dmseay

A safe dwelling. Some place they can’t find you. Maybe Madagascar. Could be Montreal. Hiding from past and present dangers. Looking for shelter.

No streetlights working. Walking down a road, no, an avenue, roundabouts filled with wild flowers and weeds; unattended. He picks up a rock and examines it. The stone has a flatness to it. Sharp edges. Could be used as a weapon. He puts it in his book bag along with Rilke and Camus. Always be prepared.

A train whistles as it goes through downtown. Off in the distance, the boy sees red flashing lights and hears a bell. Cars backed up. Stopped. Some people read their papers or books as they wait on the long train. Couples making out in front seats reclining back. A taxi cab driver steps outside and smokes a cigarette. The boy gets closer.

Always looking for adventure. The kid wipes his runny nose and chews on a piece of Wrigley’s. Mom and dad haven’t seen their son for days. They file a missing persons report. Announcements go out over the airwaves. A five foot ten, heavy set boy with brown hair has been reported as missing. His name is Tommy Peterson, and he is sixteen years old. Please contact police in your area if seen. Now here’s Mark with sports.

He sits by the now slowed down train and considers his next step.  Empty box cars. Tanks of fuel. Containers of seeds with the name Monsanto across the belly that bulges out.

The kid makes his move and jumps on the ladder at the end of the train. Wildly, he waves his book bag in the wind and yells in a high-pitched tone. And with a hundred dollars on him, he is free.

What will the neighbors say? Their boy has left them, and they don’t know why. The house is silent. Dad reads the morning paper, and mom butters toast. It’s been two years now.

Rumors emerge. Some say the old man killed him one night for no reason. Just felt compelled to. They tell a story of wild incest and crazy nights of drinking by the parents. Neighbors remark that their silence was a front. The family was a cult from California. One time, I dropped a pie off when they first moved in, Mrs. Graham said. They were burning incense. I knew something was strange about them.

Dad backs the car out of the driveway and heads to work. He drives to the parking lot and considers his options. Do I go into that place of hell today? Or do I just leave? He asks himself. Do I just leave?

Mom has packed a bag and takes money out of their bank account. She takes the bus downtown and gets off at the train station. The wife buys a ticket to Albuquerque. There is no round trip.

No coffee. No cream nor sugar. Tea bags are gone. Just water from the tap.

Mornings used to be easy. Wake up. Heat up the kettle on the stove. Make coffee with a French press. She would have a cup of jasmine tea. Newspaper on the front porch.

They spoke of going off to Europe. Live like bohemians. Sit in Paris cafes and watch people pass by. Eat bread and stinky cheese. Foie Gras seared in a pan with butter and brandy. Wear funny hats.

He’d write her poems late at night while she slept. Short tales of heartache. Love and heartache. She’d ask if the poems were about them. He said, no. Told her they were stories about America. The couple in the poems represented the despair in our country. America was a symbol of all that could go bad if left unattended.

She would smile and say, that’s deep. Got anymore tricks up your sleeve? She’d  laugh.

And then, one day, he quit writing poems. He stopped telling stories. Began to think his midnight habit was silly. He resented her for this. The boyfriend knew she was the cause of his disillusionment. He swore he’d get back at her.

So, one day, he left. He stopped loving her. The girlfriend’s sharp tongue had pierced his soul.

He went from town to town in America. Traveling. Taking odd jobs here and there. Sleeping in homeless shelters. Eating sardines in oil from a can. He placed bits of them on a Saltine cracker. The young man thought he was being chic.

Poverty became this art form to him. This way of life. Taking busses and hitchhiking from coast to coast. He fell in love with the road. And she never left the nest.

As she got older, she wondered what had become of him. Even though she had married, she still thought of the hopeless poet. Then she’d laugh and shake her head while making coffee and hot tea. Kissing her husband and telling him to have a great day, hurry home. These words were said while adjusting his tie. The paper was on the front porch.

A dog was walked down the street. His shit left in yards.

Services for Dell “Pennyhead” Sullivan will be held, 2:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. on Friday, May 8th, at McDougall and Sons Funeral Home. Come and say goodbye to a jazz legend.

They stood in the corner with drinks in hand. Smitty drank his scotch and milk while others had  cheap bottles of beer. A box of red wine was poured for some as well.

I heard his liver was so swollen you could lose a jar of quarters in it, Jermaine “Jellyfish” Matson told the group of men by the coffin. Let that be a lesson, boys. Too much of this stuff will get you, he said.

Amen, said Shifty. Gotta watch that drinking. It’ll kill you. He looked at Dell’s body laid out in a pinstripe suit.

Shit, Marty Philps said. You gonna die anyway. Might as well enjoy it, he toasted, glasses clanked in the air.

Here, here, Jimmy “Fatman” Jones agreed. Here’s to living till the end, he said. Enjoy every day the good Lord gives you, more clanking of bottles and snifters.

He was a hell of a tenor man now, wasn’t he. I remember playing The  Mill with him a long time ago. The more the night went on, the drunker he got, and the better he sound, said Lonnie Tatum. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Don’t put a brother down when he’s lying there, Matty Davis told him. Ain’t right. Pennyhead was about living. Living life to the fullest. Shit. That man had women all over the country, Davis laughed. We’d stop to play a show in K.C. and there’d be a blonde. Detroit, some redhead. More women than Coltrane had notes. They all grinned. But hell. Didn’t we all. More toasts. More clanking of drinks.

I’m gonna miss him, Lonnie said. I’m sure gonna miss him.

We all are, said Fatman. We all are.

Short nights. Morning comes way too soon. No dreams to speak of. The constant state of being awake.

I thought of you. How there is no beginning, middle, or end. Just an existence. A myth we can not erase.

When I hear rain hitting a tin roof, the sound tells a story. A tale of two people wanting a small portion and getting nothing. We asked for just a taste. The gods were not kind.

They gave us love. And we fell into this trap knowing we were being laughed at. A play for their entertainment. Bacchus watched and turned the channel.

Sleeping between Kerouac and Nabokov. Dreaming with Dean Moriarty and Humbert Humbert. Wondering what the outcome will be. His life on the road. And his infatuation with a teasing young girl. Are there any saints left. Maybe. Perhaps.

Steam heat whistles throughout the night. A train runs past my window. The Red Line going to Howard. Then back to 95th Street. All night long. The stopping and starting up of steel wheels running on tracks above a city and below in Hell. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Do you know where your writers are?

A tossing in bed has become routine at this time of night. I get dressed, grab Henry Miller, and join the drunks coming out of bars, nighthawks at diners, cops cruising, whores seducing, and vagabonds who make up this town. We all have to die someday.

I get on at Belmont and take the train south while reading The Rosy Crucifixion. Sentences yellowed with markers. A coffee stain on page thirty-five. Candy wrappers for book markers. I was thirty-three, the year Christ crucified.

Men and women asleep in seats. Heads up against windows. The smells of booze and stains on their clothes. A woman talking to herself. Some kid about to pounce. I have given my life to this; watching, observing, and writing what I see. Recording the details in poetry. Isn’t that what writers do?

I watch some and read a little. Comparing Chicago and New York. Heaven and Hell. There will always be the poor among you. The meek shall inherit the earth.

Dear God. I’m ready for my inheritance.

Running through a crowd of people. Not knowing where you’re going. Being chased? Maybe. Problems have chased you all your life. Some were created by you and others not. You just keep running as fast as you can.

He lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey. Had not eaten for days. Waking up on a hardwood floor with wicks still burning. Candles melted. A window open.

I see a pattern here, I said. How much do you sleep?

Not much, he said. Maybe two or three hours. Too much on my mind. Worried about the guy next door.

What about the guy next door?

He’s a strange one, he said. Plays weird Indian music all night long. Sometimes, he listens to songs from the Far East. Asian. Maybe Chinese. It’s hard to tell. I don’t speak anything but English. And the smell of burnt sage comes from under his door. Through the vents. Stinks up the place.

He’s trying to keep his room clean from evil, I told him. People do that. They burn sage and other spices to eliminate evil.

Does it work?

Not sure, I said. Never tried it.

Do you have evil in your house?

I don’t believe so, I poured myself a whiskey.

He chants throughout the night. A loud humming noise comes through the walls.

Have you ever met him?

Not officially.  Hello and goodbye, he’s says to me in the hallway. You know, have a nice day. Short talk. But no. I do not know his name or who he is. Not sure where he comes from. I just know I don’t like it. These disturbances.

Maybe you should introduce yourself and ask him to turn it down a notch.

I’m scared to.

Why?

He’s a foreigner. He scares me.

It could happen, he said. When you least expect it. Some kind of disaster takes place. A car crash. Some guy holds you up in an alley. Tornadoes tear through a small town. Your house catches fire. All of this could take place. It’s part of living, I suppose, the older man said. Just part of living. Or not.

You could get lucky,  his son told him. Skate through life. There are those who are quite fortunate.

Yes. They never leave the house. No risks. Never gambled in life, he said. The old man poured a cup of coffee. He pointed the pot at the kid.

Please, the son said. Thank you. His father nodded. Placed the pot back on the burner.  Take my in-laws, the kid suggested. Look at them.

Bob and Thelma?

Right. He has skated through life. Nice house and two cars. A daughter and a son. Grandkids. 

He’s quite lucky.

Dad. He sells insurance. This is not the most ethical man. He looks good on paper, but he has no soul. His idea of risking it all is in the fine print of a life insurance policy.

Yes. The house always wins.

I remember you leaving us when I was young. I wondered what you were doing. Why? And it didn’t strike me till years later. You were trying to discover yourself. The old man laughed. No. Really pop. All those years ago. You had no idea who you were. Just some man carved out of soap.

Hmm.

Mom cried. I cried. Out of anger, I guess. You never see it coming. You’re right about that.

I’m sorry. Sorry, I did that. I was on some quest. Some kind of journey. I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing. Took it one day at a time. And here I am. Living in a rented room above a dirty bookstore. Paying monthly rent. Nothing to show for my work.

They both looked at the card table in the corner. A typewriter and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. Papers scattered, tossed all over, no order.

What’s all that?

The beginnings of a great novel, the old man said. I got a kick start, but never finished. Maybe a page or two every other day, but nothing beyond that, he told him. It’s true what they say. There are writers, artists, who never finish. They talk a good game, but they never complete the task. No sacrifice. Just a lot of heartache. No drive, he sipped his coffee. Your father-in-law doesn’t know about that. That kind of life. He is linear.

Yes, pop. He has one purpose. To take care of his family. That’s what he’s about.

And that’s fine. It just never suited me. He reached for the whiskey. Oh, I’d send money when I could. A job here or there. Tax returns. I sent it to your mom. Figured I owed you two that much.

His son sat there motionless. He looked at his dad. He placed his arm on Pop’s shoulder.

They sat silently. Not a word. The kid patted his dad’s back and walked towards the door.

Don’t be a stranger, the father said.

Right.

They talked. Spoke in some weird English. Words. Nouns and verbs, broken into pieces. Screaming and carrying on like caged zoo animals.

He sat on his bed, listening to the two through the thin wall. High decibels. Screeching. Kicking. Punching. Saying his name out loud.

I know you’re listening, he yelled.  Laughter was heard.Wait till we get our hands on you, Fatty said, with the other one chiming in.

Yeah, Skinny said. Just wait. We have plans for you. One move against us and pow. The two continued laughing and shrieking.

He couldn’t move. Fear gripped him. He’d heard these threats before. Years ago. But now they seemed serious. 

You’re not going anywhere, Fatty said. So. Just stay there. Don’t make us come through this wall. You’ll be sorry, he sang.

Slowly, he got off the bed. Quietly put his shoes on. Tiptoed to the locked door and slowly turned the knob.

You better stay right where you are, Skinny said. You think it’s any better out there? Do you? Do you?

The door creaked a little. He stepped out into the hallway. One foot at a time. He could still hear them raging anger. Just pure hate. He closed the door and ran until he got to the street, where he caught his breath.  Peace had come as he walked among the crowd on 8th Avenue. Feeling he was going somewhere, never to return. He just kept walking.

There’s no magic left, he said. All gone. They laughed. Maybe it never was.

What’s that? She asked.

Magical.

Uh huh.

I’m thinking out loud here, he told her. Words get into my head, and they just come out. No filter.

It hurts, she said. When you say there was never any magic.

I said, maybe there never was.

It still hurts.

They drove at night. Less traffic. The darkness in New Mexico was mysterious. Red clay mountains disappeared. Towns looked ancient. Gas stations closed.

When did you start feeling this way? She asked him as they drove east into West Texas.

Not really sure. It’s been on my mind for a while.

Do you still love me?

Yes, he confessed. But I can’t do this anymore, he said. Driving from one town to the next. Staying a couple of weeks, then leaving. The uncertainty of it all.

You said you’d give me a life of adventure, she raised her voice. See different things. Look at this country. Explore it. Get to know all the regions.

We have done that, he said. Hell. I took you to Niagara Falls. You’ve seen Seattle. Vegas. The Mojave.

He placed his free hand in her lap. She removed it. The drifter put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them. He handed one to her. A radio station was coming in from Amarillo. Buck Owens and Dwight Yoakam singing together. He tapped his left foot on the floor mat and hummed along to the accordion playing. Sun was peaking through clouds. 

Where we heading? She took a drag.

Not sure, he said.

Just running, huh? 

I guess so. 

Making it up as you go along? 

He looked at her and nodded. There’s a shelter in Joplin. We could sleep there tomorrow night.

Joplin? Real glamorous. That’s where people go to die, she said. There’s nothing in Joplin.

Right. It’s just one night. Next morning we could leave for St. Louis. Get a couple of pork steaks. Maybe settle there. Get some more money, he said. Maybe a trailer home. Or some apartment in the city.

So. You still love me?

Yes. I still love you.

Something unique is going on here, he said. Strange, you could say. I watch and I watch and I watch yet nothing happens. There is no movement, he says to Jim.

Did you check the pulse? Jim asks.

I put my hand on her wrist. Placed my head to her heart. I felt it beating. Heard it, Thomas told him.

So she’s alive?

Yes. I guess so. But there’s no breath. Thomas sits next to the body. No air. Not from her mouth or nose, Thomas says.

Laughter comes from a room down the hall. A boy singing loudly. Yelling about nothing in particular. Just screaming to hear his own voice. It’s two o’clock in the morning.

Jim and Tom look at each other. They don’t say a word. The boy down the hall continues his tirade of incoherent verbiage.

Thomas lifts the woman’s arm and lets it fall to the floor. She still does not move.

Maybe she’s in a coma, Jim speculates. She’s not dead. There’s a pulse. A heartbeat. Right? Or am I hoping for that?

Thomas shrugs.

Should we call an ambulance? Jim asks.

And say what? What would we say? They’ll put us away forever, Thomas explains.

We didn’t do anything. Jim looks out the window. He looks down on 24th Street. Help me lift her.

No. You’re not serious, are you? Thomas looks at the body.

Just help me. Jim holds the window up with a yard stick. They drag the girl across the floor. Jim looks down and sees no one. He grabs her under the arms and lifts.

She’s still breathing, Jim. Come on now, Thomas tells him. Let’s just call 911. Please.

There is now loud music coming from down the hall. A tribal beat. Drums struck. The boy yells out words and sounds. The noise is piercing.

Come on, Jim says. Pick up those legs. The two lift her like a two by four. Jim sticks her head out the window and then her torso. Push, Tom. Push. Get out of the way. I’ll do it. A boy to do a man’s job.

The beat is getting louder down the hall. The music is driving Jim insane. He lifts the legs over the window seal, sending her into flight. She does not land. She just flies.

The screaming and drums down the hall have come to a halt.