dmseay

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.

That white van’s been across the street for days, he said. Just parked there. Nothing wrong with it that I can see, he told his wife. A train whistle blew. The sun was rising. I wonder if anybody is inside of it, he peeked through the blinds. You know, F.B.I. or C.I.A.. Maybe it’s the Russians or Chinese. Could be Arabs. Maybe ANTIFA. The president warned us. Porchlights up and down the street were being turned off.

Let it go, she said. You’re talking crazy, she told him. The train chugged along on the steel tracks. It came to a stop. Brakes could be heard throughout the neighborhood. C.I.A. F.B.I.. she shook her head. You’re nuts.

You don’t know, he said. You don’t. The train started rolling again. Slowly. Picked up speed. Continued to the next town. You don’t think it could be Russian or Chinese spies? Now, who’s the crazy one?

She stared. Both eyes pierced through him. Tree limbs swayed in the backyard.

He sat on the deck drinking a gin and tonic. Table umbrella down. A barbecue grill in the corner with an apron wrapped around the handle that said, kiss the cook. A kid kicking a soccer ball.

The husband saw her in the kitchen window. He waved at her. She nodded her head. There were no cars in her driveway.

She gave the signal, wiped her forehead, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

The father shook his head. Mouthed, no, and went back to watching his son kick goals.

The housewife next door undid another button. With her pointer finger, she motioned him to come to her. A child on a bike with ribbons on the handlebars peddled down the street.

Again, he silently said no and turned his back to her.

He was done.

A carpet smells of cat piss. Beer bottles overflowing in a trashcan. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann sits on a stained coffee table. A couch sinks in when he sits on it. Bathroom down the hall.

He sits drinking coffee and indulging in his morning cigarette. He watches the smoke climb to the water damaged ceiling. He hears a couple fucking down the hall.

The fat man laughs as noises get louder. Soon, they will be drowned out by morning traffic. The cabs honking, police sirens, fire trucks through Mid-town. The couple continues their loud moans.

When was the last time you had a woman? He asks El Gato. He meows and rubs against the old man’s calf. That’s what I thought, he says. You get laid every night. He laughs.

No, El Gato. You’re just as lonely as I am. He pets him. We’ll stick together you and I. Screw them, he takes another puff. Don’t need them anyway. They get into our business, he states. Yours and mine. We got a thing going, El Gato. Why ruin it?

El Gato purrs.

Half a glass of whiskey. One cube of ice. He sips at it. Let’s the liquor roll around in his mouth. He tastes it on his lips.

People yell and scream at the television in the corner of the bar. The White Sox are on, and they’re losing. What else is new.

He orders a small beer back to go with the Wild Turkey; an Old Style on tap. He drinks the beer after each swig of whiskey. Cleanses the pallet, you might say.

The barkeep washes glasses and turns up the jukebox. Johnny Cash is singing Rusty Cage. He’s not sure whose version he likes better; Cash or Cornell. He sings along. Waiting to pour another drink. More yelling at the Southsiders from the Southsiders. Sox lose 9-1. The bartender shakes his head while the old man finishes his whiskey and beer.

They’ll win one of these days, Charlie, the old man says. But, until that time, I’ll have another round.

You got it, Charlie says.

I got nothing.

Cold brick walls. Carpeted floor. A couch with holes in it. Coffee pot on a hot plate.

He sits on the edge of a bed that has no sheets. An ashtray is next to him on a small table along with pictures of women he’s known. One blonde. A redhead. A black woman in Chicago. He looks at the photos and grabs his pack of cigarettes, lights one, and blows out smoke. The ceiling has a crack in it.

There is no such thing as till death do we part. Even when couples stay together, they parted years ago, he thinks. They forgot about each other years ago. After the kids, the vacations, and retirement, there is nothing left. Parting is such sweet sorrow. He laughs.

The window is open, letting in a cool breeze. He puts on his robe and stares out at Main Street. Couples walking hand in hand. Moms pushing strollers. Steaks in the butcher’s window. A neon light blinks. The Irish tavern is open.

Time for a drink, he says. An Irish coffee. That should do the trick. Cure the loneliness. People, he says. I hate them, but I love them.

Before he leaves, he kisses two fingers and touches each woman’s lips. Goodbye, my fair ladies. Goodbye.

He watched her sleep for a minute. Head on pillow, blankets covered her. Lying on her side, away from him. Neither one held the other. She took all the covers.

Frozen food in the freezer. Beer battered fish from Gorton’s. Green Giant green beans. Hamburger patties. A cauliflower crust pizza with mushrooms and red peppers on it. He rummages through the products. Spies ice cream. Chocolate mint chip. He grabs it and frantically looks for a spoon. Sifting through drawers. Looking in the dishwasher where he’s found one. A large spoon covered in chili. He rinses it off under hot water and a little hand soap.

That’s still going to have germs on it, his partner says to him. It has to be washed at a certain temperature to clean it, Tom tells him as he eats an onion roll.

You ever heard of handwashed? Bill asks him. He then proceeds to eat the frozen dessert.

When I was a kid, my mom would make us shakes for breakfast, Tom says. Chocolate shakes, vanilla,  strawberry, and mint chocolate chip, he laughs. Had milk in them. Guess she thought they were healthy.

That explains a lot. Bill finishes off the ice cream and licks the spoon. He then drop kicks the empty bucket across the kitchen, where it lands next to a litter box.

You done?

It would appear so, Bill answers.

Let’s get out of here.

Shhh. I’m going to take this knife, Bill tells Tom. You never know when you might need one.

Fine. Let’s get out of here.

As they walk down the street, a light comes on upstairs. The husband walks down to the kitchen and sees the ice cream bucket in the corner. The cat is licking inside of it. The back door is unlocked. He calls the police.

I’d like to report a break-in, the father says. Please send someone. Dispatch assures him that help is on the way. He looks around the kitchen and notices rolls half eaten. A drawer is open. A knife gone.

Someone ate my ice cream, he says. Son of a bitch.

Tom and Bill walk back to their tents under the bridge. A train goes by. Bellies are half full. They’ll get more fuel tomorrow. But for right now, they dream.

Both men snore loudly. Another train travels by. They both have the same dream of going west. Traveling out to California or Arizona. Some place where it’s warm and there’s plenty of food and comfort. The luxuries of life. This is what they long for.

Dexter Gordon plays on the radio at two in the morning. He sits there smoking a cigarette while she sleeps off and on. They are both naked. He scratches his back and walks over to the front window, looks down, and takes another drag while Dexter hits notes and traffic on 8th Avenue stops and starts, horns honk, and sirens scream. She sits up.

Put a towel around you, she says. I’m the only one who should see you in this state. He continues looking down at the porn houses, bars, diners, and trinket stores for Midwestern tourists. Lights shine down on the Avenue, and humanity walks by. The hookers and cops, thieves, pill pushers, junkies and the unfortunate in life. He continues standing. Naked to the world.

An overflowing ashtray sits on the nightstand next to her. She crushes out her cigarette and walks over to him. Hides her body with his, wrapping her arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck.

Come back to bed, she tells him. I’ll make it worth your while.

He walks over to his pants, folded over a chair, pulls out a hundred dollar bill, places it in her hand, and says, I pay you to leave.

On 8th Avenue, the cars cruise by and Dexter Gordon plays on the radio.

Don’t push. Never force. Doesn’t come to you? Let it be. Allow time to pass. But, not too much time. You have a job to do.

This art is scary. Each word is a step on a tight rope. The writer never knows when they’re going to fall. And, eventually, they will.

Nothing is there. No words nor images. Sitting alone at a desk or on a couch. Forgetting how to write. How to apply words to paper.

Early in morning hours or late night rendezvous, the writer stretches notes like Coltrane or Coleman, experimenting with short bops and bahs followed by long blown measured music, precise, yet improvised, always sounding like the first time ever played.

Like so many, the beats understood this. Kerouac, Ginsberg, Snyder, Burroughs, writing like mad men, but taking time to observe, patience for the page, never moving forward till they had stepped backward two or three times. 

Don’t believe me? Pray to Gil Scott- Heron and ask him. Tough times produce great art. Look at those times. Wait during those times. Write during those times.

For it is our salvation.