dmseay

I wonder, he said. I wonder what you’d think of me if I was younger? She blushed. If my skin wasn’t wrinkled and my long gray hair black and styled.

He looked up at the television. Red Sox were winning 3-2 over the Yankees. September is a cruel month, he told her. She sipped her gin and tonic. Summer is ending, he said. A new year gets closer. And I, my dear. Well, anyway. He drank from a mug. Salt on a napkin. I just get older. He laughed.

You have any regrets? He asked the blonde. Any mistakes you wish weren’t made? She nodded and smiled. That’s not true, he said. You’re too young. Your record is clean. Only minor infractions, he told her. You broke some hearts. Mislead lovers. No, he looked at her. These are trivial matters.

I once had a wife, he confessed. No children. Just me and her. We were wild. Never got enough of each other. We’d  wake up intertwined. Holding one another.

What happened to her? She asked.

She left me, he said. God took her. As he always does. The girl nodded. She was gone in September, he salted his beer. The lager fizzed. Cancer, he said. She was Forty-five.

They both looked at the TV screen. Final score from Fenway, 5-4. Yankees win.  Another long winter for Red Sox Nation.

Yeah, he said. September is a cruel month.

Flat top road. Yellow line separates traffic coming from both directions. Auburn trees, dropping leaves, some leaning to the side. A hitchhiker walks backward.

A pack of dogs runs in the woods. They come from different homes. Runaways, unwanted animals looking for food. Bathing in a fountain. Will they ever find peace?

Truckers carrying logs. Long stretches of lumber with red flags attached to them. Cars follow with caution.

Honey, hand me that thermos between your feet. He tells her.

Do you want me to pour you a cup? She asks.

Sure. Shake it first. All that sugar on the bottom. Mix it well. He looks at her and then back on the road.

Here, she gives him the cup. Her hand shakes a little. Can I have some? The girl asks. He drinks and passes the coffee to her. She takes a sip and fumbles through her backpack for a cigarette and lighter.

Where are you going again? The driver asks. She stares out the side window. I asked, where are you going?

Where are you heading? She asks.

I gotta drop this load in Pittsburgh,  he tells the kid.

That’s as good a place as any, the blonde girl replies.

Why are you leaving Morgantown? The truck driver enquires. West Virgina is really pretty this time of year. You must be running from something or someone, he says. Was it really that bad?

What? She inhales smoke and blows it out of her mouth and nose.

You look like a dragon. He laughs. All that smoke. Where’s the fire?

What? She’s getting angry.

Fire, he says. Dragons breathe fire. Anyway. Is it really that bad?

She continues looking out her window. Mister, she says. I’ll ask again. What are you talking about?

The thing you’re running from.

I’m just running, she says. The girl rolls up her flannel sleeves, revealing a hospital wristband.

They traveled a while. Drove through mountains and onto highways. They both remained quiet. Not a word said. Just silence.

The driver turns on the radio. Karen Carpenter is singing a song. He hums along. The kid remains speechless.

This song is called Superstar. About a groupie. I fell in love with you….before the second show….He sings to her. She sure could sing. Shame what happened to her. Sad. Wouldn’t want to see that happen to you, he said. Here, screw this back on the thermos.  Tight now. Thanks.

Could we not listen to the radio? The teen asks.

Sure. He turns it off.

They go back to silence. Neither revealing much about themselves. Just driving quietly in the cool night air.

Do you go downtown? She asks.

I can. He tells her. Any particular place?

Just downtown. She says.

I’ll drop you off by the hospital, he tells her. Maybe they can get a straight answer from you, he says.

I doubt it. She looks at him. I seriously doubt it.

Back to silence.

You don’t believe me. Do you? He asked. I can tell by looking at you. You’re saying this man’s a liar. And, you could be right. He took a drag from his cigarette. I’ve seen your type before, he added. Always questioning. Always a doubt. The short man said to her. What is it about me that looks suspicious? He drank from his coffee cup. What is it? His fist slammed down on the table. She sat quietly.  Looking at him. Right, he said. You can’t name it. The waitress brought over their plates.

You know what gets me? He asked. The point of it all, he continued. All this digging in the trenches. And for what? She took a bite of her omelet. Look at me, he told her. I said, look at me. He grabbed the fork from her hand. I’m making a statement here. Saying something important. Now, look at me when I speak. He demanded. The empty man touched the face of a younger woman. Just look at me.

Is everything alright here? The waitress asked. The two of them nodded. How’s your breakfast? They smiled. The tall server wrote out a check and turned it upside down on the table; sliding it towards him. I’ll take it when you’re ready. She said. No rush.

As she walked away, the gray-haired man watched her. They both looked at the way she walked. Admired her long red hair. Smiled when she turned around.

Your food is getting cold, the girl said. You should eat.

When I was young, my mother made me eat everything on the plate. She said they were starving in China and Africa. Spoke of famine and disease. All this over bits of uneaten food. She laughed.

Well, he said. I hated her, too.

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.