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I thought I’d call, he said. Wanted to talk, I guess. It gets lonely. Very lonely.

Yep. It sure can, she said. Men call me all the time and tell me how lonely they are. Like I can jump through the phone and be with them or something. She wrapped the phone cord around her wrist and unraveled it. A cigarette burned in an ashtray.

Maybe that’s why we call, he said. Just to escape loneliness. You think that?

Could be. Hard to tell sometimes. A lot of men want to just jack off and hang up as soon as they come. That sort of thing. Others want to scold me. Thinking they can save my soul afterward. Of course, they have to jack off first.  She laughed. Usually ministers spreading the word of God and shaking their seed upon the ground of the earth. Or some shag carpet in their den while the wife’s upstairs asleep. Oblivious.

Ministers, huh? He said.

Oh yeah. Business executives, cops, always someone important.  Or at least they say they’re important. They all sound the same. Heavy breathing and cursing. Terrible things, they say. Real hard on the ears if you’re new to this. I caught on real quick. Just let them do the talking and moan a lot. Tell them how big they are. Things like that, she told him.

Yeah. I could see that, said the male caller. He laughed. We always want to be what we aren’t.

Ain’t that the truth, she laughed. So. Why did you call?

I’m not sure.

Are you married? She asked.

No. I’m all by myself these days.

So, you were married?

Had a girlfriend out in Flagstaff.  She left me for some guy in Phoenix. He owned a few car washes. Had money. I think they married. Not sure, he told the woman.

I see.

Yeah. It hurt. At first, it hurt really bad, he said. Rejection always hurts. Everybody gets the blues. Even cowgirls get the blues, he laughed.

Cowgirls?

Book by Tom Robbins. Same guy who wrote Still Life With Woodpecker.

Never heard of him, she confessed.

Not a lot of people have. People don’t read.

I read, she said.

What?

Huh?

What do you read?

She took a drag off her Marlboro. I read Jant Evonovich. True crime stuff. James Patterson. I’m well rounded. They both laughed.

So. You wanna get off?

Not sure, he said. I just like talking.

Weird. You can talk to anybody, she told him.

Not really.

Shy?

Just uncomfortable around people, he said.

It’s your money.

Yeah. I just like to talk.

A light on in the hallway. Pictures on walls. It’s May, and the heat kicks on.

Blinds are closed. Windows locked. No noises. Just quiet. He sits on a love seat alone. There is no one else.

Do you have a girlfriend? She asked. Are you having an affair? She demands an answer. The phone cord reaches across the kitchen, where she sits at a table, drinking chamomile tea. I’m here by myself, she said. Just me. What are you doing? Please come home.

I am home, he said.

After all this time, you’re just going to leave? There were promises made.

Yes. Yes, there were, he said. By both of us. Funny how that works. Neither able to hold up their end of the deal. Maybe that’s what happens to people. They live in resentment, he told her.

Do you resent me?

I started to. He paused. We had become roommates. Arguing roommates. People who walk on eggshells. Scared. Always scared.

People change. They can change, she said. The cat walked on the counter. Do you believe people can change?

I believe people change. Whether they want to or not. It just happens. Some accept it and keep their mouths shut. Others? Well, they leave. They go.

Are you happy? She asked.

I’ll never be happy.

I saw you at the paint store, he said. You were choosing colors. Talking to some salesman about interiors. Speaking to him with great enthusiasm. Asking him questions about certain reds and yellows, a nice squash color or plum. Did he answer your questions? Put you on the right path? He asked. I’ll bet you stuck with plain old cream white. You were always very vanilla.

I went with lavender, she said. Lavender for the dining room and, yes, plum for the hallway. I haven’t decided on the bedroom yet. Maybe a wine. A burgundy.

Something new, he said. Trying a fresh start. Erasing me. Covering over us, he told her.

Something like that, she responded. Look. I’m not the one who left. You took off. Leaving me with nothing. No money. Bills unpaid. Why did you do it? Had you been plotting this? This escape.

No. In my life, nothing is planned. It just happened.

Falling out of love just happens?

Yes.

They looked at each other. Each pretending they were better off. A masquerade.

He picked up the check. I’ll take care of lunch, he said

Thanks.

Sure.

A torn couch. Snake plant in the corner.  Blinds closed. The air-conditioner hums loudly. Ceiling fan has dust on it.

There’s a painting on the floor. A still life of fruit in a bowl. A bottle of wine by its side. He wonders which wall to hang it on.

Hammer and nail in hand, he starts making holes in the drywall.  Looking for a stud. He hammers and hangs the picture facing the sun.

He steps back and looks. Begins talking to himself while jazz plays on a public radio station.

This is what you wanted, he whispers. Alone. All by yourself.  Away from the normal American dream. The wife, children, swingsets, slides, station wagons, dinner at five, all of this forfeited. Just to be alone.

The arts are a selfish business, he told her. It calls for the artist’s focus on a constant basis. Whether you’re a painter, a writer, or some actor, it all calls for abandonment of the good life. The comfortable ways of most. You want to make money? Sell insurance.

He takes the painting down. Hammers a nail into another wall. He is not satisfied. Maybe he never will be.

I’ll listen to you, he said. I’ve got nothing better to do. He rolled up the car windows and parked under a streetlight. Go ahead, he told her. Spill your guts.

She applied Chapstick to her cracked, swollen lips. Looked in the mirror above. Ran her hands through her hair. Looked at him and said she wanted fifty bucks. That was her rate. Fifty bucks for a blow job. Windows steamed up. Other women walked by. A man leaning against a stop sign watched. What do you want? She asked.

I want you to tell me a story, he said. A true story. Nothing made up. Then I want you to kiss me. Really kiss me. With passion. Like you mean it.

She laughed. Looked at him. You want a story and a kiss? She asked.

Yes. Very much so, he said. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed. Years.

I don’t kiss.

Really? Why not?

Kissing means I love you, she said. It’s something honest between two people.

And you’re not honest?

I’m a whore, she said. Never trust a whore. We’ll tell you whatever it is you want to hear. But, never honesty.

So you probably won’t tell me a true story either, he laughed.

She shook her head. Probably not. We’re like emergency room doctors. Just fix you and send you on your way.

Sometimes, people die in emergency rooms, he told her. They die with no confession. No state of grace. Poof. They’re gone. Shot. Stabbed. A heart attack. Finished. The doctor could not save them. Sometimes, dead on arrival. What do you do then?

Just move on to the next one.

He’s yelling again. Screaming at the top of his lungs, Paul said. Where does he get the energy? Just loud. As if I were the only one here.

What’s he yelling about? Ben asked.

Not sure. But I can barely hear you. You’ll have to speak louder, Paul told Ben.

I hear him, too. All that foul language. What’s he like?

I’ve seen him only once, Paul responded. He’s big. Really big. I’d say around six feet three. About two-fifty.

That is big. Ever talked to him? In the hallway? Getting the mail?

Once. At first, he just looked at me. Took me all in. I said hello. He stood there in silence at first. Nodded. Said, hi. He looked angry. Mad at the world. Seemed like he had something taken from him. His pride. Dignity, Paul whispered.  Maybe he lost his wife. A loved one. Who knows. You never can tell about these things.

Right.

The screaming stopped. No more sound coming from next door.

Hear that? Paul asked.

What?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Paul placed the phone up against the wall. He’s just stopped. No more yelling. No more rambling. Listen. He placed the receiver against the wall again. Quiet.

Paul was still. Ben was not speaking.

Gun shots were fired.

Where are you going? She asked.

Out, he said. Going out for a while. Need to get my bearings straight.

It’s past midnight. One o’clock in the morning. So, I’ll ask again. Where are you going?

I’m just going.

He lights a cigarette. Pulls his hat down over his ears. She watches from the living room window as he marches down the street. He’s already a million miles from home.

Attention all. One last call for alcohol, the barkeep says. Folks raise their hands to get his attention. He walks in and immediately raises his hand, too. 

I see you, Frank. What will it be? 

The usual, he says.

One scotch and soda coming up.

The bartender pours a double in a rocks glass and places it on the bar. Frank pulls out a five and tells him to keep the change.

Thank you, sir.

Frank takes a drink and nods his head. Thank you, he says, and takes another swig.

Frank? Didn’t recognize you at first, Pete tells him. What brings you out at closing time?

Didn’t feel like sleeping,  he says.

No?

Frank shakes his head. No.

Coltrane comes on the jukebox. Naima. Frank starts to cry. He closes his eyes and remembers when he was young. He used to listen to this song all the time. Listened to Love Supreme as well. Way back before she came along, he’d spend his nights taking in Mingus, Monk, Davis, Bill Evans, Cannonball Adderly, he had them all. And then, one day, they were gone. She sold all his jazz albums at her garage sale for a buck a piece.

This is old music anyway, she told him. No one listens to this anymore. Get with the times, Frank, she said.

And, so he did. He got with the times, and he’s been miserable ever since. Sneaking out at night, listening to jazz play on the Old Town jukebox.  Hearing Peggy Lee sing, Is That All There Is? He wept every time.

Time to finish up, the barkeep said. Drink up all you people, he sang. Go home.

But Frank didn’t go home. He just kept walking to Clark Street, where he caught the train and rode all night. He went back and forth across the city. From 95th Street to Howard. He rode till sunset, got off at Belmont, and walked to Harry’s Grill on Halsted. He ate his eggs and Polish sausage with ketchup on hash browns and laughed. Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friend then let’s keep dancing….

She chased him all over America. Always a couple of steps behind. She could smell him. That aftershave he wore, High Karate, marked a trail through Arizona, New Mexico, into Texas. He couldn’t shake her.

Motel receipts. Candy bar wrappers. Used tubes of red lipstick whittled down. An eyelash brush. A map inside a glovebox wadded up in a ball. A Gatorade bottle. Sleeping with the front seat of an old Ford leaning back. Money had come and gone.

The young woman started selling things. Books she no longer wanted to read. Records she couldn’t listen to. Her soul, which was badly damaged. Parking in truck stops and knocking on cabs for business propositions. Wearing halter tops and tight jeans. An old red wig to try and disguise who she really was. Only God knew for sure.

He was running. Running away from himself. Terrified of what he really was. A middle-aged man who messed up every chance he got. Every opportunity slipped through his hands. Even easy jobs. Work that required no thought or skill would disappear in a week’s time. Gas station attendant, grocery bagger, bartending gigs, all gone because of disagreements with management. Like he said to his boss at the Piggly Wiggly, I’m going out for lunch. Maybe I’ll be back. Maybe not.

He left no forwarding address. Just took off after an hour of stocking shelves only to find he was on the streets again. Cold. No money. A book bag filled with stories he’d written by hand. She used to read them out loud, correcting his grammar and spelling. Naked bodies under blankets. He thanked her with a kiss.

But, the kind corrections became mean. Criticism was given. Non-constructive words came from her mouth. Mean insults. You’ll never be anything, she told him. Living off dreams, she said. When are you going to get real?

And so, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the week during the middle of November, he took off. Left her behind. Wasn’t until morning she realized he was gone.

At first, the woman was happy he’d left. She was tired of feeding two mouths. Fed up with paying bills. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.

Why should he have all the fun? She asked herself. How come he gets to run away?

So, she loaded up the sedan and took off to find him. Did she love him? Not particularly. Did she care? Not really.

Trees bloomed late that year. Cold April. Chilling May. I watched as snow melted on Easter morning. Counted the times I’d prayed to Christ for salvation and forgiveness of my sins. A constant battle never to win.

People speak of grace. How it touches our lives. Being human and bound to fail. Only to be caught and saved from the wicked.

She looked at me when I was down on my luck. Penniless and hungry, she fed me. I remember the broth when I was sick. Her loving touch. The hand that felt my forehead. Wished me goodnight. Prayers were answered.

I told her I’d never been in love before. Said, I’ve never trusted my instincts. Always ran from what I thought was right. She laughed. A strong tendency to do harm to myself. I figured I deserved it, I told her. Words. These were words, I told her. All true. A constant guilt for my actions. I guess we all pay.

The woman laid beside me and smothered me with love. She said I was afraid to live. Really live. Take a chance on the right thing.

I asked, what is the right thing?

I’ll show you. Follow. Follow me.

Trees bloomed late that year.

Paintings on the walls. Pillows with lighthouses on them. Crumbs on a hardwood floor. Lamps on dim. Blinds closed.

He wakes up at four in the morning. Turns on the coffee maker. Spies a doughnut on the counter. Chocolate icing. A long John. He opens the box and begins eating it hungrily. The doughnut is stale.

She used to sleep down the hall in their bedroom. She snored throughout the night and took all the covers. He would lay there for hours staring up at the cracked ceiling. Car lights casting shadows.

Some things you miss, he laughed. The way she spoke in a Midwestern accent. Hair a mess in the morning. Jokes told. The way she stumbled in the dark to go to the bathroom at night. A cat purring on her chest. Cigarette smoke floating in the living room. No one ever takes out the trash till it overflows. Perhaps a million things, he whispered.

Seated on the couch. The widower smiles. It was a good life after all, he says. Filled with possibilities that never came through. It was fun to dream.