dmseay

There’s nothing there. No one. Not a man or woman. No children laughing on swingsets. It’s all very quiet. No cars going by nor trains rolling on tracks. Just silence.

I walk throughout this city in hours before dawn. People are dreaming. Some in love hold onto each other while many sleep apart; opposite sides of a bed that peaks and falls. These are the lucky ones. They know the truth. Battle scars on their souls from lovers of past and spouses of present.

Neon signs blinking over closed liquor stores and bars along Division Street. Soon, the Polish will open their doors just as the sun is rising. A shot and a beer before pouring concrete, building driveways, stacking bricks, bumbling through another day of  life. A Nelson Algren nightmare.

Me? I’m going nowhere. Simply walking to where life takes me. Body filled with chemicals. A growling stomach. Breath hollow. A rat runs down an alley.

But still, no sounds. Just silence as streetlights flicker, reds and greens gleam into morn.

Upton Sinclair died for our sins. Need I say more.

I was telling Patty on the way over here that you strike me as a charcoal man, he said. And sure enough, here you are starting up the old Weber. He laughed. Need any help? The host shook his head. Smiled and took a drink of his Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.

The briquettes were formed in a pyramid. Doused in lighter fluid. A match was struck.

Love that smell, the guest said. Something about lighter fluid and  charcoal burning. Smells like summer. Don’t you agree? He asked.

The host nodded his head and took another drink. They stood there on the concrete driveway, watching flames rise up. Orange and blue flames. Smoke poured out into the suburban sky.

Funny, our wives being hair stylists, the guest said. They used to call them hair dressers. Nowadays, it’s stylists. Just like you can’t call a waitress a waitress anymore. They’re servers. Did you know that? He asked. The host nodded. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling mechanics auto specialists. He laughed.

The host tore off a branch from the oak tree in the backyard and began stirring the burning charcoal into an even spread on the bottom of the grill. Flies flew around the hamburger patties. He took his hand and shewed them away.

Patty really likes JoAnn, the guest said.  Says she makes her day at the salon go quicker. Makes her laugh. Does she make you laugh? The host smiled and took another drink of his beer. Great little body on her, he said. Yeah, you’re a lucky man. She’ll never get fat.

Right, the host said. He began placing the burgers on the grill. Yeah. I’m really lucky.

I’m going to go inside real quick and take a leak. You need anything? Another beer? He asked.

Sure.

He began flipping burgers. Putting cheese on each one. Real cheese. American cheese.

Sure does smell good out here, the guest said.

Yeah.

Oh. Here’s your Miller. The sweaty bottle was handed to the host. Yes, sir. This is summer. So. What’s your game? The host looked at him. What do you do?

Nothing right now. Just take unemployment each month. That’s all, he said. Just waiting. Like everyone else in this town. He began taking the cheeseburgers off the grill. You want your buns toasted?

That’d be nice.

Why don’t you go grab the buns from JoAnn. The host said.

I’ll be right back. He slid the glass door open, then shut.

A single gun shot was heard. The fire was now gone. Just white smoke off a hot grill.

Watching her. She moves slowly. Playfully. Like a cat batting a ball on a string. She knows what she is doing. It’s killing you, he says. She runs and hides behind a smile.

The motor is humming. Wiper blades go back and forth. Headlights turned on.

She sits up front with you. Fiddling with the dial. Jazz is played at four in the morning on the public radio station. She lights a cigarette with a glowing lighter. Cracks her window a bit and says, I’m ready.

A yellow light blinks at the intersection. He slows down and drives through. Everything is covered in snow. Santa has come and left.

I remember being a child the day after Christmas, she says. The disappointment of it all ending. A month of  celebration done overnight. Lights and a plastic tree were put away till next year. She continues looking out her window.

Life goes on, he says. Look at where you are now. Music continues playing. Sidney Bechet blowing his clarinet. Playing clearly, loudly. Not a single squeak.

I love Sidney Bechet, she says. I played clarinet when I was a kid, she says in between puffs. I liked Pete Fountain, too.

Snow plows take to the streets. She places her hand on his thigh. We should be there by nightfall, he tells her. There will be time for lunch in Pittsburgh. Or would you rather wait for dinner in Detroit?

Whatever you want, dear. She looks back as they leave town. Whatever you want.

It’s a game she plays. Telling him whatever he wants. Then, setting a price for his next move. I’d think about that, she says. Lunch or dinner? I’d think about that.

Right. Yes.  I will. He tells her.

She moves slowly. Playfully. She smiles. That’s good, dear. That’s good.

Sidney Bechet hits his final note.

.

Candy bar wrappers lying in the gutter. Coke cans crushed in the street. A yellow light flashes at the intersection. Left goes west, and right leads you east. Dogs chase an old pickup truck down the street. A feral cat roams the alley. Cop cars cruise by stores on Main Street. The donut shop is open for business.

He carries a book bag filled with underwear, deodorant, toothpaste, a tee-shirt, and a copy of Ulysses. This is not Dublin.

On the corner, men stand in line for work at City Day Labor. Jobs handed out to those lucky ones; they’ll get to drink tonight. Tickets are given with company names on them and addresses. Some will take the bus. Others will walk a mile or two.

The young man gets in line with the others. A job is handed to him; laborer on a construction sight out by Highway 30.

This all you got? He asks the man in the cage, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee.

You don’t want it? The caged animal asks.

Something a little closer would be great, he tells him.

You’re white. Sober. I’ll see what I can do, the boss man tells him. What’s your name?

Bloom, the youngster says.

Have a seat on the bench. I’ll see if something comes in. He goes through tickets and gives the laborer job to a Mexican waiting next in line. The immigrant makes no complaints and takes the job. He has a long walk ahead of him.

Hours go by, and the young man reads of Irish pubs and whores. A day in Dublin. He wishes he was there.

Bloom, the canary sings. Your lucky day, he says. Got a beer truck for you. Pays more than the rest. Lots of lifting. You want it? He asks.

How much? asks Bloom.

Fifteen an hour.

I’ll take it.

Graffiti on concrete walls. Stick figures drawn in red and green. Words in short sentences. Warnings to stay out spray painted in orange. Two men sit on turned over rusted barrels. A fire between them made of trash; tin cans turning black. Newspaper becomes ash.

Sounds of traffic above ricochet off support beams. The bridge rattles and shakes. Sanka is heated in a cup with lukewarm water; passed back and forth between two men. Sugar from packets are downed straight like a shot of whiskey. They lick their chapped lips.

Look what I got,  Pete says as he pulls a Big Mac from his jacket pocket. They were throwing them away. The bum says. I got a few. Here, he offers one to Vince, take it.

Vince tears into the box and sees his treasure. Haven’t had one since I was a kid, he tells Pete. Thank you. Pete nods his head. The two hungrily eat the burgers in a few bites. Two more are pulled out of Pete’s jacket like a magic trick.

Today’s your lucky day, says Pete. Go on. He offers another one. Take it. Eat it all. I’ll get more tomorrow. They throw away food after every shift. Gotta wake up early for sausage biscuits and breakfast burritos.

Fire dies down. Both lie half asleep. Talking softly to one another. Bellies are full.

Goodnight, Pete.

Goodnight, Vince.

That car’s been parked there for days now, Jerry said. Just sitting. It hasn’t moved.

What are you talking about? Alice asked.

This Pinto. This brown Pinto. Just sits there. I think a week now. Maybe two, he said. It’s all filled with trash as far as I can see. Nobody in it. Just a car filled with garbage.

Alice pushed her husband out of the way. You think it’s abandoned? She asked.

Someone left it there. Jerry started to put on his shoes.

Where are you going? What’re you doing? Gonna spy on it? Look inside? She kept staring through the blinds.

Exactly. See what his game is. What he’s up to. It’s bad for the neighborhood, he continued putting on his shoes.

So is crack, but I don’t see you investigating that at four in the morning. She told him. It’s not doing any harm. Maybe it’s a visitor. A relative of a neighbor.

Quiet. Just hush.

The Pinto was parked under a streetlight. A yellow glow bounced off its windshield. There was a sign in the driver’s window. Gone to Indonesia, it said.

Indonesia, Jerry whispered. Must be nice. Leave all your shit behind and just go to Indonesia. Women there are supposed to be beautiful, he thought.

Alice waved from the window. Jerry waved back.

There was a sign in the window, he said. Gone to Indonesia.

Where? She asked while making coffee.

Indonesia. Written out in marker. A green marker. No exclamation point. No period. Just words in green. Jerry stirred in sugar and cream.

Maybe he got fed up, Alice said to him with her hands on her waist.

Maybe.

I’ve heard it’s really nice. Alice poured more coffee.

Where did you hear that?

National Geographic, she stuttered.

Since when do you read National Geographic? Jerry put his cup down. Since when do you read?

I read, she said. I do a lot of things you don’t know about. Or notice.

Right.

I’m not dumb. She raised her voice. You’ll see.

What’re you going to do? Go to Indonesia?

I just might. I just might.

The carpeted floor dips in the middle. Couch and coffee tables lean to the side. He loses balance when he walks across the room. One foot trips over another. The fat man lands hard and curses. His toes curl as he stands up. Knees scraped. Grease stained boxers slightly askew. Fried chicken in the refrigerator next to a six-pack of beer. He stumbles to the kitchen.

Instead of pulling out one or two pieces, the fat man takes out the whole bucket. Fried crumbs are on the bottom,  hiding under a drumstick and thigh. Breasts were attacked the night before. Its bones lie at the bottom of a trash can, along with baked bean juice and a styrofoam mustard colored cup; it’s only evidence of there ever being potato salad.

He eats alone. No wife or lover. No cat or bird. Just sounds from down the street where two trains are hooking up. He wonders where they’re going.

A Christmas cactus blooms in August. Pink and white flowers appear and die. We won’t see them again till Thanksgiving.

The television is off. A lamp, gives off a yellow hue. Coffee table with coffee stains on it. Gnats fly around the room.

He sits on a sinking couch. Thumbs through a copy of Subterraneans. He takes a sip of coffee and stands up. The fat man turns on the radio. Mingus is playing Goodbye Pork Pie  Hat. Slow-moving music takes over his soul. He begins to cry.

There is nothing like Mingus in the early morning, he says. Was he the best bass player? He asks the gods. Paul Chambers. Scott LaFaro. Ray Brown. Eddie Gomez. Who was the best? There is silence; dead air on WKCR.

A girl’s voice comes over the airwaves. That was Charles Mingus and his orchestra doing Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.

Wrong, the fat man yells. It was originally done by Mingus and a smaller group, kid. Get your facts straight.

Hold it down in there, a male’s voice demands from the room next door. I’m trying to concentrate, he says. The sound of a bed bouncing and a woman moaning comes through the thin walls.

The two sit on the edge of the bed, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap scotch. He laughs. So. Do you think Mingus was the best?

Who? Says the young hooker as she gets dressed.

Nevermind.

They’re not saying. They never talk. You could listen all night, and you won’t hear a sound. Just silence, he said. You think you’re getting somewhere with them? You are not. They won’t budge. He lit a cigarette and blew out the match. What do you think this is? Some kind of party? Some kind of ball? A gathering where everybody prays for forgiveness? You would be wrong, my friend. He took a sip of gin and tonic. Could I get a lime, please? He said to the young bartender. Come on. That’s basic skills 101. A lime goes with a gin and tonic. The young man brought over a browning lime on a napkin. 

Green, he said. It should be green. A lime is supposed to be green. Unless it’s rotting,  the old man said. Bunch of fruit flies has attacked this. Ate on it. Get me another one.

The kid looks through his tray of cherries, lemons, orange slices, and limes. He grabs another lime and closes the case.

This one is yellowing, the customer said. Just forget it. It’ll be fine.

Sir, I’m sorry.

I said forget it. Can’t you see we’re talking. Right. You get that?

The bartender starts to laugh and then walks away as the old man continues mumbling to himself .

Suppose to be chilly tonight, Tom said. Gonna get down to forty-two. Soon, fall will be here, he told his old friend. Fish bite when it’s cool in the morning, he informed him. Steam rises off the lake. Gets them jumping, he said.

Yeah, Robert said. I’m ready for autumn. Been a hot summer. Too hot.

The two sat on Tom’s front porch in rocking chairs he bought at Cracker Barrel. The sun was going down, and a crescent moon was revealed.

Yellow, Tom said. Usually silver. Hazy evening. Fires up in Canada. All that smoke travels. We’re the lucky ones, he said. Haven’t ever had a fire ’round here. Wait. I take that back. There was a fire in the woods back in ’82. Started at night and went till morning. Everybody from the neighborhood came out to watch. Some brought chairs and beer. Others just stood there in awe. Later, found out some kid started it.

I remember, said Robert. I remember. The two continued rocking back and forth. That was about the time she left. Wasn’t it?

Tom looked down and then over at his friend. You gotta bring that up? He asked. You know I don’t talk about that, he said. No point to it.

Sorry. Been a long time. You should talk about it. Get it off your chest, Robert urged him. It’s good to cleanse the soul.

I got nothing to cleanse. No sin on my part. She left on her own accord, Tom told him.

Why did she leave us, Tom? You know why. Robert stood up and looked away from Tom. You know why.

All that was just talk. Just gossip, Tom said. I kept her happy. Satisfied. I paid all the bills. Bought her this house. Some women are never pleased.

She fell in love, Tom. She fell for another man. Women, men, they do it all the time. Break vows. Quit. Hit a rough patch, and they just leave. Robert looked at Tom. They just leave.

I’m going to go see her tomorrow,  Tom said. Always do this time of year. Bring her flowers.

Do you tell her you’re sorry? Robert asked.

It never comes up. I just sit on the ground and look at the stone. To her beloved Tom, it says. Like I said. I got nothing to be sorry about.

Right.

Gonna be autumn soon, Tom said. Fish bite when there’s a chill in the air.