dmseay

Two chairs in the kitchen. Items on the table spread out like a hotel continental breakfast. Mandarin oranges, cream cheese filled danish, bananas, hard boiled eggs, buttered wheat toast, and a couple of cherry yogurts in a bowl of ice wait to be devoured. Coffee from a carafe is poured in a cup with a picture of sand and ocean, which reads, Wish You Were Here on it. He bought it years ago while on vacation in Myrtle Beach. They went there often.

He sits at the table and sips his coffee, opens a yogurt. Do you remember the time you opened a yogurt in Myrtle Beach? He asks. And it exploded on you. Covering your whole face with cherry yogurt, he laughs. I couldn’t help but laugh at you. You always had a sense of humor about you. He took a bite of toast.

Music plays in the background of his morning ritual. Easy listening music. The kind that plays in hotel lobbies. Elevator music.

It’s a rendition of Eleanor Rigby played with violins and piano. He hums along. Do you remember me putting suntan lotion on you? Rubbing your shoulders and back? He looks at the empty chair. You always wore a one piece, he says. Kind of shy. He cracks open a hard-boiled egg by tapping it with a spoon and rolling it on the table. I remember, he says. I remember.

Can I take your plate? Are you done? He places the paper plates in the garbage can and pulls out the empty chair.

After you, my love. After you.

You have to ask yourself, he said. Is it worth it? Is it really worth it? He asked her. I mean, I sit here each day in this office accomplishing nothing. Nothing done, he told her. And for what? A paycheck every two weeks. A lousy pay check of commission sales adding up to no fulfillment whatsoever. It’s a wonder I haven’t slit my own throat at this point in my life. Or somebody else’s.

Maybe you need a change of scenery, she spoke softly into the phone. I don’t know. Maybe Idaho. Or Montana. Someplace away from everything. Become a ranch hand. A cowboy, she told him.

I don’t know how to ride a horse, he said. He lit up a cigarette and blew out the match that read, Meet Me At Henry’s on the pack. He looked at the matchbook and said to her, everything changes. Lives change. People change. The old hangouts have changed. Henry’s used to be cool. Then it got bought. Sold to the highest bidder. Now it’s filled with rednecks listening to country music. Bad country music combined with bad art on the walls. Things change.

Yes. Things change. Maybe you’ve changed, she said.

I doubt it.

Life goes on.

He sits on the couch naked. Belly overlaps his sexual prowess. Chest has become a size c bra. Hips stick out like an old tire on a ’72 Ford truck. Hair is greasy. The fat man’s in need of a shower; a good cleansing. Areas he can not reach.

A bottle of Evans Williams sits on the coffee table, along with a dirty glass. The fat old man pours three fingers full; neat. At first, he sips at it. Washes it around his gums and yellow teeth, then drinks the rest in one fell swoop. A cigarette is lit.

There is a knock on the door. Go away, he says. The knocking continues. I said , go away. Get out of here. You mutt. The knocking continues.

I’m here to offer salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, is said in a squeaky voice of fear.

The old man picks up his bottle and says he’s found salvation already. He pours another drink.

So you’re a Christian, the boy says. What church do you go to?

The church of spirits, the fat man says. The holy trinity. Williams, Paddy’s, and Schlitz. Now go away.

I’ve never heard of them before. Are they saints, the kid asks.

Yeah. My saints. The fat man adjusts his balls. I’m giving you a warning. On the count of three, if you’re not gone, I’m opening the door. And you are not going to like it.

Sir. Just a moment of your time, he requests.

Three. The fat man stumbles to the door and opens it. Exposes his naked flesh. Places his pointer finger on the boy’s chest. Now leave. He blows unholy smoke in the kid’s chest and growls like a bear.

I never thought I’d see Satan here on earth, the messenger says. But, here he is. Right in front of me.

The fat man slams the door. There is no more knocking. He pours another whiskey and turns on the radio. ‘Round Midnight plays through the tinny speakers. He raises his glass. Here’s to Miles, he says. Here’s to life. He laughs. Dear sweet life.

Riding on a Greyhound through New Mexico at dawn. Most passengers are asleep. Some dreaming of seeing an old friend or lover. A grandmother longs to see her first grandchild. A few on their way to Los Angeles seeking stardom with guitars in hand. Young women apply makeup with a small hand-held mirror. Me? I just look at the mountains of red clay, dry land, a cactus, or two. A long way from home.

The one-way ticket to Los Angeles was purchased in Indiana, costing one hundred dollars. I had saved money from a paper route and planned my escape from Fort Wayne. I wanted to see the ocean. Wanted to find out how far fifty bucks would get me. My journey began at midnight. Two days later, I was marveling at red clay and the desert.

I wanted to get off the bus in Albuquerque and stick around New Mexico for a while. Who needs the beaches of Southern California. They couldn’t have been as nice as you see on TV, I thought. Nothing ever is.

Wandering around the Greyhound Station, I decided to get something to eat. Food was a luxury. But when you’re seventeen, nothing is saved.

I ordered a bowl of red chili. As red as the clay. I took my time savoring every bite. It tasted different than the chili I ate back home. This was authentic. This was euphoric. This was real.

My ticket said Los Angeles. That was my original goal. I thought of L.A. and then ate another bite. It was a hard choice.

My father always told me to finish what you’ve started. And, so I did.

Wherever you are is where you’re supposed to be, Mike said. Prison? You’re supposed to be there. In the arms of a whore? You’re supposed to be there. Walking down the aisle? Yes, that too. Even in death, there are no mistakes.

His friend listened. No reply. He sat on the barstool, moving his drink side to side, hand to hand. Looked up at the television and saw an old movie starring Gregory Peck. Thought to himself. He’s where he’s supposed to be.

Neon signs on the walls. Lights flashing Old Style and Hamm’s beer. A calendar turned to November with a woman wearing a bikini hung behind the bar. The bartender changed the channel.

Hey, Mike said. I was watching that.

Jeopardy is on, the barkeep told him as he poured a draught. You know the rules.

I guess this is where we’re supposed to be, his friend said. In this bar. Watching Jeopardy. Not getting our wishes granted. You know. I’ve never seen the ending. Won’t be now, he told Mike. He sipped his whiskey. Tipped back a small ginger ale. What happens?

Read the book.

A wooden door leads down into the basement. Dirt floor. Wood beams run across the ceiling. Shelves with canned tomatoes and Hungarian peppers are lined up and dated. A light bulb dangles above.

He tries opening a jar of the peppers while she sits in a corner, knitting a sweater for their grandson. Colors of red and yellow are woven together.  The old man taps on the jar with his fist and tries to turn the lid.

Why did you have to put these on so tight? He asks. I mean. I know they got to be tight, but these are impossible to open.

She shakes her head and places the fabric in her lap. Give me that, she tells him. Come on. Give me that jar.

He hands her the jar of yellow peppers. You’re going to break your wrist, he says. Break the bone right in two.

She gives a little effort and opens the jar. Here, she smiles. Have at em. She then continues her needlepoint. She begins to sing a song. Humming at first,  then singing out loudly. Cause when she gets behind closed doors, she belts out. And no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. She laughs. I love that, Charlie Rich, she tells him. He sure can sing that sonofabitch.

Right. He munches on a pepper. These ain’t that hot, the old man says. Not hot at all. Kind of sweet, he tells her.

They’re Hungarian peppers,  she says, still knitting. They’re not supposed to be hot. She holds up the small sweater. You think he’ll like it?

Honey. He’s gone.

Gone where? She asks.

To heaven, he says.

Ohhhh. I forgot. Ain’t that something. Me, forgetting that. You could have reminded me before I stitched this, she throws the sweater down in the dirt.

Hey, he picks up the sweater. Don’t do that. You worked too hard on that. We’ll give it to the kid down the street.

Nevermind. I’ll just put it in the cedar chest with the others, she says. Besides. I don’t like that kid down the street. Looks like Chairman Mao.

All Chinese babies do, he laughs.

Yes. And white ones look like Winston Churchill, she looks away. Why didn’t they adopt an American kid? She asks her husband. Nobody buys American anymore.

Right.

I miss him.

So do I.

A dust covered light fixture hangs on the ceiling. Cracks in dry wall. Staples coming up in the carpet. Windows broken. A cold breeze blows through torn blinds. The plants are dead.

He sits watching television on a small black and white screen. The Andy Griffith Show is on. Opie comes home with a black eye. Barney gives boxing lessons.

The old man turns down the sound, and the radio plays next door. Jazz is playing. Ornette Coleman blows into his saxophone. The Shape Of Jazz To Come is played in its entirety. Some say the album sounds like a high school band, while others think the recording is genius. The old man removes his pork pie hat and hums along. He pats his foot and watches the screen. Opie has avenged his earlier loss.

Rough fingers rummage through a filled ashtray. He looks for a butt long enough to smoke. An old KOOL is found. Stale, tasting of ash, he lights it and searches for another. All stubs. He lines them up on the table. Takes one drag off each and crushes them in the glass bowl.

Another episode of The Andy Griffith Show comes on. This one has Jack Nicholson in it. He watches. Adjusts the rabbit ears. And sips on a half filled warm beer. Ornette Coleman continues to play.

It doesn’t work, he said. Too cumbersome. Awkward. The sentence doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. By the time you’re done, you feel as though a mile has been run, almost out of breath, the fat man said to himself.

You must convey a message to the reader; coffee in hand, typewriter in front of him. Pinpoint and precise as possible. Clean. Crystal clear, with each sentence getting to the heart of the matter. That’s what you should do. He pulled the filled page from the machine and threw it away. Far away. Tossing it across the room. A three-pointer missed. He sipped his coffee. Lit a cigarette. And, sat there. Just sat there, wondering how to say it. A simple sentence. A pristine paragraph. He placed another white sheet into the beast.

The fat man stared at the thin paper; examining it up and down, side to side. Imagining words written on it. Not big words, simple,easy for the reader to digest. Another swig of joe. He began typing.

He awoke every morning casting shadows of rabbit ears behind his head upon the wall. Moving side to side and scratching his nose, he said, what’s up doc?

This was now on the page. He felt as though something was accomplished for the day.

Now it was time for toast and honey. Read it over a hundred times. Throw it away and start all over again.

A painting hanging crooked. The wooden floor slopes. Moths fly from vents. An upholstered couch is torn.

Upstairs, the sound of a shower running. The toilet is flushed several times. A woman complains about a backed-up sink. A cat makes hunger sounds.

He listens and looks around the apartment. On the coffee table is Mann’s Death in Venice and Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. His dog, Scout, licks his ankles.

Are you hungry? The old man asks Scout. Or, just wanting attention? He rubs the beagle behind her ears. Says loving things to her.

You’re the only friend I have, he tells the dog. Yes, you are. He continues petting her. I remember when the kids used to play with you. At the park, he says. Children from all over the neighborhood loved you. He laughs. Now you and I are getting old. Yes, we’re getting old.

Upstairs, the shower has stopped. The toilet runs. A plunger and a woman’s voice make horrific noises. As if in pain. Scout pants.

OK, girl. Let’s get you something to eat.

Chicago is a town of karma. Every sin you commit, every mistake you make against your fellow man is paid for in whole.

Lie, steal, cheat, turn your back on an ally, murder somebody, and eventually, there will be atonement. Rest assured, your day is coming.

So you left? He said.

Yeah. Left, Max told Charlie.

Left the body there for all to see? Charlie asked. Right there on Cottage Grove? For all to see?

Yes, yes, and yes, Max said. The waitress came over to the table and filled their cups. Is it hot? Max asked the brunette. She nodded her head while chewing on gum. Thank you. He turned to her. Thank you.

I think she heard you, Charlie stared at Max. She heard you the first time.

Right, Max  slurped his coffee. I’m just being polite.

Save it for Thanksgiving dinner. Charlie lit a cigarette. Placed the burning match in an ashtray next to the sugar and cream. You know what happens to people who lie?

Max nodded.

They die, Charlie said. One night, in bed, or in a burning car, they die. Could happen out in the middle of Lake Michigan. Shot and pushed over the side with a bag of cement on them. You never know. My question to you is, when I turn on the news tonight, am I going to hear about a body left on Cottage Grove?

Max again nodded his head. Yes. Yes, you will.

You know, this is an example we’re making here. A sign of, don’t fuck with us. Right? Charlie stated.

Right.

So, you killed him?

Uh-huh.

Good. That’s good. He had it coming.