dmseay

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.

I am watching snow fall and listening to wind howel in the evening time. Cleo lies asleep in the bedroom as I stand naked in front of a window, eating an apple given to me earlier that day. Cleo picked the apple at the market from a pile. A large Gala apple in my hand. Biting into it, I realize that this gift isn’t a gift at all. It is just one of her many temptations; offering fruit that will give me knowledge. Perhaps a peek into the souls of humankind. Then again, sometimes an apple is just an apple. A banana is just a banana. A cigar just a cigar.

Eat it, I tell myself. Eat the whole thing down to the core, I say. What the hell. Eat all of it. Devour the fruit seeds and all leaving nothing behind; not even a trace. Maybe just the stem, which I use as a toothpick. There is no waste.

That’s what she has done with me. Cleo has devoured all of me, body and soul. Perhaps it is time to give up the fight. Admit failure. Comply with her demands. She gives me comfort, but at a price.

So many times, I’ve wanted to give up in this life. The constant dreaming of death. To sleep until awakened on the other side. Perhaps a bar room in heaven. Maybe a bed in a whore house. Or, could it be the fires of hell? A place where I would spend my days paying for sins committed against my fellow man. There is always a price to pay.

I remember as a student, I wanted to end it all. Be done with it. Finalize the deal. And so I tried with a bottle of pills right there at my locker in my school. That poor girl next to me who asked how I was doing? What fear I struck in her. Telling her I was fine and then swallowing the whole bottle of muscle relaxers, slamming the locker door, and walking away. A horrible thing to do to a person. To think only of yourself. Not caring how my actions affected her. I was on my way to the burning pits to suffer for eternity. This was clear to me as I watched the ambulance drive me to the hospital from up above only to wake up the next day in a bed with my mother scolding me for this action. There was no sympathy, only anger and rage towards me. And perhaps she was right to be angry while my father said not a word. It was at this time I realized that my suicide attempt was futile. Just a silly stunt, perhaps. Not sure. There would be more to come.

And so I stand naked eating an apple in paradise as snow falls. Cleo is calling my name. Telling me to come join her. How can I resist? A woman’s touch? A taste of death? Chinese laundry; same thing.

The cello awakes me. She awakes me. Again, that music reaches my soul as I lie here in the afternoon sun seeping through the window shades. No blankets are on my body. I am naked to the world; Cleo’s world.  The Planet Cleo, where all is plentiful and beautiful and given with no remorse or any anger whatsoever. The planet feeds on another planet, Planet Daddy, and then feeds me. The goods are bountiful. Luxury never ends.

She comes into the bedroom where I’m having a delicious dream of my newfound love with no name. The structure of her body. The long hair tied in a bun like a school teacher from my youth. That voice. Such a lovely voice. So giving. So charitable.

I dream of her kissing me under blankets on a beach. Or in a tavern bathroom with the latch locked and women pounding on the door to get in. We are laughing. We are holding each other. Her right leg wrapped around my waist up against the sink where water flows, and her ass slips in my hands. I awake with a smile on my face.

Dreaming? Cleo asks. I sheepishly nod my head and smile. About me? Yes, I whisper as I pull her down on me. Yes.

But I can’t stop thinking of the ballerina in Kurtz’s Tower. A place where I laid my head on a futon upon the floor. A folded jacket for a pillow. A coat for a cover. What has she done with the place? I wonder. Is all the bamboo gone? Does it no longer smell of cat piss and Limberger cheese, old cold cuts, rotted lettuce, incense left behind, reeking of Sunday Mass. Jesus, how I missed it.

And I lie here with Cleo on top of me.  Her eyes shut. Who is she dreaming of ? Not me, I’ll bet. Not me.

To hear one’s voice in the hollow night is really something quite spectacular.  I walk down Clark Street in darkness. It is five in the morning, and all bars are closed. Good people of Chicago are sleeping, dreaming of a girl they left behind, a man that treated them kind, children wondering what’s in the closet, the joys of life before sunrise. 

City plows move swiftly throughout the town, blocking in parked cars whose owners were forewarned of such tragedy. A few men out cursing with shovels and brooms in their hands, making a path in the snow, shaking their fists as plows go by, and stars twinkle above them. 

I am walking  east on Diversey now, kicking snow and on a mission. There’s old Goethe standing above us all; few cars on Lake Shore Drive. I walk till I come to my old place of nesting, Kurtz’s Tower. The blinds are drawn, and I see a silhouette of a woman doing turns and stretching her body as if she were a contortionist. The form is so beautiful that I begin to cry. I watch, captivated by her shadow. Long and tall, lean, naked during her morning exercises. I stand in the alley and long for her. I can’t stop looking. If there was ever perfection, this was it.

The blinds are rolled up, and she looks down at me, a peasant who waves at her.  To my surprise, she bows and opens the window.

Beautiful morning, isn’t it? She asks. I tip my hat to her. I’ve been caught and begin to walk away at a hurried pace. Wait, she says. What’s your name? I turn around and look up at her. I don’t know what to say.  My face is red from the cold, blowing snow and embarrassment. Tell me, she whispers in the hollow morn, Who are you?

An admirer, I say. She nods and laughs. My name is David. I used to live here in this magnificent place. It was my home for a short time.

Why did you move? She asked. I got a better offer, I tell her. Well, what I thought was a better offer.

Oh yeah? What’s her name? I laughed and told her about Cleo. Are you in love? I shake my head. Sad, she says. Everyone should be in love.

She closes the window and pulls down the blind. I walk on in pure in delight. What is her name? I wonder. Does love have a name? I’m no longer sure.

It is two o’clock on a Sunday morning, and the city slumbers, dreams of the week ahead. Much to do at the office or any grindstone throughout town. Steel buildings filled with ants wandering around halls and in front of screens at cheaply made desks, sitting in swivel chairs. Secretaries walking by in skirts with hair in a bun and men trying to stay focused on the task at hand. Why bother? I ask. Why, indeed.

I walk down North Avenue to The Old Town Ale House for a pint or short whiskey. A few cabs are out running swiftly through snow in the streets, which has yet to be plowed. The drivers are used to this torture. Customers telling them how to drive in the white frozen piles that have accumulated in each lane, on every sidewalk, doorways blocked and icy, men in caps with shovels trying their best to keep up, and yet some drunk from Rush Street in the back seat believes he’s in charge. In charge of what? The weather? The cleaning of a filthy city? The cabbie? Yes, the cabbie. It’s my buck, they say to themselves, and no one is going to screw me! It’s the American way. To be in charge, that is. Even the lowest guy on the totem pole at Donahue’s thinks he’s in charge of something or somebody. I’ll show him, they say. I’ll show him a thing or two. Just you wait, mister. Soon, you’ll be under my shoe.

The bar is filled with all types, but all the same. People in from the snowstorm for a glass of beer or a shot. They are lawyers down on their luck. They are jaded journalists waiting for retirement. Waiters and waitresses complaining about customers and Mexican line cooks speaking in Spanish about their homes far-away that they left for the promised land.

I sit there alone yet surrounded. I drink my whiskey on the rocks and throw away the swizzle stick on a napkin next to my hand, which twitches. I am tired, cold, and overjoyed to be in this old drunken palace with other miserable people while Peggy Lee sings, Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friend then let’s keep dancing….

There is much crying in the land of Lincoln. Yelling and screaming in the hometown of Jane Addams, Carl Sandburg, and Saul Alinsky. Poets and politicians of Chicago throughout the years have made this town a refuge for thinkers, artists, intellectuals, scholars, people far smarter, and harder working than I’ll ever be, are the makeup of this metropolis, this Midwest town, this second city. Yet, none of them come close to the working man, the poor, the Southside drug dealers, and Northside whores. It is a city divided in two. What am I saying? It’s a country divided in two.

And here I sit in luxury, having not earned my place. I have not worked hard. I’ve hardly worked. Nothing accomplished in this life. I wonder why I write. No one will ever read it. Hear what I have to say. I am simply scribbling. There is no course of action.

How does one make money and still have dignity? Become a lawyer? A liar? A thief. A businessman who robs and steals from those less fortunate? A minister who prays on the hope and faith of the blind? Who knows.

I knew one thing to be true; I was suffering. I needed a way to make some dough. Relying on Cleo was too easy, too demeaning. I was a little boy getting an allowance. Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes. For you will surely get it.

What a paradise this is. I lie here in total comfort. She is next to me in deep slumber. Looking at her, in the night, with a streetlight coming through sheer curtains, I feel this is too good for me. Where is the struggle? It is nowhere. Certainly not in this apartment, in this  neighborhood, this ward. No. This is easy street. A place where every hard-working urban dweller dreams of being. And I’m  here for free. My sins have not been paid for. In fact, I am paid for committing sin; the sin of sloth, gluttony, fornication and so on, etcetera ad nauseum.

But I am paying for these sins. No work has been done. Not a word written down. Just delicious ham sandwiches, beautiful music, a strong cash flow and constant fucking. And, I am miserable. 

This is playing it safe. This is hiding out in America. I don’t belong here, and if the powers that be found out, I would surely be tossed to the streets to live out my days.

They’re waiting for me. These police of capitalism. Waiting for me to muck it up. They hate people like myself. Those of us who have left everything for chance, a roll of dice, cards played, the ball on the roulette wheel landing on my number. No. They will not stand for any of us taking the easy way. America is hard work. Labor intense. Or complete boredom. Standing on an assembly line riveting tiny screws to cars, you’ll never own. Perhaps baking bread. Yes, our daily bread. Made by machines filled by humans who wait patiently for the clock to ring. The heavy lifting, sore backs, and broken old men with  nothing to show but a few bucks given to them from their own hands. No rewards. Only a percentage of what you’ve paid into the system. A system constantly clogged with shit by the rich and powerful. For Christ’s sakes, grab a plunger. It’s all backing up now and never ever to be flushed away. The smell of money. Thrown at us in small chunks. Bite-size pieces. Hard to digest. Yet it is swallowed whole. And every two weeks, we come back for more. Pigs waiting for ears of corn.

And do I feel guilty for not participating? No. I lie here next to Cleo, my patron Saint of the Arts. The hour is three in the morning. I can not write. The comfort is too great. My spirit is broken. 

I’m in Kurtz’s Tower looking at that old German Goethe. What a smart guy he was. A man focused on the art of writing. A true hero to artists everywhere. I’m trying my best, you old kraut. I’m trying my best.

I open the squeaky doors of the cabinets, and there is nothing. No crumbs of bread nor noodles to boil. Not even a spoonful of peanut butter. And the same is true for the refrigerator. No moldy lunch meat or cheeses. No soft broccoli or rotted lettuce; not a bit of food in the place. I look again at that marvelous statue, and I say to myself, this is the life you’ve chosen. Now get to work. But it’s impossible to work on an empty stomach. There is a constant growling, noises from within telling me to eat you fool. Eat.

This meant seeing Cleo. She had the goods. Ham and turkey on Rye with Swiss cheese and mustard and thick slices of onion, don’t you know. Yes, she was what Miller would call a patron Saint of the Arts. She fed me, and fucked me. Took to my times in need. And the need in that instant was great big sour pickles floating in seasoned brine, a nice bottle of merlot, or a cheap red. I looked in my penny collection and found quarters and dimes, for wine, enough to look like I’m making an effort and traced through the snow-covered streets of Chicago’s Northside to her apartment on Dearborn.  I was on a mission to eat and drink. Perhaps a little merriment with her.  Spend the winter in her place like a babe wrapped in a blanket and fed every hour on the hour.

What was I saying? I could not survive  a season with her. Trapped in her clutches. No writing would get done. But that music would be played. That beautiful music. Bach and Chopin, and Beethoven and Mozart all at me beckon call. She would play for me. And, please me. But, everything comes with a price.

Cleo wanted me to move in with her. She said love had struck her. She could not live without me. This poor creature had no idea what she was in for. My tyraids, my ups and downs. The crying and laughter at odd times. My whole outlook on humanity or lack thereof. I knew one thing. I could not afford to lose her. Financially, there was too much at stake. Emotionally, I figured I could deal with if she ever kicked me out to the streets again. But, I had no wanting to be a part of that. Too much. I could always jump off the downtown bridge in spectacular fashion. End it all if it came to that, I said. End it all.

So, these were the choices. Stay in Kurtz’s Tower with nothing but pad and pencil or live the good life for a change with nightly cocktails and morning coffee, sweet marmalade, and warm wheat toast with seeds on the edges. Eggs and pot roasts, with carrots and potatoes and onions and beer and seasonings for Christ’s sake. Do not spare the salt and black pepper ever. There was plenty to go around. This life. Waking up at midnight and making a sandwich of cold cuts. Eating potato chips. Washing it down with a Coca-Cola. A constant feast. And an ever filled wallet, which I would donate a tenth to the church of  misfortune. Hand out bills to the poor, right under her nose, and then ask for more. Why not I said. Why the hell not. From her father’s bank account to her given to me and passed out to the masses. Christ demanded it. Who was I to let him down.

I’ve learned my lesson. In my youth, the easy way was always taken. No matter what price. Was it easy living on trains for the first year in Chicago? I say yes. Yes, it was. Day labor as well. But, these are young man games and old man hardships. In my insanity I chose that lifestyle. I wanted freedom to come and go as I pleased. But after a while, the body aches a little, and your soul craves comfort. No more staying up most nights worried about the crazies, the criminals, the bullies, and the bullshit that goes along with being homeless. In short, I was tired. And on thirty bucks a day, I knew my chances of getting out of the mire were slim, to say the least. Could I go to a shelter? That would be admitting defeat, I thought. Food stamps? Too lazy to apply. I had to get off the streets somehow. And that’s when criminal behavior begins.

Panhandling was never my scene. I found it to be too self-deprecating. The thought of asking a stranger for a buck or two was a clean way to make a living, but, again, I wanted something easier. So, I gambled.

After each day of work, I showered up real good at the local gym, where I took out a membership for fifty bucks a month at a nice place in Lincoln Park. That first shower felt like water from the heavens cleansing me from within. I was truly thankful. I even bought new black tee-shirts and a pair of jeans as well. A couple of pairs of underwear and I was set for businesses. And, every night, especially Sunday, when people  felt most charitable, I would go to local bars and sit there trying to make conversation. Have them buy the drinks, I thought. Why should I? These scotch and sodas should be gratis. I worked hard or hardly worked to earn them, sitting there listening to hours of bullshit for a small touch from a new friend, so to speak. A ten spot was usually the going rate. They’d inevitably ask what I did, and I told them I was a writer. A struggling artist. They lapped it up like  pigs at a trough wallowing in the shit eating ears of corn they’d later pick from their ass. Schmooze. That’s what I did. And Cleo was smart enough to catch on. One of the reasons I fell for her.

She recognized the type of man I was. And I knew she would be a few months’ investment of time and patience to steer her to my way of thinking. The mindset that it was good to be charitable and give your soul to people down on their luck, especially young artists who needed a break. Long story short, I guilted her. And as you are familiar with capitalism and Ayn Rand, this was no easy feat.

But, I talked her into it. At first, she wanted me to move in, which I told her was not good for the artist. Said I not only needed artistic freedom but freedom to move about the night without her worrying about me. I needed to focus solely on the writing. I needed a place to barricade myself in for weeks on end, delving deep into my soul. And, with some hesitation, God love her, she decided to create the David fund, loaning me money here and there of up to a couple of grand making Kurtz tower a dream come true. Now, I could work at the writing and become a true bohemian artist. Goodbye streets. Hello salvation.

Whether she knew it her not, she was filled with the Holy Spirit. A true daughter of the Father and a sister to the Son. God and Jesus Christ smiled down upon her and blessed her for blessing me. Let the madness begin, I said to myself one night, walking home from her place, kicking a rock on down the sidewalk. Let words bleed through my veins and onto the paper. The blood of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost fill me with sentences, paragraphs, and full-on novels. Write, write, write. Thank you, God. Thank you, Cleo.

In my youth, art was foreign to me, a different language spoken by beautiful souls, put out there on canvass, the stage or screen, with clay or other materials, books, and songs. It was all hard to comprehend. Would I ever be a writer? an artist? No, I often thought. Too much discipline, too many hours of labor. And when you’re young, what does anyone know of discipline and hard work. Humans are soft and squishy like a run over apples in the road on a fall day; nothing solid. Nothing coherent. Just mush.

It wasn’t until I left home and started examining the world around me and writing it down on paper with pencil that I even began the process of being a writer. And those early notebooks were filled with terrible short stories and poems, writing, if I even dare call it that, which was dark and brooding. This is what I thought good writing was. What the hell did I know?

But these hours spent around Chicago writing down these self-indulgent thoughts and scenes from around town at least got me on the path of what it takes to be an artist. I was beginning to gain discipline in my art. If I saw it, thought it, hummed it, encountered it, believed in it, I wrote it down.

This is my task, I said to Cleo. My pencil is my cello. And with it, I shall make music that brings one to tears or great joy. But never to be pitied. I will never pity myself on the page, I told her. That would be inexcusable and just simply bad art. And God knows there’s enough of that around.

David, she said. You are a creature of streets. A vagabond. Don’t ever forget that, she told me. Now, even though there’s a roof over your head and food in your belly, you are still cold and hungry. She laughed. Saying I was an idealist. Nothing more than an idealist who one day might be an artist. But, for now, nothing more than a dreamer.

I wanted to take that cello and stick it right up her ass and pluck those strings as hard as possible with hand and bow. Teach her a lesson her father never taught her. Give her something no lover nor teacher ever had; a lesson in humility.

The problem with Cleo was that life came too easy for her. She was intelligent and beautiful, which are two things needed in America to succeed. God had definitely blessed this child. But, had he really? Remember, the meek shall inherit the earth.

Throughout my life, I’ve always hated the rich and beautiful. Perhaps it was jealousy. Maybe it was the fact that most are assholes, non caring individuals who were out to get theirs and damned be the rest of us. Does that sound of self-pity? Perhaps on the verge of it, but it’s just the way things are in this land. In fact, I think it’s in the Constitution. It sure seems that way. And who am I to argue with that.

All that hate towards rich, beautiful people. And here I was fucking one of them. But, that cello. That music. It drowned me. She drowned me. Submerging me the whole time. Telling me to be myself yet trying to change me into what she wanted. Not only was she a cello player, Cleo was also a sculptor of men. And, there were plenty of busts around her apartment she had shaped and formed to her standards.

Just hang on, David. I told myself. Hold on and enjoy the ride, but don’t lose your soul.