dmseay

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.

The mix of sounds. A train coming through town. Thunder at five o’clock in the morning. Cars driving by on Dayton Avenue. Coffee brewing. Rain pourng down.

Then there is silence. Nothingness. Everything has stopped. He lies in bed with no blankets. Only a sheet covers his naked body. A pillow with spit stains on it. It is quiet.

Lightning dashes in the sky. The fat man looks at it through his bedroom window. Skies turn from black to blue. Silver streaks. He sits up and stretches, arms to the ceiling,  legs planted on the floor. Again, he looks outside. Today was supposed to be sunny, he says. Where is the sun?

He pours a cup of coffee. Opens the refrigerator, which squeaks and hums. There is no cream, he says. Black coffee. He takes a sip and walks into the living room. He is alone.

Fat man, he says. These days are few. He takes another drink and remembers when he was not alone. When sounds were different. Things said. The unspoken word speaking loudly. The wife questioning his fidelity. A cat crying for food. Booze fueled arguments at two in the morning.

I miss those days.

A copy of Siddhartha on the coffee table, marked on page seventy-five. Remote control lies in the couch between cushions. The snake plant has gotten taller. Carpet is brown.

Porchlights turned off. Streetlights fade. The sun comes up. A hazy morning. He sits and drinks coffee in the living room with blinds open. A wrapped cigar next to the ashtray.

Memories. A Greyhound bus traveling across country at night. There’s nothing seen, but you know it’s there. Desert stretched out for miles. Faces appear in the dark. He slurps his coffee.

She came to him in his younger days. An Irish girl with freckles and brunette hair. She asks to sit next next to him. The girl has on headphones and hums a Cranberries song. She looks at him and smiles. He pulls out a flask given to him from his father. He raises it just a bit before he drinks. Cheers, he says.

What happened to her? He asks himself. Where was she going? He drinks more coffee. Oh yeah. Phoenix. She was going to Phoenix. Exploring the great Southwest.

At first, they make small talk. Where are you going? Where are you from? That sort of thing; getting to know one another. She takes her headphones off when he talks. Places them back on her head when he finishes. Linger is playing. She hums louder.

You’re very pretty, he says to her. She nods. Not a word is heard. Lips are read.

Thank you, she says.

I wonder about her. He has another sip. Phoenix? Of all the places in America, she chose Phoenix. He shakes his head, thinking, all I wanted was to kiss her the whole time.

Green mountains, which will soon turn red, rust, gold, and brown, surround a small town. It is late August in  Vermont, and the truck is cold at night.

A traveler sleeps behind the wheel on College Street. He looks at houses with lights on inside windows; candles burning. Couples asleep. Parents and grandparents stretch out in king-size beds under blankets knitted in the spring. The traveler shakes and trembles with his car radio playing songs from a long time ago. He folds his arms and waits for dawn.

Inside a cottage, a husband awakes. The traveler sees him walking around in a brown robe. He disappears and then returns to his chair in the front room with a cup of hot spiced tea, looks out the window, and disappears again.

What’s he doing in there? The vagabond asks. What’s he up to? A breeze blows. Pine cones fall to the ground. 

The home owner is dressed now with a jacket on. He puts on a ball cap and looks out the window again. He walks away and comes to the front door carrying a thermos and two cups. He waves at the man in the old pickup truck.

Hey, the bearer of gifts says. Roll down your window. The driver looks at him. He reaches over into the glovebox and grabs an old Boy Scout knife his father gave him. He hides it in his loose-fitting slicker. Would you like some hot tea? It’s pretty cold out here.

The homeless visitor nods his head. He looks at the home owner, who pours a cup.

Where are you from? He asks.

All over, the young man responds.

You’re not casing my house, are you?

No, sir. Just trying to sleep.

Soon, it will be colder. Leaves will change. It’s like a magic show, he says. You should stick around for it.

OK.

Have you eaten?

No. Not very much.

I’ll go get you some brownies. Wife made them.

The man goes inside his home and counts out five chocolate delights. He looks out his glass door and sees nothing. The truck is gone. Disappeared. It’s like magic.

He sits on the edge of his bed naked, belly over lapping, chest drooping, hair disheveled. She lies on the other side, a shiny slip covers her body, blankets have been kicked off, her pillow is wet from drool. He touches her hip, and she rolls over. Mumbling incoherently, talking about a dog she had in her childhood. A streetlight shines through the window.

Trashcans have been knocked over by some rabid coyote in search of food. The animal finds banana peels, orange rinds, half eaten McDonald’s, tin cans, and cigarette butts. A butter wrapper sticks to the side of the can. Damn it, he says. Coyotes. Dawn is about to break.

The husband places a robe over his arm and heads to the bathroom down the hall. He pisses in the toilet. Balls hang in the water. After two attempts, it flushes. All my cares gone, he laughs. Done away with. Life goes on.

While brushing his teeth, she joins him. She sits on the toilet while he brushes side to side.

What time is it? She asks.

Sun’s coming up, he tells her.

I asked what time it was. She wipes herself. I can see the sun is rising. I see that. I want to know what time it is.

It’s close to five-thirty, he says.

Did you hear them howling last night? She flushes the toilet. It runs. She shakes the handle.

I heard them. Saw the damage he did. Damn coyote, he says, looking in the mirror.  I’m getting older.

We all are. Why don’t you kill him? She asks. Stay out there overnight and shoot it, she says. That’s what a man would do.

Fine. He says. Alright. I’ll camp out tonight and wait for him. I’ll shoot it. Like a man would. He laughs.

I don’t know. Poison it, she says. Just get rid of him. He’s a nuisance.

Great. I’ll go on a shooting spree. Killing all coyotes.

Might as well get the groundhogs, too, she smiles. Kill them all, she says. Exterminate them.

He walks down the hall to the living room. Opens the blinds and looks at the scattered trash. Damn coyote.