dmseay

The L ran past my window all day and night. A constant sound of speed, brakes, and voices announcing Addison. This is Addison. Belmont will be the next stop. Watch all feet and hands. Belmont is next.

You learn to sleep through it. To write through it. To argue through it. To fight through it. And, sometimes, at two in the morning, to use the sounds as a backdrop for making love. It was the soundtrack of my time in Chicago. The ongoing movie that it is. A town like no other. Divided by money. The Gold Coast and the Southside. By black and white. By hip-hop and blues to classical symphonies and jazz in the park on a summer’s night. The home of Buddy Guy, Jeff Tweedy, Ramsey Lewis, and Chance the Rapper. It is a city that makes no excuses.

Sometimes, at night, I’m awakened by the freight train coming through my small town at two in the morning. I pick up Carl Sandburg, Upton Sinclair, and Studs for my nighttime readings. Hog butcher for the world, said Sandburg. The Jungle, Sinclair, called it. Terkel said it just as it was, Division Street. Not to be confused with Maxwell Street where every drunk in town met at midnight for a Polish at Jim’s. Mustard and grilled onions. No Catsup, please.

It was home. From Back of the Yards to Howard Street, it was home. I often rode that train all night. Back and forth from Northside to Southside. From Addison to 95th Street. I sat with the drunks, the homeless, the mentally ill, the concealed weapons carriers, gang bangers, yuppie scum, and street musicians trying to make a buck; twelve year old kids banging on plastic containers with worn drumsticks. This was my city.

In a changing world for the worse, I hope some things stay the way they used to be. Or, perhaps get better. Not for the rich and powerful, but for the soul. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Yes. Yes, indeed.

Is anyone sitting here? He asked. I shook my head, no, and went back to reading my book. Whatcha got there. I turned the book so he could read the cover. The Dharma Bums, he said. By Jack Kerouac, he went on. Never heard of it.

The Greyhound rolled out of the St. Louis station around two in the morning. Pitch black when we got out on Interstate 44. We’d be in Joplin in no time, then Oklahoma and Texas heading into New Mexico and Arizona. In a couple of days, I’d be in Los Angeles; roaming the streets with fifty bucks in my pocket.

What’s that book about? He asked quietly.

Looking for truth, I said. Truth in yourself. A spiritual journey.

Philosophical, he said.

Yeah.

He closed his eyes and began to snore. I marked the chapter and looked out the window. Nothing but darkness.

Joplin had passed, and I was back to reading as sunlight came over America.

Good morning,  he said. I nodded my head. How long did I sleep?

I didn’t time you, I said.

Oh….I never asked. Where are you heading?

Los Angeles. I told him.

In search of truth? You won’t find it there, he laughed. Just dog eat dog. No moral compass. All is permitted.

I laughed. Perfect. I’ll fit right in, I said.

I’m going to Phoenix. He took out a flask. Want a sip?

No thanks.

This is my truth, he told me. I’ve got kids there. Haven’t seen them in years. Not since they were small. They tracked me down, he smiled.

I see.

You see nothing, he said. You see nothing.

I went back to reading. He looked out the window at Amarillo. They say this town has the biggest steak in the world. If you finish it and all the fixings, your meal is free. Ain’t that something? A free meal for the price of misery. He laughed.

We rolled through the red clay of New Mexico and got to Albuquerque late at night. Mexicans and Indians roamed around the bus terminal. I stepped out for a quick smoke. The air was thin. It smelled  like the West. Stars in the sky.

By the time we got to Phoenix, I was done with Dharma Bums. The truth awaits, I thought. 

This is it, boy, he said. Good luck with finding peace. He reached for my hand. We shook. A twenty had been exchanged. Take care.

I don’t feel right, he told her. Trouble breathing. Heart feels like it’s racing; coming out of my chest.  She took a cold, wet towel and wiped his forehead.

Should I call an ambulance? She asked.

I don’t want to die, he said. This is my golden opportunity to leave this earth. The heart rate increased. Just stay here, he said. By my side.

I’m calling 9-1-1.

Please don’t. Please don’t.

She sat next to him on the edge of the couch. Try to remain calm, she said, continuing to dab his forehead. 

I think this is it. He closed his eyes. She held onto him. Sweat poured out. Suddenly, the breathing stopped. The body had collapsed. He was gone. Forty years had slipped by.

Up on the shelf was a teddy bear. It was orange and blue with a Chicago Bears jersey on him. Number 34. She looked up at the toy on the shelf and remembered practicing how to change a baby’s diaper with it. That was years ago, she whispered. Back before we lost the baby.

Time went by. She never got over her sadness. He never stopped smoking and drinking. She never stopped pretending.

Every night, while watching TV, she’d clutch onto the teddy bear she named Little Walter. Holding it close to her heart and wishing it good night when her husband fell asleep. She rocked it back and forth in her arms. Sang to it under her breath while he snored and shifted on the couch with his feet dangling. A half empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Cigarette burning.

And now she held her husband’s head in her lap. Sang and wished him good night. She felt alone. She felt alone. Why does everyone leave? She whispered. Everyone.

Wrapped in a blanket, he sits on a couch, TV remote in hand, lights on dim, sound down.

He watches as the actors move their lips. Spencer Tracy talking to a young boy about fishing. No voices. Just silence. 

A pack of cigarettes lay on a table beside him. An old glass ashtray stolen from a hotel is overflowing.  Matches from a bar with a woman’s name and number inside the flap. The ink is fading, but he can still make it out. 

Sylvia written in cursive, black ink. 212-347-0874 with a pair of lips and a message saying, Call Me. He looks at this book of matches and laughs. Why do I hang on to these things? He asks. Why?

Placing his pointer finger in the tight circle, he dials the number. It rings several times. Hello, a feminine voice says. Hello. She repeats herself. Hello. There is no response. She hangs up.

Hours pass. Non-stick pans are being sold on television. A man making a beautiful omelet. The co-host is impressed as she bites into it. Comments on how it just slid out of the pan. He watches the two and sees the studio audience clapping. Lights another cigarette.

Again, he looks at the matchbook and the number. He can’t remember her. He decides to dial again.

Hello. I said hello.

Yes. Sorry to call so late, he says.

It’s two in the morning, her voice raised.

It’s the funniest thing. He chuckles. I just lit a cigarette and saw this number on the matchbook.

Ohhhh. OK.  So you decided to call at two in the morning?

Yes. Sorry.

There is quiet between them for a second or two. Are you lonely? She asks.

He waits to answer. Yes, he says. I am.

I see. Well. I’m married now.

Oh. I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have called.

It’s OK.  He’s out of town. He’s always out of town. And when he’s in town, he never pays attention to me. Isn’t that something.

Yes. Yes, it is Sylvia.

What’s your name?

Robert.

Where did we meet?

Not sure, he tells her. Could have been Rudy’s. I used to go there a lot when I was younger.

So did I. How old are you? She asks.

I’m Fifty-six.

Wow. I’m fifty. Time flies.

It does.

What did you use to look like? She laughs. I mean. Brown hair or blonde? Tall or short? Skinny or chunky? They laugh.

All of the above. They laugh harder.

Silly, she says. Well. I was blonde. Now I’m silver. Sometimes, I have it colored. But, not that often.

I see.

Yes. Are you married, Robert?

No. Never did. I live alone in the Bronx. I used to live in Manhattan, but my rent went up.

Everything is.

Yes.

I really should be going. Take care of yourself, Robert.

You too, Sylvia. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

A dog chained to a tree. A bowl of food overflowing. Dirt dug into. Bones buried.

A yellow light shines on the front porch. Sticky fly traps hang from the ceiling inside. A pot of cold coffee sits on a countertop.

Autumn is coming, she said. Soon, you’ll be raking leaves. Putting the mower away for the year. Getting ready for winter. She poured him a cup of coffee and placed it in the microwave.

Yes, he told her. I know my responsibilities. He lit a Marlboro.

I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house. I’ve told you that for thirty-five years now, she laughed. You’d think you would listen. The bell on the microwave sounded. She opened it and shook her head as she grabbed the hot cup surrounded by brown gravy stains, orange spaghetti sauce, and crusted bits of mashed potatoes. Am I the only one that cleans around here? She looked at her husband as she placed the coffee in front of him. And, these fly strips need to be replaced. Disgusting.

He took a drink and put his cup down. What are you yelling about? He asked. Always something. Something needs cleaned? Clean it. I’d just as soon leave it the way it is.

Who washes your clothes? Does the dishes? Cooks your meals?

I know you do, he said. And I mow and rake and shovel snow. I take care of the dog. Which reminds me. He needs dog food. Can you get him some? He likes the canned kind. Started him on a new diet.

She turned away from him and stared out the window into darkness. The old man came up behind her and kissed the back of her thick neck. 

I’ll see you this evening, he said.

She stood there quietly. Waiting for the door to shut.

He left town a long time ago. Years now. Saw him take off in a Greyhound around two in the morning, heading to Los Angeles. I think it was Los Angeles? He was always talking about going west. I assume it was Los Angeles. Anyway. I saw him leave.

I was coming out of Pat’s when I saw the bus pull up. Snowing like a mother. Winds were high, screaming like a bitch. The sign on the top front of the Greyhound said, Los Angeles. Nice and warm, I thought. No snow. Movie stars.

And then I saw him. He was carrying a book bag. That boy was always carrying a book bag. Looked like it was stuffed with God knows what. Maybe some underwear, pants, a couple of shirts, but I bet it was mostly books. Every day, I’d see him at the library downtown, curled up in a big old chair, reading a different John Fante book every time I saw him.

Ask The Dust, was his favorite book, he said. Then he said he liked The Road To Los Angeles. I’d nod and tell him to stick to the reading. Told him it would lead him somewhere.

Me? I never read a book. Maybe that’s why I’m stuck here. Just never had the gumption to go anywhere. Especially Los Angeles, where it’s nice and warm, never snows and there’s movie stars.

She spoke first, whispered with her head down. Talking about how she was sorry it didn’t all work out. Just one giant mess, she said. One of those life lessons, I suppose.

It got me thinking, he said. These whole nine years got me wondering. He sipped on coffee. I mean, we fought a lot, he told her. And I often wondered what we were fighting for. They both laughed. I mean. You wanted things your way, and I wished for arguments to go my way. He lit a cigarette and started tapping his fingers on the metal table. Always seemed you got your way, he said. But that’s just self-pity now, isn’t it?

No. She sat down on a folding chair. It’s not. I can be pretty selfish at times, she told him. She brushed back her blonde hair with both hands. Looked down again. Whispered, I can be pretty spoiled, I suppose. We just want different things. We see life differently.

Like that Dave Mason song, he said.

What?

There ain’t no bad guy. There ain’t no good guy. There’s only you and me, and we just disagree, he sang.

That’s beautiful. She looked up at her old man. Really pretty.

That’s Dave Mason.

I’ve never heard that before.

Too young, he said. She nodded. I gotta be going. You take care of yourself, he hugged her.

What’s that guy’s name again?

Dave Mason. Look him up on the jukebox next time you’re out drinking. Should be played in every bar across America. They laughed. Bye now.

A yellow light bulb flickers. Torn lampshade. Drawings of naked women tacked to walls. A pot of coffee on a hot plate.

Snow will arrive tomorrow. The cold is settling in today. Sweat on windows. He draws stick figures holding hands with his finger. Round heads with big smiles.

Sitting on a folding chair, feet upon the window ledge, he lights a cigarette and looks around his rented room. A twin bed with no blankets nor pillows. Mini-fridge stocked with Folgers and Baileys. Ramen noodles in cabinets. Old spice packets. A Guinness by his side on a milk crate. Tropic of Cancer with chapters marked on the nightstand.

There is dirt on the floor from his boots. Soon, he’ll sweep; always keeping a tidy ship; something he learned from her.

He lights another cigarette and places ashes in a Budweiser tall boy. Sucks in the smoke and exhales. Man, it’s been a good life, he says. I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Goodnight, nurse.

It rained sideways. Some rain comes down in a straight pour; not this one.

There were threats all afternoon. Storm warnings. Tornado watches. Possible large pieces of hail. Stay tuned for more information as we get it. Now, we return to our regularly scheduled programming. 

The electricity went out. Candles lit inside. Their trailer took on the ambiance of a holy place. Water dripped from the kitchen faucet.

They sat quietly, waiting for the storm to pass. Earlier that day, they had taken their vows at the court house. No best man. No maid of honor. Just the two of them with a baby inside her. One hand in his, the other on her bump as they said I do.

Sitting in a tavern afterward, the groom had a whiskey while she drank red wine. He swirled brown liquor in his glass and told the bartender, We just tied the knot. A handshake between two men. A salute to the young bride.

These are on me, the barkeep said. Would you care for another round? The boy nodded his head. As he poured, congratulations were wished upon them. Drink up, he told them. A round of applause came from the three other patrons. The fat man sipping his beer wished them well. An elderly lady watching Jeopardy lifted her glass. And the old man waved. Goodnight and God bless.

Candles flickered. The ping from rain hitting aluminum siding sang. Gutters over-filled. Not a word between them as they sat on the couch hand in hand. Just two kids waiting for the storm to end.

He believed in magic. His kind of magic. Thoughts of disappearing were always on his mind, thinking one day he’d just be gone.

She saw it coming. At night, this lover would hold onto her. Hands under blankets around her waist. His gut pressed against her back.

This made her feel whole. Made her feel wanted. Until one night, he stopped. She slept on her side of the bed, and he slept on his. They lay there in silence. Not a word between them for hours. Dreaming throughout the night, what it would be like to just let go.

And one day, they did. He took off out East to roam around where he found he could not run anymore. He had no future. A forgotten past. She no longer entered his mind. Gone. She had disappeared.