dmseay

That was me. Standing on that bridge just before sunrise. I remember it being just before sunrise because my mind was distracted by the glimpse of light in back of me. It made me think of ending it all and also of my beginning. The smell of sourdough bread coming from my mother’s kitchen. Baking away like so many of the goods she baked; cornbread, cinnamon rolls, cheesecake, for Christ’s sake, it was like a downtown bakery where people gathered for morning news, coffee, and gossip.

But I also thought of riding my bike up and down the streets of my neighborhood each day after long hours at grade school. My best friend was a black kid named Robert Grisham. He lived in another part of town where white men dare not go at night. Why? Because of this inane fear, the Caucasians have of the black man. And what was that fear? Fear that vengeance would be theirs one day. A true uprising of blacks against whites, knowing full well they would lose; anger and heart always prevail.

Robert was a sweet kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly. He stuck by me in times of sorrow when sadness and madness took their toll. Yes, even at that young age, I was bitter and wanting to kill myself. Never those around me or those responsible for my pain, no, the focus was on me and me alone.

That smell of sourdough. Always brought me back to reason. No matter how bad things had gotten, it was always there for my comfort. Like when a kid would bean me with a baseball or threaten me, and I’d ride home as fast as I could, crying the whole time.

However, one instance stands out. The kid’s name was Chuck. And Chuck was a prick. A real mean fellow who got his kicks by terrorizing the  neighborhood; particularly those of us younger than him.

I was so angry at him that one day, the word I never thought I’d say came from my lips. I called him a nigger. I called this big white bully a nigger. And, I instantly cried. I wept because I had betrayed Robert. I had said a word that I thought I was above. But in sheer madness I called him a nigger. I was so shaken up that Chuck apologized to me for being a bully. He said he was sorry so many times as I cried, that he wept as well.

It’s OK you called me a nigger, he said. Maybe I’ve been acting like one. This tore into me so badly that I let him have it. His non-understanding, his lack of humanity, drove me to punch him in the gut several times till he doubled over in pain. Boys on the sidewalks cheered. They didn’t understand either.

I was saved by the smell of sourdough bread. Nothing was ever said to Robert.

Death is at the doorstep, but I have no door to open. I certainly can’t close it. This doesn’t exist. However,  I hear people knocking constantly, yelling, let me in, let me in. And I ignore them. I don’t even say, go away, or nobody home. I just let them knock.

Who is it knocking besides Death? Angels, demons, the devil himself, all of them, even ghosts from the past. Friends and enemies, all knocking to see me. Yet I keep my mouth closed. Not a peep do you hear from me. These voices come and go. The ups and downs. Mania and depression.

I look down at the river from Wacker Drive, thinking, where’s your guts boy? Go on, end it all right now. Come back as a tree branch, a rabid dog, some animal in the Lincoln Park Zoo, maybe a can of tuna. Something.

There’s five bucks in my pocket. I could really go for a hotdog with mustard, neon green relish, tomatoes,  a dill pickle, and celery salt. Don’t forget the sport peppers.

Maybe this is what keeps me alive. Perhaps the city keeps me alive; I’m not sure. But the voices and thoughts are there. Always there. I could live anywhere, and they’d still be dancing a waltz inside my head. Or, maybe an Irish jig. It comes and goes. It comes and goes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my day of rest. I will not go to church and tithe. My payment has been paid for now. I want something for the price. A reward, don’t you know. A free trip to heaven or some paradise. I cling to the ticket.

A million ants. All of us ran around this giant, vast monstrosity made of steel and concrete, sweeping away bits and pieces of America’s promise.

A new boat. Rifles, bows, and arrows. Scantily clothed women casting fishing lines into a beautiful little man made pond, crystal clear mind you with no litter or oil film atop of it. Zero toxins. A place where fish could breathe, youth could play, jet skis zooming and skipping over waves. All brought to you by various companies of massive proportions selling the American dream. While I and hundreds of men toiled on this presentation.

I watched all the busyness of it and asked myself, why am I doing this? Slowly, I strolled, broom in hand, observing while poor black men and Mexicans new to this country performed tasks that no one else would do. At least not for a decent wage.

The Donahues had it all locked up. The whole mess that is American labor. On one hand, they owned Donahue Day Labor, offering slaves to  companies on the cheap, while on the other hand, this Irish family ran the local labor union lock, stock, and barrel. There wasn’t a corner of the contracts with conventions or city labor they didn’t have their paws in. They were the true kings of Chicago. Not the mayor. That Irish prick was merely a pawn to them. Someone they squeezed come any event sponsored by the City of Chicago. This meant the festivals, the conventions, and the whore houses of which we all worked in one way or another.

But I swept up confetti around McCormick Place till I could no longer see straight. A true mind-numbing experience. And I said to myself in me best Irish brogue, steady boy now steady. Don’t rush this. Relax. Let the others sweat and moan as they cry out to Jesus, save my soul. Just watch, I said. Collect two hundred dollars and go home. But there was not two hundred dollars waiting for me at the end of the rainbow. When I went back to Donahue the next day, my check was for thirty-three dollars and no cents. It was forty-two, but taxes were taken out. Taxing those who need it the most. Very American.

On the corner of Halsted and Randolph sat a bar where men went to cash their checks for a two dollar fee and the price of a beer. They sat there, wallowing in self-pity and defeat; drinking away the crumbs of a nice fat sandwich of rye with mustard and corned beef and Swiss cheese. But, there was none of that for us. I sat with my black brothers and drank. Drank till there was just enough money left over for the L that night to sleep in. Back to reading books and resting my head on the windows of the train as it went back and forth across the city. Closed my eyes just a bit until the start of another day.

Chicago. Hog butcher to the world indeed.

I had plans for that twenty. A bowl of chili at the diner on Clark Street. Maybe a roast beef sandwich, open faced with mashed potatoes and brown gravy salt and pepper mixed in. Or a stein of beer at the German American Restaurant with a bit of sweet purple cabbage.

The plans I had. Gone down the street in one quick motion, one act of kindness. Why did I now feel bitter? Men laughed at me. They howled with laughter like mad hyenas after the kill.  All I could do was laugh with them. Laugh at myself.

The gate opened at five or a little after.  A short little black man named Cookie weaved in and out of the line, telling those who were too drunk, too tired, too worn out by life to go home or back to the dumpsters and streets they called home.

He looked at me and laughed. What’re you doing here, boy? He asked me. White boy in line with a bunch of niggers, he said. Never seen anything like it, he told me and announced to the others. Looks like a Tarzan movie out here. He got up in my face. You Tarzan? I smiled.

Men moved forward inside the run-down hall with benches along the walls. I stood, wanting to be called, waiting for the fat man behind the cage to point at me to come forward and receive my gift of eternal salvation.

You, he pointed at me. You, come here, he said. What’s your name?

David, I said. David Michael.

What the fuck are you doing here? The fat man asked while slurping on coffee and stuffing a cherry filled donut in his mouth. I knew it was cherry. The red goo dripped down his white chin. You want work? I nodded. Here, he slipped a small note to me through a tiny hole in the cage. You’re going to McCormick Place to take down after the trade show. It’s easy. Ask for Gregory. He’ll be your boss for the day. He slurped more black coffee. Get out of here.

This was my reward.

Sidewalks covered in vomit, blood, and acorn shells left behind by black squirrels. A dead cat in the street. Candy wrappers tossed away carelessly. Empty bottles of gin and vodka. Hookers conducting  business  behind dumpsters. The smell of urine filled the air.

America does not like poverty. The poor are shunned. Christ walked around without a dime to his name. Look what they did to him. America, Rome, Chinese laundromat, same thing. Money is the honey, and people fight like hell for a buck every day. Some are born with it while others want it, and some have just given up; settling for less, much less.

Did I give up? Maybe watching my father sweat all those years over nothing more than a meager paycheck  did something to me. But, reality is reality. Twenty bucks left in my pocket. Do I spend it and jump in the Chicago River? I asked myself. Buy one final round of drinks and a Polish at Jim’s on Halsted? I can still taste those greasy fries leaking through a brown paper bag. Why not? I say. Why the hell not?

I walked south past the bars, the Mexican restaurants, through crowds of people congregating on sidewalks. Past all-night convenient stores and hot dog joints. Past North Avenue, past  Division, past Chicago Avenue and onward; looking at billboards with advertisements on them to drink Old Style, smoke Camels, and just before Lake Street a wall where it is written, FRESH KILLED LAMB.

And it was a fresh killed lamb who offered salvation to whores, pimps, drunks, junkies, thieves, and the uncleansed. All are welcome by the son of God. That’s what the Bible says.

Just as I was about to give up the ghost, a sign above a gated door that read, Donahue Day Labor called to me. My Hajj was complete. I got in line with the blacks, the Mexicans, and poor men with bad breaths reeking of alcohol, wanting just one more try at making a buck. God bless them. And God blessed me.

I stood with the rest of humanity. Waiting to be let in. The morning air was cold. Men dressed in dirty pants and stained jackets with rips and tears in them. I felt ashamed to be wearing my black leather with wool lining in it. The man in front of me shivered. I offered him my coat.

Here, I said. Take it. I got a sweatshirt on. Go ahead. Take it.

He grabbed it from my hand and tried it on. It’s yours. You can have it, I said. He smiled and said nothing. Just looked at me.

This is mine? He asked.

It is now, I said.

He slowly stepped out of line and then ran down Halsted like he was running for his life. Laughing hysterically. I was pleased by this.

I placed my hands in my pants pockets to get warm and realized that I had placed the twenty inside my coat. Some men would have cursed or chased after the poor soul. I did neither. I just smiled and waited with the rest of them. Knowing that a good deed had been done.

Rain coming down in a mist. Foggy and bleak. Neon signs blink in colors of red and green. Hazy days ahead. Soon, nothing will be seen. Just outlines of people, buildings, never getting the full picture. Maybe there was nothing to be seen in the first place. Poets silenced.

The L rattles overhead. Sirens and jackhammers pounding. Bicycle messengers weaving in and out of traffic. Cabbies honk their horns. Two hundred dollars has slipped to one hundred overnight. Money spent on food and beverage, diners, and bars.

I tried to sleep on the train from Howard to 95th Street, back and forth across the city. However, excitement and paranoia kept me awake. Bums lying in pissed in pants. Black kids staring at me. Crazies screaming out for salvation. Third shift workers reading The Sun Times. The Blackhawks were on another losing streak.

My book bag was full, filled with a few clothes and accessories, but mostly paperback novels I brought with me to ease my mind. Tropic of Capricorn, Sons and Lovers, Crime and Punishment, Of Human Bondage, books I’d read over and over again throughout my life. Learning something new about the text each year. But, back then, I didn’t know shit about D.H. Lawrence or Henry Miller. And, like most Americans, I read them without asking questions. No exploration whatsoever. What an idiot I was. Maybe I still am today. I’d like to think I’m wiser, I’d also like to think that America has grown smarter. However, that’s not the case now, is it. But, these books were my companions. My friends. And how often do we really understand our friends? It takes years to really know someone.

The sun came up that morning. One hundred dollars in my pocket. A fool never learns. He keeps making the same mistakes over and over. That is human. That is America.

Very quickly, I had nothing, yet I had everything. Complete freedom. I’d starve before joining the  circus of inhumanity. I walked to Belmont Harbor and cleansed my soul in Lake Michigan. A holy baptism. Max, let the  royal rumpus begin.

Icicles hanging on for their lives. Clinging to naked trees. Water droplets hitting a child’s tongue. Deformed snowmen. Brown grass exposed.

Soon, it will be February. The cold will prevail. People walk around wearing thick coats, gloves of various styles, and hats to cover their ears. Saying the cold air is good for them. Mother nature has never let us down. I say, she has.

The Greyhound left town at ten o’clock on its way to Chicago and beyond. Poor people chasing dreams. A girl sitting next to me talking about Los Angeles, Hollywood to be exact. She says a whole new life awaits her. I smile and nod my head.

You believe me? don’t you, she asked. Sure, I say. Why should I burst her fantasy of making it. The big blonde smiles and places her hand on my leg. You’ll see, she said. One day, you’ll look up at a billboard, and there I’ll be. Her hand creeped up my thigh. Wanna come with me? she asked. I remained silent. Her hand slid away.

Drunks, poverty, filthy toilets, graffiti on bathroom stalls. This is as American as it gets. Black men asking for dollars. Fat women wearing pants too tight. A roll of flesh pops out from under sweatshirts that say PINK on them. Lonely people. People with nowhere to go but knowing they need to go somewhere. They head east and west. Bums heading to Florida like birds before snowfall, looking for cigarette butts in ashtrays. Collecting burnt stubs and placing them in empty packs, pockets with holes, and sweaty palms.

I have chosen this. Leaving the warmth of the womb for the coldness of a country that takes more than it gives. But, there is no complaint on my part. I have $200 on me. Enough to start a new life if I choose. Or, hit the town and blow my load in one night on women, taxi cabs, exquisite meals in diners with filled plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a side salad, and buttered vegetables. Perhaps a dessert  of custard or chocolate pie. So many choices this city offers; play it safe or just simply play. Options. Right?

Chicago. Dear old Chicago. Hog butcher to the world Sandburg said. And then there is that incredible book by Sinclair describing the city for what it truly is; a jungle. A city on the make. Politicians, businessmen, hookers, bartenders, factory workers, bus drivers, cops, bums, all on the make. Waiting for their opportunity to strike.

And, me. I sit back and watch man’s inhumanity to man. This is my task. Record the ugliness of Chicago. Of America. Take notes and learn. Where is that meatloaf dinner? Warmth inside the gut? Where?

Before I hit the streets, a bum asked for a dollar. So, I gave him five. Why not? This is perfectly Christian. It’s what Christ would have done. I watched as he went across the street to the liquor store. God bless him, I say. For this is a righteous man.

Wet leaves on sidewalks. Dark clouds above. Frost on car windows. Naked Japanese maples.

Old folks walk home from St. Patrick’s.  Daily prayers said. Holy Mass celebrated. December will soon be here.

I was born in the month of September of 1967 amongst pines,  oaks, and hickory trees. Came out wailing like a jazz trumpeter. Screaming loud notes as Mother held me. Even at birth, I didn’t like what the world had to offer. I sensed evil from the beginning. A crooked world where the fight was to get ahead. Theft, petty larceny, fraud, the killing of innocents, and Christmas all rolled into one. I didn’t want any part of it. So I quit before even starting.

What use is it to be king, I thought. They’ll just kill you eventually. And if you’re a man of peace, God forbid. In grade school, this all occurred to me as truth. This small town, America,  this world was on the take. And while others beat the hell out of one another to get their fair share, I stood in the valley watching, looking at fools play this game.

My father was a participant in all this. Poor bastard thought he could make a difference. Believed wholeheartedly, America was the greatest nation on earth. Capitalism was the true religion. In fact, in the contradiction, he, like all the rest, followed this economic theory of greed as if it were the teachings of Christ himself. Catholics and communists were all going to hell for their sins. The sins of being charitable, kind, and giving of themselves at all cost. I thumbed my nose at this, and at the age of eighteen, declared no more.

Green grass turning brown from September’s heat. Flowers dying. Black-eyed Susans wilting as housewives place mums in baskets much too early. Autumn will be here soon enough. Leaves will change. Morning dew. Crisp air for kids waiting at the bus stop. Morning sunshine and rainy afternoons.

Some do not want summer to end. They like the heat they say. Tans on wrinkled bodies. Sunday BBQ on a new Weber. Charcoal burning. Beers are popped open. Women sit underneath umbrellas gossiping. Husbands talk of football, baseball, and how all is going great in suburbia. Kids ride bicycles on sidewalks, and hopscotch is played.

She waters her plants. Cacti have been dry for weeks now. She read in a magazine to tend to them every month. Blossoms appear.

The young wife talks to herself. Carries on conversations about what she is missing in life. She laughs. Another mistake made, she whispers. Another mistake made.

They met in a bar filled with those searching for something. A wife. A husband. A life like mom and dad’s. Chicago is wearing on them. Some are not made for the city. They cringe at night alone in their beds. They tire of taking the L. No parking spaces. Tickets on cars.

They meet and fall in love. Or, what they think is love. Security is not love. They move in together and play house. He proposes, and voila, they are out in the  burbs cooking hotdogs with Catsup on them.

She waters plants. He mows the yard. Dinner is served at 6:00 p.m.

Dreams do come true.

Alone in bed. Quietly, he lies there. A fan blows cool air across the room. Floodlights come on across the alley, illuminating his window blinds. It is a blue, hazy color. Almost comforting.

The garbage truck rolls down the street. There is no more silence. Now sirens wail, the L goes by, drunks stumble home. Weaving in and out of Mexican restaurants where loud music is played. Burritos for everyone.

He continues to lie there. Thinking about women and taking in the sounds of four a.m. I used to be quite the handsome man, he laughs, coughs, and sputters. Now I’m just old, he whispers.

It’s true. His skin is weathered and wrinkled. Gray hair is slicked back each morning. Yellow teeth are brushed. His bones ache.

The old man climbs out of bed. No coffee. No cream. An empty bottle of Gatorade filled with water is in the refrigerator.  He drinks it halfway down and places it back on the top shelf. Two baby aspirin melt on his tongue. He likes the fake orange flavor. Reminds him of childhood. Two bums fight in the alley. A bus roars past.

It is morning. He has no place to go. Once again, trapped by lack of money. Saltine crackers and sardines in the cabinet. The fat man eats them on a card table and lifts his pen to write a journal entry.

Has the city changed? Or have I? He asks. Youth. Young ones now own this town. Dinosaurs are dying. A tragic life. I’ve accomplished nothing.

He stops himself and realizes he’s rambling. Spewing off words. A taxi cab honks. He looks down on Clark Street, shakes his head, and crawls back into his bed, smiles and covers his body.

The train rumbles past Belmont. This is Belmont, a voice says. Next stop, Addison. Addison will be next. Stay away from the doors.

He feels at home.