

All this talk of death.

I’ve been dying for years. Just want to make it official. Have my body eaten up by coyotes and prarie dogs.

Can do pop. Can do. He started to cook up a fix for the old man.

No, Perry told him. I want to see everything on this drive.

You’ll go crazy dad. I’m not dropping you off in the desert to kick junk.

It’s best. I’m ready. You got peanut butter? The kid nods. Folds his bottom lip.

Good. I like that.

This is important. Do you hear me? What I’m saying carries weight. A confession, you might say. His fingers tapped on the table, making the coffee shake a bit. There are things I’ve done, he said. Bad things. Things I shouldn’t have. 

Like what? She asked.

Stole.

Hmm. Go on, she got up to pour herself a cup.

When I was homeless, I used to take the train all night to keep warm. There were always these drunks passed out. Almost lying in their seats.

I see. She looked at him. Sat back down. Poured him some more coffee. A breeze came through the kitchen window.

Well. I used to take wallets and purses. Shopping bags. Anything I could get my hands on. 

She nodded her head. The cat scratched in the litter box, covering up tracks. You ever get caught?

He shook his head. Nope. Just went on my merry way. Fifties, twenties, hundreds, tens, all kinds of cash. Credit cards. Pictures of people. One lady had nothing but a toothbrush in her bag. Maybe she was worse off than me.

You think?

He cracked a smile. Took a sip of coffee. Talked about old Chicago. How times were hard. Times are still hard. Nothing has changed, he said. I don’t steal anymore.

No?

No. Just live paycheck to paycheck. Month to month.

Don’t we all. She looked out the window. She saw busses going by. Heard sirens. Saw the sun come up. Don’t we all.

He laid in the hospice bed reading The Brothers Karamazov. An IV ran into his arm. A slight high from morphine. Curtains open. A dove flew by.

You’re reading Dostoyevsky, I said. 

Yes. I’ve always gotten to page 456, then put it down and never finished. We laughed. Always curious how it ends.

Well.

Don’t tell me.

OK. I said. Why have you never finished?

I don’t know. He said, licking on Italian ice. I like the Russians. I’ve read other works of Dostoyevsky, but I just couldn’t finish this one. Strange, isn’t it.

Yes. Never read him in college? I asked. He shook his head and pushed the button for more pain relief.

Read Chekhov. Tolstoy. Then I read the Irish….the Americans.

I see. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Not in the same league. We laughed. He closed his eyes. The dove sat on the window sill. He rested the book on his chest.

Alright. Tell me how it ends.

I shook my head and held his hand. Nope, I said. Don’t want to ruin it for you.