dmseay

I told you there was no heaven. Pete said. Nothing up there. A cigarette was  lit. A sip of beer was had. You think I’m kidding? He asked. I’m not fooling around. This is destroying a myth, Pete told his friend. Up there or down there, he said, pointing to both the floor and the ceiling. That’s what they told us when we were kids. Right? Our parents told us if we were good, you go up there. And if you’re bad, you go down there, he laughed. That’s what they told us.

At the end of the bar, an old drunk laid his head down on the wet wood. His gin and tonic sat next to him. Vanna was turning letters on the television. Patrons watched in anticipation.

A vowel, you idiot, said Pete. A vowel. They never follow my directions. Always doing their own thing.

Pat. I’d like to solve the puzzle, the woman told Sajak. Loose lips sink ships, she said. Pete clapped and laughed.

Well. Good for her, Pete said. Good for her. He took another drink. Lit another square. Looked in the mirror behind the bar. I’m getting old, kid. Getting old. Soon, I’ll be either up there or down there. Have I been good? Or bad? He continued looking at his wrinkled face. It doesn’t matter. He laughed. It’s all a myth.

Water drips from a faucet. Staples stick up in the carpet. Electrical outlets loose in walls. Dust and dirt on  baseboards. Stained tile in the kitchen. Mousetraps set.

He sits at a folding table, eating bread from the wrapper. No peanut butter. Jelly gone. Bach plays on the radio. Morning time music on WKCR. It’s a concerto. He knows it by heart. It’s a piece from the Brandenburg collection. A highlight of the Baroque age. He breathes it in. Tilts his head back and smiles while he chews. A mouse is caught.

A glass of red wine poured. He starts his day. In the corner stands a stack of books. He has read all of them. He selects Crime and Punishment. The old man knows it by heart. Every decade, he reads the work by Dostoyevsky and learns something new. Bach keeps playing.

Come afternoon, he will nap and dream in Russian. A window opens in this dream. There is a light coming in. It is blinding. Is it God? He asks. No. Only the sun.

Books. He’s surrounded by literature. Dostoyevsky, Miller, Ellison, Camus, Shepard, Kafka, Baldwin, Mailer, Carver, Fitzgerald, and more line bookshelves in his rented room.

A twin bed in the corner. A winter coat used for a blanket. Some wadded up tee-shirt a pillow. Jazz plays on WKCR in the early morning hours. Water boils on a hot plate. A used tea bag awaits.

Windows sweat. The steam heat hits the cold glass. He draws stick figures and signs his name with a red tipped finger. Looks down on the Bronx below and smiles at red leaves shining in morning’s sun.

A train runs throughout the day. Coming and leaving. Taking people to Pelham Bay or Midtown Manhattan. Vagabonds riding all day and into night. Sleeping in seats. Piss worn pants and greasy sweatshirts. Some, who are new to this life, look on in despair while the jaded read The Times, The Post, Wall Street Journal, all sitting in silence. Rain starts to fall.

The old man sits alone in his room. Drinking his Lipton tea. Stolen sugar packets on a card table. An ashtray with butts in it. He chose this life years ago. A life with books and jazz in a city that welcomed him. Took him in. And made the old man one of their own.

It could have been Boston or Philadelphia. Vermont or New Hampshire. Jersey or Connecticut. But he wound up in a city that takes everybody in. He hopes that tradition continues. This is my home, he says. This is my home.

The waitress pours coffee. He takes a wad of gum out of his mouth and places it on a napkin. Small packages of half and half  lie open in a pile on the table. He looks out the window at semis driving by, cars filled with people traveling somewhere, and pickup trucks with high beams on in the light of dawn. A muffler drags.

Chicken fried steak comes out on a plate with mashed potatoes and gravy.   Limp green beans on the side. He butters a roll.

A short prayer is whispered. God is thanked for this meal. He attacks the food with salt and pepper. Digs in.

He chews fast. Taking large bites. Moving the cream gravy around on his plate. Cutting into the meat with the side of his fork. Washing it all down with  brown coffee that has grown cold. I miss her, he says. I miss her.

The check is turned upside down on his table. He pays and  leaves two bills and some odd change from his pocket.  The waitress shakes her head.

He calls her at three in the morning. An ashtray on the card table. Folding chairs. A twin bed with blood stains on it. Windows show a church steeple.  It is raining.

Hello, she says. Hello.

Sylvia. It’s Tom, he tells her.

Tom. It’s three in the morning. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? She asks. Why are you calling me at all?

Not sure, he says. I wanted to hear your voice. He wraps the phone cord around his hand. Clears his throat. Tastes blood when he coughs. I just wanted to talk.

About what? The ex-wife asks. What’s on your mind?

You, he says. Us, he stutters.

Uh-huh. Listen. I gotta be at work in a couple of hours. Can’t this wait?

He wraps the cord tighter around his hand. There is quiet. He pauses. Do you remember our trip out to California? He asks. Sacramento to see your sister. He lights a cigarette. Drinks cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

I remember, she says. I remember. She sits up in bed. You’re calling about that?

Not necessarily that trip. But how that trip became symbolic of our marriage.  He coughs and wipes his mouth on a shirt sleeve. Everything that could go wrong went wrong on that trip, he laughs.

Yep, she looks at the clock radio. The red digits tell her it’s a quarter till four. Go on.

Flat tire in Missouri, he says. Engine overheated in Kansas. Had to wait by the side of the road.

I remember. Get to the point, Tom, she says. What’s this all about?

We never made it to Sacramento, the phone cord unravels. We had to turn around.

Right. She holds the phone between her cheek and shoulder. We slept in that no tell motel. I remember. Had a color TV and a coin-operated massage thing. She laughed.

Yeah. And it didn’t work. He said. Nothing worked back in those days.

Where are you calling from? She asks.

Nowhere. Everywhere. I’m going out west tomorrow. Got a bus ticket for San Francisco.

What’s out there?

Same thing that’s here, he says. Nothing changes. Just the scenery. The backdrop. Painted in different colors.

I see. She tells him. Nothing has changed. Has it?

I guess not. No. It hasn’t. He puts out his cigarette.

Why did you call again?

Not sure. Take care. He hangs up the phone. Lies down in bed. And looks at the church steeple.

It is raining.

It’s never enough, he said. You always want more. Always been that way. More food. More wine. An endless supply of merriment. He laughed. And now. As you lie here. What is it you crave?

A morning train runs through town in darkness. A vagabond was killed the other day when he tried to jump on board. Slip of a foot. A sweaty palm. Legs mangled. A body tossed aside. Soul released.

I remember him, stated the bum. He was a friend of mine. I told him to wait and take the bus across country. Always on the cheap.

He said, no. Said he’d do it the free way. Pay nothing as he had his whole life. Said he’d be in San Francisco by the end of the week. Told me to meet him out there.

Charlie leaves behind an ex-wife, two kids, and a dog named Tex. Carried pictures of them all in his back pocket. He seldom spoke of his past life. A life filled with promise. I was going to be somebody, he said. She had faith in me. I placed mine in the bottle. What I thought was freedom. Was heartbreak.

The man always wanted warmth. Even in summertime, he complained of being cold. Told me his soul was never heated. Just a vacant space. And then he’d pass the wine.

We all took sips. Fast Eddie, Tommy, me, and Charlie, sitting under a bridge at midnight speaking of dreams. Telling each other that soon we’d be gone. Onto the next life. Leaving this one behind. Well, Charlie. Congratulations. You graduated. See you around, pal. Amen.

Water the plants while I’m gone, she said. Make sure the kitchen is clean at night, she continued. Set the mouse traps. I saw one the other day. If there’s one, then there’s two. I want them dead. She zipped her suitcase. Oh yeah. Take the garbage around on Thursday. They come early. Better do it Wednesday night. Got it? The boy nodded his head.

She walked into the bathroom and adjusted her blouse and skirt. She wanted to look nice when she arrived in Dallas. Putting on finishing touches of lipstick, she turned to her son. How do I look? She asked.

Fine. You look fine, he told her.

Just fine? I was hoping for fabulous. She laughed. Sit down, she told the boy. This might be your mom’s last chance, she said.

Last chance at what? He asked.

She snickered. When you’re older, you’ll understand. The mother walked into the kitchen. Poured herself a V8. Added some vodka to it and stirred.

I was wrong, mom. You look beautiful. He sat at the kitchen table. She patted him on top of his head like an obedient dog. The boy smiled. You got everything?

Yeah. I got everything. She downed the bloody Mary. I gotta get going. The taxi will be here any minute. She pulled out her phone. Want to see a picture of him? The boy nodded. She scrolled down the dating page past others she had checked off. Isn’t he handsome?

Yeah. What does he do? The boy asked.

He sells insurance, she said.

Does he have a lot of money? The kid asked.

She nodded. Yeah. He says he does. I told him I was a secretary. He likes redheads. He told me. Said he likes freckles, too. She unbuttoned her blouse a little.

Outside the taxi honked. Rain fell, and she grabbed a smiley face umbrella. Well. This is it. She kissed her son on the cheek. Wish me luck.

Call when you get there. Call me from the road, he said.

There’s a two hour layover in Nashville. I’ll call you then. Greyhound frowns on you using your phone. Have to talk in a whisper. She opened the door and turned around midway to the cab. She waved and mouthed, goodbye.

He closed the door.

The sky is closed. Business hours are over. Tired souls on the bus heading west over mountains of red clay on a four lane highway through West Texas going into New Mexico. Some look out windows and point while others sit in silence; thinking of wives left behind, children abandoned, mistakes made.

He sits alone as dawn approaches. Chicago is a thousand miles away. Muddy Waters sings inside his head. A flask is lifted to his lips. A quick drink and a cough. Prayers are never heard.

I want to see the ocean, he told her. That’s the one thing I want before I die: he coughed and sputtered. Spits out clear liquid into a red handkerchief.

What’s wrong with Lake Michigan? She asked. We could walk on the sand and wade in the water together. The wife grabs his arms. Don’t do this. She pleaded. Don’t go.

He holds up a Greyhound ticket. One way to Los Angeles. The old man smiles at her. It’s time. He said. We had a good run.

Calling from a phone booth in Albuquerque, he tells the operator to make it collect. She accepts the charges.

Frank, she cries. Frank. Where are you?

Albuquerque,  he says as Mexicans and Indians walk by. He coughs into his soaked rag. A little brown girl stares at him. We have a layover here, he tells her. Couple of hours.

Turn around Frank, she says. Come home.

I’m not going into some God damned hospice. I want to walk out into the Pacific. Feel something for a change. More phlegm comes up from his thin chest. He bends over and coughs more. The phone slips through his hand. He falls on the tile floor. Coughing and shaking. Sweat pours from his forehead.

Frank, she says. Frank. Answer me, Frank. She yells from a thousand miles away. Frank. Frank.

The phone dangles. His body is carted away in a silent ambulance. The little brown girl grabs the phone. She hears crying and a woman’s voice. Frank, the wife sobs. Frank.

Hi, the little girl says. Why are you crying?

Is Frank there? His wife asks.

I don’t know Frank. But I think he’s gone, ma’am. I think he went away. The kid’s parents’ motion for her to hang up the phone and come to them. I have to go  now, she says. The girl reaches high and hangs up the phone.

Ceiling fan rotates. Room is dark. A streetlight cast a shadow on a white wall. Porchlight glows. 

She sits on a couch. Cushions sink. Torn. Ripped. Burn marks on a wooden floor. A book in her hands.

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. Pages yellowed. Lines marked in orange. She’s on page 457. Places it on the coffee table. Why can’t I ever finish this book? She asks herself. Why?

In the kitchen, a tea pot whistles. A cup is poured. Earl Grey. She adds milk and honey. Rummages through cabinets and finds no food. Nothing. Sips her drink. A piece of wheat bread hiding. It expires the next day. If only there was butter, she says. Laughing, she nibbles at the piece.

Radio is turned on. Public radio station playing jazz. She is alone. No one down the hall. Not a soul in the bedroom. Just her. By herself. She sips tea again. Chews on bread. Stares off into space while lady sings the blues.

It is dawn. Her head lies on folded arms. The L screeches to a halt. Wilson, the voice says. This is Wilson

Train doors open and close. She hears the conductors voice saying Addison. Addison is next. Next stop, Addison.

She stretches, yawns, and starts her day. There is nothing new. Same old same old.

There’s dew on trash cans. Grass is soaked. Crickets sing in the coolness of a summer morn. It is still.

I sit on the back porch, drinking coffee and waiting for her to wake. A hundred miles away. Sleeping in a bed that was once ours. A cat lies in her arms. 

This is not a movie; not a song. It is life in action. We find ourselves afraid at times. Scared to say what we really feel. What we really want. No lines rehearsed. Straight from the soul. That’ll get you every time.

And so I wait. Listening to crickets this August dawn. Telling myself to call her. Just call her.

The soul knows what’s best.