dmseay

A chair in the middle of a room. A light swinging on an extension cord hangs above. A dark-haired man paces back and forth. He smokes a cigarette and blows smoke up into the air, tilting his head back a little. There is a six-pack of beer on the concrete floor along with a lighter and some Viceroys. The man is naked.

Yeah? He asks.

It’s me, a voice answers. I’ve got your stuff.

Leave it.

Where? The voice asks. Here by the door?

Yes. On the left side. Place it there. He tells him. Wait. What did you bring?

A six-pack, cigarettes, Vaseline, and a bologna sandwich.

What’s on the sandwich?

Mustard and American cheese. The voice says.

Just leave it.

Oh. And a letter she wrote. In an envelope. It feels like a letter.

Open it, he tells the voice.

The voice opens the letter and discovers cash in the envelope as well. Tens, twenties, a fifty, all folded and tucked away in the envelope.

You want me to slide it under the door? The voice asks.

Read it.

What?

Read the letter to me. He stands next to the wooden door. Bends down and places his ear to the keyhole. Go on, he requests. Read it.

Dear Lenny. How are you today? I wanted to tell you how much I miss you. How much I’m concerned. I hope you reconsider. Lovingly, Doris.

That’s it? He says.

That’s all. The voice silently counts the money. Did you expect her to say more?

No. He tells the voice. No, I did not.

I see.

Leave it on the left side.

Sure. Goodbye, sir. The sandwich, beer, Vaseline, and cigarettes are placed on the left side.

Books stacked in milk crates. Beckett, Dostoyevsky, Miller, Kerouac, Mailer, and others nestled tightly. A card table with a wine bottle used to hold a candle. Red and orange wax melted over the label. Two metal chairs warmed by sunlight came through the windows. A radio tuned to WKCR.

He holds a stack of quarters in his hand. Shuffling change, he tries to think clearly of how to spend it; phone calls at the corner payphone or a slice of pizza bigger than your head. Or maybe a tall beer at Rudy’s with a free hotdog. The last seems to be the logical choice. He doesn’t like talking to people, and a beer sounded good. The gray-haired dreamer continued trickling coins through his thick fingers and thumb.

The old man looked down on 24th Street from his open window. It is summer, and the city smells. Trash piled up, dead rats in walls, and exhaust from trucks,  cabs, busses, various toxins, whores perfumed and piss in alleys. It’s a smell he likes. An acquired taste.

His sneakers have holes. Socks are dingy black. He puts them on and smells under his arms.

Walking up 9th Avenue to Hell’s Kitchen, he sees the famous pig mascot outside of Rudy’s. A statue for all of New York to behold. Perhaps the bar’s greeter or host for many of Manhattan’s drunken casualties or gin and tonic storm troopers throughout the years. He touched the swine’s belly for good luck before entering the establishment. The fool was glad he’d made this choice.

Handing over his dirty money, he got a hotdog with mustard and  cold beer from the tap. Salty music played on the jukebox. The old man hummed along.

He sat at the bar and gave thanks for his life, his luck. He whispered, it doesn’t get any better than this.

We took turns pushing you on the swingset. You would go high when I pushed you. Mom didn’t push you so hard. She was scared you might fall out, he said. Then I’d grab onto the rusted chains and slow you down till you landed safely, Dad told him. You used to laugh. You don’t do that much anymore.

What’s that? The son asked.

Laugh. The two walked on for a while. Picking up sticks in the park. Pieces of oak and hickory. Pine and other soft woods. There was a quiet between them. They just looked at the ground. Do you have fun anymore? Dad asked.

The kid shrugged his shoulders. Picked up more sticks. I don’t know, dad. Sometimes.

Like when?

When I think of mom, he looked down at the grass and leaves. Around springtime, when it’s not so cold. When I put on my favorite jacket. The one mom used to button up for me.

Yeah, said dad. I miss her, too.

Did you love him? the son asked his mother. Or at least care about him? She nodded. Lit a cigarette and placed the pack on the wooden table next to a water stain. Hard to talk about, isn’t it? he looked at her and asked silently if he could have a smoke. His mom again nodded yes. He lit it with a Zippo he carried in his front pants pocket, which smelled of lighter fluid. Funny thing, he said. If you mail it to them, they’ll fix it for free. He laughed. Somewhere in Pennsylvania. I forget. Thinking of sending this one in. It leaks something fierce. She nodded. So. Did you love him?

Mom got up and put some water in a pot for tea. You want some? I got herbal and black. Which one you want? She held the two tea bags up with her pinkies. He pointed at the black one. Did I love your dad? She asked with her back turned to him. Yeah. Yeah I did. Before he went crazy. You remember?

He used to come home late. I’d hear him stumbling down the hall. Knocking pictures off the walls. Cursing.

Right. He’d get really mad at himself. Cursing and carrying on. She poured the tea into green cups that said Michigan on them with outlines of a lake and deer. 

He ever hit you? 

No. She placed the tea on the table. Stirred sugar into hers. Pushed the bowl over to him. Never hit me. He was never that type of guy. He just got drunk all the time and threatened to kill himself.

I never knew this. 

Kept it hidden as much as I could.

I remember hearing him cry a lot, he said.

Yeah. He’d get really sad till I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to let go. It was killing me.

So you kicked him out?

He left on his own accord. She sipped her tea. Lit another cigarette. Woke up after midnight and heard the truck starting. I figured he was going out for a pack of smokes. Maybe a half pint. Anyway, I fell back asleep. You know the rest.

Yeah. I do.

I got a letter from him about a year later. He said he was in Alaska working in a cannery. Said he smelled like fish all the time.

Is that all he said?

He said to tell you he loved you.

You never told me he said that.

I’m telling you now.

They sat quietly and drank their tea.

Curtains hanging in windows blocking out the sun. A cat in the corner nursing her young. A coffee can filled with piss.

Two men sit at a card table in metal folding chairs, playing dominoes. A score pad is lying there with a pen beside it; slid back and forth as points are made.

Five connects with ten, making it fifteen, Paul says. Woowee. I’m on a roll.

John examines the table and his dominoes. He takes a drink from a half pint bottle of whiskey. I’ll connect the fives as well and take a few myself. He tells his competitor as the score pad is pushed towards him.

Both men look hard at the wooden pieces that lay before them. Black with white dots representing numbers, points. Paul begins to bite his nails. They’re black and blue. Chipped. His knuckles are bloody, skin torn away.

Momma cat goes looking for food. John takes a potato chip and hands it down to her. She examines it, and the young man rubs her ears. He stands and takes a leak in the Maxwell House can.

Can’t you do that in a corner? Paul asks. I don’t want to see your business.

You’ve seen it before.

You must be mistaken, Paul tells him, eyes focused back on the blocks.

Nope. I’m pretty sure it was you, says John. In fact, I know it was. You look at it all the time. You can’t wait for me to pull it out. He laughs.

Better watch what you’re saying, boy. If you’re saying what I think you’re saying. Questioning my manhood. I’ll knock your ass down. The cat circles Paul’s ankles. She head butts his calves. Rubs up against him. He pulls a chip out of the bag and gives it to her. She licks the salt off of it.

John places the can back on the dirt floor. Some spills out, making mud.

Damn it, Paul yells. Be more careful. Don’t wanna go around here stepping in puddles of piss.

John laughs. I think piss is the least of our troubles. Both men look at each other and glance down at the table.

You think you’re a real tough guy. Don’t you? Paul says.

I suppose so.

Paul reaches under and turns the table upside down. Dominoes and chips fly everywhere.

Why did you go and do that for? John asks. Sonofabitch. He begins picking up the dominoes and places them in a purple Crown Royal bag. I’m done playing with you. He walks over to the window and pulls back the curtains. He pushes on the handles and begins to slide his thick body through onto the grass outside.

Come back here, Paul screams. Get  back in here now.

John keeps walking.  He hears Paul crying out but continues to walk. He begins to whistle ‘Round About Midnight.

Paul keeps crying.

Waking up in Montpelier. A cool September morning. There’s frost on the windshield. An empty coffee cup on the floor along with candy bar wrappers and a Burger King bag. Some loose fries, cold and stiff.

It’s six o’clock. A rusty truck passes by carrying firewood. Lights come on in homes up and down College Street. Mothers packing lunches. Dads reading newspapers.

I notice a little girl kissing her mother goodbye on the cheek. She jumps down the steps of the porch and skips on the sidewalk, carrying her books. Something about her is familiar. Her face looks like a colored photograph. Bright blonde hair in pigtails. I can’t make out her eyes, but she’s short and chubby. So am I.

Getting out of the car, I lean on the hood. Waiting to get another glimpse of the mother. She comes out on the front porch and shakes a rug. Bread crumbs fly onto the ground, mixing with morning’s dew.

She is tall. I remember my old girlfriend being tall and blonde. The young woman places her hands on her hips and walks towards me. I feel frozen. As if I’ve been caught. We all pay for our sins.

Jimmy? Is that you? She asks. I nod my head. What are you doing here?

Not sure. Driving around the country, and I thought I’d stop here in Montpelier.

It’s been a few years, she says. I had almost forgotten you. You haven’t changed. Still wrestling with yourself?

Yeah. You could say that. I look at her. She hasn’t changed either. I saw a little girl skipping off to school just now. I’m not the….

She laughs. No. I married after you. My husband is the father.

I see. I light a cigarette. 

She shakes her head. Those things will kill you.

Yeah.

How did you find me?

Luck. Pure luck. It’s not like I tracked you down or something. Believe me. I’m  just as surprised as you are.

Yeah, she says. Well, look. I got things to do. You take care of yourself.

You, too.

Bye.

I waved and watched her walk away.

It’s hot, he said. Hot in here. He checked the thermostat. Seventy-four? This thing is at seventy-four degrees, he raised his  voice. Did you set it for seventy-four? he asked his wife. She sat quietly, doing needle point. Stitching baby blue yarn together. I’m turning it down, he told her. Too hot. Not to mention the cost.

I like that temperature, she responded. Reminds me of summertime. When the sun is out. People mowing their yards. Going to see our son play baseball. I like that. And it’s so dreary outside. And cold. I need heat. I need memories of summer.

I see. We’ll compromise. He said. I’ll set it at seventy. OK. How does that sound? She nodded her head in approval.

I hate winter.

I know you do. He dipped his pipe into a can of Prince Albert. Packed it and lit up. She put her project down on the coffee table. He turned on the TV.

Winter makes me sad, she said. I always think of terrible things.

Uh huh. He continued watching television. Lawrence Welk was on. Bobby and Cissy were dancing a waltz. An accordion played.

Thinking back to when he was sliding down that hill in the park. I told him it was too steep. Told him not to. She picked up her needles and began stitching again. This time at a slower rate. Then the car. We should’ve never gotten him that car. She looked up at her son’s picture above the mantle. We made mistakes, Thomas. She said.

We didn’t drive the car, Annie. We didn’t speed.

Should have been more strict.

Thomas went back to watching the show. He blew gray smoke from his mouth. Anger was setting in. He puffed faster.

No discipline, Annie said. We spoiled him. She stitched quietly while he flipped through channels.

It’s cold in here, honey. Please turn it up to seventy-four, she said. He nodded his head and did as he was told.

The heat kicked up higher. Snow began to fall. She closed the curtains.

Naima plays on the radio. The lamp lets off a dim light of yellowish orange. A beer can acts as an ashtray. Quarter filled bottle of whiskey.

Now Miles is blowing Summertime. I sit in a metal folding chair with a small television in front of me. The screen is blank. It’s been blank for years. Never gets turned on. Just like women I’ve known. Just cold screens offering nothing. No pictures inside of them. Their true colors hidden.

I wonder what’s inside? A picture tube, wires of different colors? A squeaky speaker? It just sits there. They have just sat there. I try to turn the knobs but nothing comes on. Silence.

They’re playing it cool. So cool. Women and television sets. I wonder what’s on? Wild Kingdom? Some soap opera? PBS showing Live From Lincoln Center?

There’s a lot in there. Cable would be a waste.

The humidifier leaks. He rubs his hands with alcohol. Medications lay on a table. Sounds of semis going up and down Highway 41.

It’s dark outside. A lamp, lets off little light by his La-Z-Boy. Flowers in a vase.

She wakes up and walks down the hall. Pictures hang on the walls. Parents, grandparents, and kids they had, now gone.

Sitting on the sofa, she lights a cigarette and blows out the match. He sits in silence. Rocks back and forth. Smoke is blown into the air.

Do you remember Robby? She asks. He nods his head. That boy was destined for trouble. She laughs. So was that boy, Jimmy. Couldn’t keep a hold on them. Seems they were always getting into trouble. Her husband turns his face away. Continues rocking.

No wonder they’re dead, she says. It was only a matter of time. He nods quietly. Moans a bit.

They were your responsibility, she tells him. Boys should listen to their fathers. You never demanded they do so.

The old man gets up from his chair and looks at an empty gun cabinet that used to be filled with shotguns. He just looks in the glass at himself.

You want eggs? She asks. He shakes his head and walks out to the back porch. Birds flying south. Deer running in the woods. The sounds of shotguns going off.

He just stands there. His wife joins him. What day is it? He asks.

Thanksgiving.

Kids playing in a sandbox. Swings blown in the wind, making a creaking noise. Rusted chains. Two women sit on a park bench with a bottle in a brown sack between them, passing it back and forth.

Careful Jimmy. Don’t throw sand, one woman says, while the other takes a drink, lips around crinkled paper.

Susie, put down the rock, honey. Put it down, says the other mom. That’s good, dear. Go back in the sandbox, sweetie. Go on, she says. Good. Now stay there. The daughter runs sand through her fingertips.

The two women sit quietly, still passing the bottle to each other. Rings missing on both women. One blonde and the other brunette. They sit in silence.

Jimmy? What are you doing? Play with your truck, Jimmy. Yeah. Drive it. Can you make a road for it? The son nods his head and smiles. No front teeth.

They’re growing up fast, Susie’s mom says. Soon, they’ll be dating. Have jobs. Getting married.

Jimmy’s mom still remains quiet and still. She takes another drink and lights a cigarette. Hands the pack to her fellow mom.

I hope he grows up fast, Jimmy’s mom says. I want him out of the house when he turns eighteen.

You’re just going to kick him out?

Yes. The day after his birthday.  Best gift I can give him. He’ll learn to be tough. To situate in the world. The two go back to silence. Jimmy’s mom finishes off the bottle. She weaves over to the trashcan and throws it away.

I have no idea what will become of Susie. I just hope she doesn’t wind up like me.

The swings are still blown in the wind. Sounds of kids laughing. The moms sit and watch.