dmseay

This river runs through the city. Still green from the Irish having their say every Saint Patrick’s Day don’t you know. Coloring the natural waters for what is an American drunken fest. They say everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick’s, but in America, the Irish aren’t even Irish. But, they own this city. They own it from city hall down to Donahue Day Labor. As a matter of fact, the two are as one. Old man Donahue scratches McNally’s back, and the mayor returns the favor with big fat contracts with the labor union and day labor. One cleans up after the other. Sweetheart deals, money floating like cream on top of a Guinness with a shamrock carved into the brown suds; too pretty to drink, yet too good to walk away from.

Even in my early twenties, I knew all were on the take; letting sins slide right past them if the dough was right. The mayor’s right-hand man, another Irish prick, oversaw everything. The money, who got city jobs, keeping the ward committeemen in check, and the alderman at bay. Those he liked and gave penance to, he rewarded. Those who were not liked paid for their sins in public; a political flogging in McNally Plaza, named after his father, who built this city on strength and racism.

It didn’t take long to realize the city was constipated for the Blacks and  Latinos. Neither group could take a shit. They were blocked up by the Irish. Even the Italians complained about not getting their fair share. But, then again, the Italians always complained.

There were those who fell in line, and they were rewarded. Some Black neighborhoods on the Southside as well as Latino neighborhoods on the Westside, stayed mostly in check, while others ran ruptured, on the verge of breaking at any given moment with gangs and crack and prostitution, gun deals, etc….It was enough to make the old man McNally proud as he looked on from his permanent grave, waiting to be forgiven, while junior went about his ways complete with harp and shillelagh in hand.

I could join this merry group of gangsters if I chose to. That would require having no freedom of my own. Conforming to the American dream. That dream, which includes giving up morals and standards to get what we want; money, a wife, children, block parties, handing out candy to trick-or -treaters on Halloween, mass on Sunday at the neighborhood church, all the gravy you could eat, and beers with the boys at backyard barbecues. It was all mine for the taking. That’s what White privilege gets you.

I have crossed over to North Clark via Wacker Drive. My mind was still twitching from thoughts on Halstead about Mary and the second coming of me. In this second coming, am I here to spread love, punishment,  judgment upon these people of whom were created from good yet now have fallen into the depths of sin? What is my purpose?

And then it dawns on me, don’t you know. I am not Christ at all. I am merely a man of this world who falls short of the mark every time. And Mary the secretary is adding to that fall. The thoughts of saving her and my fellow slaves are foremost in my mind. Yet it dawns on me. She does not want to be saved. Nor do those who line up with me each morning for their crumbs. No. We are all happy with mediocrity. Perhaps below mediocrity. Is this what I really am? A mediocre man? A peasant who is manic one month and sad for months to come?

Truth is, there is no Mary. There are no peasants. There is no me. We are all just figures in God’s great dream. Or is it his nightmare. An experiment gone awry.

This will entangle my thoughts for weeks to come. I am no savior of the people. I am only a derelict who has given up. Albeit a crazy derelict, a derelict none the less.

Goodbye, sweet Mary. Goodbye, you Irish pricks.  So long to Charlie and his constant clap. Fairwell to all. 

It’s back to the bridge over the Chicago River. Looking down at the green water. Wanting to become part of the water, leaving my soul behind. But I don’t have the guts to follow through. I must keep on.

I’m staring at the sun as I walk on Halstead towards the Northside. Tomorrow, I will begin my persecution of the Donahue family. But then I ask myself, should anyone be spared in this inquisition? This storming of the castle. I go down the list. There’s the fat man, the chief of the whole operation. He who hands out the tasks in the morning and loot in the evening when weary workers return to Mecca for a measly buck or two.

Then there are the sons of Donahue. All three of them playing touchy touchy and feely feely with the secretary; what I wouldn’t do to have an affair with her. Albeit a short one. A brief encounter on a dark night inside the cage where sins are committed on a daily basis.

The Irish brunette doesn’t know I exist. At least I didn’t think so until one day she looked at me from her desk with emerald eyes and caught me like a deer in headlights. She knew I lusted for her. Her long body and freckled skin. My fair Mary would be spared; spending the rest of her days following me till my crucifixion. And then, when the rock is removed, she’d be there waiting for my return.

Hold on, Mary. I’m coming for your rescue. This short time on earth should be enjoyed. Let us stop toiling and stroll by the sea, hand in hand, and make love in the dunes.

My father will be here soon. He’s keeping an eye on us. Remember,  you’re a child of his as well. You will always be safe from the wrath of God. While the Donahues should pray for their souls every night.

What wickedness they’ve brought to the common man. Hurting those who can’t help themselves. My sword is drawn. No mercy for them. For they have not lived a life of love. Only sin. The torcher of so many. The riches of so few.

A nice thick slice of rye or pumpernickel is what I craved. The rest would settle for plain white. Anything for the next bottle, crack whore, or fix. Something to take their minds away from life’s catastrophes. Some fell from grace a long time ago, whereas others were simply born into it, knowing no other way to live but to damage the body, the soul they were given.

Did I feel pity for them? Yes. My heart went out to each and every one in that line every morning. The blacks, Mexicans, those who never had a chance in America, but to work themselves to the bones, making their skin calloused and feet ache and for what? A simple piece of white. No mustard, no relish, just a heel with nothing on it. This was the reward. A slice each day if they just did as they were told. Instructions coming from a fat Irish prick behind a cage.

The recipe for success given to them by King James don’t you know. The book tells us that if we just hang on in this life, we will be rewarded. Streets of gold and all that. Good King James knew how to sell a bill of goods to the common man, and so did Donahue. King James, Donahue, Chinese laundry, same difference.

I decided to take the Donahues for all I could. Make them pay for their sins against man and God, for that matter. Play them for all their worth, I said. Play them for everything they got.

I had a mission now. A reason to live. I would lead the Isrealites out of Egypt. Far, far away from Pharaoh’s wrath. This was my assignment handed down to me from a burning can of old newspapers, cardboard boxes, beer cases, everything, and sundry. God spoke to me at Lower Wacker Drive. His voice was clear.

The mind numbing, that is American labor. They have us by the balls, hands, feet, neck, and soul. Devoured by corporations, small businesses, and all that is under the sun. Sweeping and mopping floors, assembly lines, brushing shit stains out of toilets, washing windows, all of this, and more, waiting for you; the uneducated,  the poor, immigrants,  blacks, coal minors in West Virginia, auto factory workers in Detroit, meat packers in Chicago, and day laborers sweating it out till the day is done; working just enough to make ends meet, or not.

I thought I’d said goodbye to work when I left for Chicago that night on the Greyhound,  but I soon realized after coming down from my manic high that simply wasn’t the case. You have to work in America. Very few have the luxury of pursuing creative and artistic lives. We are worker bees that keep this nation going. God have mercy on us.

As I stood in line waiting for my daily bread, I overheard men comparing diseases they acquired from whores in Chicago. A black guy named Charlie explained that he had the clap so bad his cock was falling off. Of  course, this was overstated. I decided it best to keep my mouth shut and not offer any medical advice. It’s not good to come off as a know-it-all around these guys. Keep a low profile. The less they know about you, the better.

I pretended I was a spy. My arrogance lead me to believe I was better than the rest in line. But, there I was.  Wanting my daily bread.

The train runs above me. Sometimes, blue and orange sparks fly off the steel wheels, looking like fourth of July fireworks. Glowing as they disappear. And that sound, that beautiful music of the L stopping and starting, running at high speeds with voices carrying into night. The conductors tell urban travelers to watch their step, doors opening and closing before them.

I walk down Lake Street shivering, wearing my hoodie and freshly washed pants. Clean underwear feels good. My socks are dry. I’ve got a five in my pocket for a cup of coffee and a roll. My lips are chapped, and my face is burned. Cop cars pass me by. I continue my morning stroll, now thinking not of childhood, but questioning how I got to Chicago. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember.

It was an act of mania, nothing really planned. I had just gotten paid from my job at a car wash where myself and other juvenile delinquents worked steadfastly cleaning cars of the rich. Saving tips for something important such as bottles of booze bought at the nearby liquor store. Food for their families to eat. Clothes for the seasons. New pairs of shoes.

With tips and a bi-weekly paycheck, I managed to have a couple of hundred on me. I walked swiftly through my small town and thought, what is the point to all this? A voice kept telling me to leave this Winesburg, Ohio, for a bigger place; get rid of this Midwest melancholy once and for all. And, I did. I left behind the comforts of warm, dry housing and hot meals prepared by mom and stern lectures from the old man for freedom. What I thought was freedom.

No plans, no schemes, just get on the bus and go. Proving that old German right when he said what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Interesting. The old bugger suffered from syphilis.

But, it’s the loneliness that gets you. Ever since I was young, I hated the idea of being alone. And, yet, while all the neighborhood kids played games together, I stayed away. I had this fear of rejection hanging over my head that I would never be accepted by many. This led to rumors of arrogance. Kids and adults alike thought my fears and silence were due to snobbery. They said amongst themselves that I thought I was better. But, nothing could  be farther from the truth. I felt as though they were out to ruin me, and I had no course of action. Stick to yourself, I said quite often out loud to imaginary friends. And, with the exception of Robert Grisham, I did.

I was constantly talking to myself; carrying on full conversations. Years later, I told a psychiatrist this, and he asked if I answered myself. Yes, I told the quack. Do you hear voices in these conversations? He asked. I nodded my head. Do you act out in fits of mania? Go into deep sadness? Again, I nodded yes. Do these voices tell you to kill yourself or do harm to others? Only myself, I answered. And then, don’t you know, I was waking up in the psych ward of the downtown Lutheran hospital.

When word got out, I was crazy, kids became even more inhumane. Spreading rumors. False statements. Glaring at me as I walked down my high school halls. Insults right to my face. Parents pointed fingers. I was a monster being chased out by the villagers. Only a small girl down by the lake offered me a flower and a kind smile.

I had a morning ritual. After sleeping on the train throughout the night, there was a need to feel human again.  A need for night to become day, which meant keeping myself in check. I became a constant user of hotels downtown to keep clean; The Westin, Palmer House, and The Drake, nothing but the best public restrooms in Chicago were used in my daily practice of hygiene. I used their soap to wash my face and hands. Nice fluffy towels for drying and wiping my mouth after brushing my teeth. Hell, they even had cologne, gratis for my needs; rubbing the potion on all parts of my body; a whore’s bath.

Even as a homeless person, I kept up appearances. I owned three pairs of pants, which I rolled up in my book bag along with four tee-shirts, three underwear, and some socks. Toothpaste and deodorant were kept in side pockets while books rested at the bottom of the bag. Clean. I was always concerned about cleanliness. Others in the homeless community did not care; a constant state of disrepair with hair matted, breath smelling of booze from the night or the hour before, smelling of dried urine like a carpet soaked in cat piss, and glazed over red eyes. And like a true Christian, I would listen to them babble incoherently about the ones that got away, an abusive father, a non-caring mother, not having any meds, mental institutions, hospitalizations, panhandling, pimps, Johns, the whole works. Sometimes, I’d give them a buck for coffee or a five for an Ialian beef dipped in juice with sweet peppers. Why not? Did Christ not say there would always be the poor among us? He did. And he said it for a reason. Help them, you dumb cocksuckers. No one chooses this life. This life of insanity. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. Hard to say.

God bless the child that’s got his own. That’s got his own.

That was me. Standing on that bridge just before sunrise. I remember it being just before sunrise because my mind was distracted by the glimpse of light in back of me. It made me think of ending it all and also of my beginning. The smell of sourdough bread coming from my mother’s kitchen. Baking away like so many of the goods she baked; cornbread, cinnamon rolls, cheesecake, for Christ’s sake, it was like a downtown bakery where people gathered for morning news, coffee, and gossip.

But I also thought of riding my bike up and down the streets of my neighborhood each day after long hours at grade school. My best friend was a black kid named Robert Grisham. He lived in another part of town where white men dare not go at night. Why? Because of this inane fear, the Caucasians have of the black man. And what was that fear? Fear that vengeance would be theirs one day. A true uprising of blacks against whites, knowing full well they would lose; anger and heart always prevail.

Robert was a sweet kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly. He stuck by me in times of sorrow when sadness and madness took their toll. Yes, even at that young age, I was bitter and wanting to kill myself. Never those around me or those responsible for my pain, no, the focus was on me and me alone.

That smell of sourdough. Always brought me back to reason. No matter how bad things had gotten, it was always there for my comfort. Like when a kid would bean me with a baseball or threaten me, and I’d ride home as fast as I could, crying the whole time.

However, one instance stands out. The kid’s name was Chuck. And Chuck was a prick. A real mean fellow who got his kicks by terrorizing the  neighborhood; particularly those of us younger than him.

I was so angry at him that one day, the word I never thought I’d say came from my lips. I called him a nigger. I called this big white bully a nigger. And, I instantly cried. I wept because I had betrayed Robert. I had said a word that I thought I was above. But in sheer madness I called him a nigger. I was so shaken up that Chuck apologized to me for being a bully. He said he was sorry so many times as I cried, that he wept as well.

It’s OK you called me a nigger, he said. Maybe I’ve been acting like one. This tore into me so badly that I let him have it. His non-understanding, his lack of humanity, drove me to punch him in the gut several times till he doubled over in pain. Boys on the sidewalks cheered. They didn’t understand either.

I was saved by the smell of sourdough bread. Nothing was ever said to Robert.

Death is at the doorstep, but I have no door to open. I certainly can’t close it. This doesn’t exist. However,  I hear people knocking constantly, yelling, let me in, let me in. And I ignore them. I don’t even say, go away, or nobody home. I just let them knock.

Who is it knocking besides Death? Angels, demons, the devil himself, all of them, even ghosts from the past. Friends and enemies, all knocking to see me. Yet I keep my mouth closed. Not a peep do you hear from me. These voices come and go. The ups and downs. Mania and depression.

I look down at the river from Wacker Drive, thinking, where’s your guts boy? Go on, end it all right now. Come back as a tree branch, a rabid dog, some animal in the Lincoln Park Zoo, maybe a can of tuna. Something.

There’s five bucks in my pocket. I could really go for a hotdog with mustard, neon green relish, tomatoes,  a dill pickle, and celery salt. Don’t forget the sport peppers.

Maybe this is what keeps me alive. Perhaps the city keeps me alive; I’m not sure. But the voices and thoughts are there. Always there. I could live anywhere, and they’d still be dancing a waltz inside my head. Or, maybe an Irish jig. It comes and goes. It comes and goes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my day of rest. I will not go to church and tithe. My payment has been paid for now. I want something for the price. A reward, don’t you know. A free trip to heaven or some paradise. I cling to the ticket.