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Red numbers keep clicking away on the meter. Heavy plastic with a sliding  window separates the driver from the passenger. The cab is spotless. No gum wrappers on the floor. No cigarette butts in the ashtray on the door handle. Smells of cloves and cinnamon permeate the taxi. It heads uptown from Chelsea.

Salam, the passenger says. Salam. What kind of name is Salam?

It is Arabic, the cabbie tells him in broken English. Safety. Security. Peace and wholeness. Take your pick. Yes?

The man in the back laughs. I’m a McNulty. That means drunk. Inebriated. Passed out. He laughs. Take your pick. Right?

You had good day today? Salam asks.

Yeah. It was alright. McNulty reaches in his pocket for a square. He lights it with a match. Laughs. I killed a man today, Salam.

You killed a man? Salam looks into his rear view mirror. Why? He asks.

We do these things, Salam. He had it coming. The guy was being a nuisance. So. Bang. I shot him, McNulty said. These things. Why? Couldn’t really tell you.

You shot him for no reason? Salam asks. How? In your conscience. How?

Why not, I figured. One less nigger, he looked out the window. People pay for their sins. You believe that, Salam? The driver nods his head. And sooner or later, I’ll pay for mine. Right? McNulty crushed out his cigarette. Drop me off on the corner up here, he says. I feel like walking.

The cab comes to a stop by Lincoln Center. The meter reads $8.50. Salam hesitantly opens the window. McNulty slides him a twenty.

Keep it, the Irishman says. See. I’m not all bad.

A cup of yesterday’s coffee sits on a table next to On The Road and Lolita. I drink the cold caffeine and light a cigarette. My day has begun.

Sitting on a couch typing away on my phone, a short piece comes to mind; a memory. Isn’t that where all our stories come from?

I was homeless in New York for four years; living in shelters, drop in centers, sleeping in synagogue basements, and Catholic chambers. Or, riding around all night on the 6 train, writing, always writing. Going back and forth between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Bronx. Vagabonds sleeping. Kids drunk on love, third shift workers going home in the early morn, all of us underground while dear old Manhattan wakes.

Trips to Bellevue. Always going to the hospital on 1st Avenue for meds, bloodwork, an occasional stay as if it were a hotel for the mentally ill; sick people coming from all over America in search of help; food stamp cards, free health care, a place to sleep, a therapist’s ear to bend.

We have all wound up here in Gotham. Waiting our turn. Wanting what everybody wants; a home.

Paintings on white walls. Still lifes and abstracts. A bottle of wine with a single glass. Lines and circles of different colors on black canvas. He walks to each one and looks at these pieces of art. French windows open. A cold breeze blows into the loft.

A cup of tea sits on a stool. Best Dad In The World is written on his mug. A gift of a long time ago from a son who now sells used cars in Omaha. At least that’s what the old man heard.

Jazz plays on the public radio station. Hank Mobley makes his saxophone sing. The artist stretches canvas across the back wall. He looks at the blank sheet. He walks away. Drinks more hot tea, holding the mug with both hands, hugging it. Holding it tightly. Covering the phrase on it. He drinks the last sip and stares at books on a shelf.  Where The Wild Things Are. His son’s favorite story. Max and his royal rumpus, the monsters joining in. He used to read the Sendak classic to his son. Now, he’s married and has two kids. At least, that’s what the old man heard.

There is nothing coming to mind. Only memories of a past life. He takes the mug and throws it against the brick wall. It shatters. He leaves broken pieces on the hardwood floor.

The kid had the potential to be a real artist. Just like his dad. At least, that’s what the old man heard.

He sits in a recliner watching TV. Lights are off. A cat circles his bare legs; rubbing against them, purring. The old man opens a beer and cuts his knuckle on the metal tab. He sucks blood off his finger, presses it against his white tee-shirt, and continues watching baseball in silence.

She’s cleaning up in the kitchen. Putting leftovers away in Tupperware bowls. Sealing lids. Wiping off grease on the stove and counter. She hums a song and taps her foot. Patsy Cline sings in her head. The words and music are sad. Crazy for feeling so lonely, the wife sings softly. He yells at the third baseman’s error. Runners round the bases. She folds a towel.

Could you bring me another Old Style? He asks her. She brings him the cold can and pulls the tab. Careful, he says. Always cut my finger on that damn thing, he tells her. She nods and hands him the slippery beer.

This game is almost over. He says. Top of the ninth.

OK. I’m going to bed. She kisses him on the forehead and walks down the hall.

And, like every night, the old man falls asleep in his La-Z-Boy with the cat in his lap.

Cubs win….Cubs win….

Vagabonds took baths in sinks. Toilets ran. The tile floor reeked of piss. Graffiti on the stalls. Cracked mirrors. A child with his father stands at the urinal. His pants soaked.

A voice over a loud speaker tells passengers to now board for Dallas, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and Phoenix. With connections to Indio and Los Angeles. Now boarding at gate seven.

The line is long. Grandmothers going across country. Hustlers and hookers with dreams of stardom. Frightened sixteen year olds running away from suburban homes. Old men with booze on their breath traveling aimlessly,  spending social security checks on constant fights with themselves. They hadn’t given up yet.

I sit on the back of the bus, smoking a cigarette and drinking cold coffee. No one is next to me. I am alone, drawing stick figures on the window as we go through New Mexico in early sunshine glory. Surrounded by red clay mountains and cacti. I crush the cigarette out with my boot.

A woman sits across from me. She keeps looking at me with brown eyes. I am naked. Completely exposed. I know I’ve been caught.

Where are you going? She asked.

I don’t know. I told her. My ticket says Los Angeles. I tilt my head and laugh. But, I might change my mind once I get there.

None of us know where we’re going, really. She said. Life’s uncertain. Right? I nodded my head. Some spend a whole lifetime and never go anywhere. They just stay in one place. She told me. Stagnant. Lifeless.

Right, I said. They sell insurance in bumfuck Arkansas.

Is that where you’re from? She asked.

I don’t know. Yes and no. I said.

How so? She asked and reached in her purse.

I’ve just never felt comfortable anywhere. I said. Always moving. Going somewhere but getting nowhere.

Ain’t that the truth, she stated. Ain’t that the truth.

And where are you going? I asked.

To LA,  she said. Got a boyfriend waiting for me.

That must be nice, I said. Someone waiting on you.

She smiled. Took out a handheld mirror and a tube of red lipstick.

He’s lucky, I said. You’re a very pretty girl.

Thanks. He never tells me that. She confessed. I think he takes me for granted. Just expects me to run to him at his command. She laughed.

That’s not funny, I said to her. Sad, I told her. Very sad. I would tell you every day how pretty you were if you were mine. I’d bring you flowers, I said.

It got quiet. She turned and looked out the window at the red clay.

So did I.

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.