dmseay

The sky is closed. Business hours are over. Tired souls on the bus heading west over mountains of red clay on a four lane highway through West Texas going into New Mexico. Some look out windows and point while others sit in silence; thinking of wives left behind, children abandoned, mistakes made.

He sits alone as dawn approaches. Chicago is a thousand miles away. Muddy Waters sings inside his head. A flask is lifted to his lips. A quick drink and a cough. Prayers are never heard.

I want to see the ocean, he told her. That’s the one thing I want before I die: he coughed and sputtered. Spits out clear liquid into a red handkerchief.

What’s wrong with Lake Michigan? She asked. We could walk on the sand and wade in the water together. The wife grabs his arms. Don’t do this. She pleaded. Don’t go.

He holds up a Greyhound ticket. One way to Los Angeles. The old man smiles at her. It’s time. He said. We had a good run.

Calling from a phone booth in Albuquerque, he tells the operator to make it collect. She accepts the charges.

Frank, she cries. Frank. Where are you?

Albuquerque,  he says as Mexicans and Indians walk by. He coughs into his soaked rag. A little brown girl stares at him. We have a layover here, he tells her. Couple of hours.

Turn around Frank, she says. Come home.

I’m not going into some God damned hospice. I want to walk out into the Pacific. Feel something for a change. More flem comes up from his thin chest. He bends over and coughs more. The phone slips through his hand. He falls on the tile floor. Coughing and shaking. Sweat pours from his forehead.

Frank, she says. Frank. Answer me, Frank. She yells from a thousand miles away. Frank. Frank.

The phone dangles. His body is carted away in a silent ambulance. The little brown girl grabs the phone. She hears crying and a woman’s voice. Frank, the wife sobs. Frank.

Hi, the little girl says. Why are you crying?

Is Frank there? His wife asks.

I don’t know Frank. But I think he’s gone, ma’am. I think he went away. The kid’s parents’ motion for her to hang up the phone and come to them. I have to go  now, she says. The girl reaches high and hangs up the phone.

Ceiling fan rotates. Room is dark. A streetlight cast a shadow on a white wall. Porchlight glows. 

She sits on a couch. Cushions sink. Torn. Ripped. Burn marks on a wooden floor. A book in her hands.

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. Pages yellowed. Lines marked in orange. She’s on page 457. Places it on the coffee table. Why can’t I ever finish this book? She asks herself. Why?

In the kitchen, a tea pot whistles. A cup is poured. Earl Grey. She adds milk and honey. Rummages through cabinets and finds no food. Nothing. Sips her drink. A piece of wheat bread hiding. It expires the next day. If only there was butter, she says. Laughing, she nibbles at the piece.

Radio is turned on. Public radio station playing jazz. She is alone. No one down the hall. Not a soul in the bedroom. Just her. By herself. She sips tea again. Chews on bread. Stares off into space while lady sings the blues.

It is dawn. Her head lies on folded arms. The L screeches to a halt. Wilson, the voice says. This is Wilson

Train doors open and close. She hears the conductors voice saying Addison. Addison is next. Next stop, Addison.

She stretches, yawns, and starts her day. There is nothing new. Same old same old.

There’s dew on trash cans. Grass is soaked. Crickets sing in the coolness of a summer morn. It is still.

I sit on the back porch, drinking coffee and waiting for her to wake. A hundred miles away. Sleeping in a bed that was once ours. A cat lies in her arms. 

This is not a movie; not a song. It is life in action. We find ourselves afraid at times. Scared to say what we really feel. What we really want. No lines rehearsed. Straight from the soul. That’ll get you every time.

And so I wait. Listening to crickets this August dawn. Telling myself to call her. Just call her.

The soul knows what’s best.

I wonder, he said. I wonder what you’d think of me if I was younger? She blushed. If my skin wasn’t wrinkled and my long gray hair black and styled.

He looked up at the television. Red Sox were winning 3-2 over the Yankees. September is a cruel month, he told her. She sipped her gin and tonic. Summer is ending, he said. A new year gets closer. And I, my dear. Well, anyway. He drank from a mug. Salt on a napkin. I just get older. He laughed.

You have any regrets? He asked the blonde. Any mistakes you wish weren’t made? She nodded and smiled. That’s not true, he said. You’re too young. Your record is clean. Only minor infractions, he told her. You broke some hearts. Mislead lovers. No, he looked at her. These are trivial matters.

I once had a wife, he confessed. No children. Just me and her. We were wild. Never got enough of each other. We’d  wake up intertwined. Holding one another.

What happened to her? She asked.

She left me, he said. God took her. As he always does. The girl nodded. She was gone in September, he salted his beer. The lager fizzed. Cancer, he said. She was Forty-five.

They both looked at the TV screen. Final score from Fenway, 5-4. Yankees win.  Another long winter for Red Sox Nation.

Yeah, he said. September is a cruel month.

Flat top road. Yellow line separates traffic coming from both directions. Auburn trees, dropping leaves, some leaning to the side. A hitchhiker walks backward.

A pack of dogs runs in the woods. They come from different homes. Runaways, unwanted animals looking for food. Bathing in a fountain. Will they ever find peace?

Truckers carrying logs. Long stretches of lumber with red flags attached to them. Cars follow with caution.

Honey, hand me that thermos between your feet. He tells her.

Do you want me to pour you a cup? She asks.

Sure. Shake it first. All that sugar on the bottom. Mix it well. He looks at her and then back on the road.

Here, she gives him the cup. Her hand shakes a little. Can I have some? The girl asks. He drinks and passes the coffee to her. She takes a sip and fumbles through her backpack for a cigarette and lighter.

Where are you going again? The driver asks. She stares out the side window. I asked, where are you going?

Where are you heading? She asks.

I gotta drop this load in Pittsburgh,  he tells the kid.

That’s as good a place as any, the blonde girl replies.

Why are you leaving Morgantown? The truck driver enquires. West Virgina is really pretty this time of year. You must be running from something or someone, he says. Was it really that bad?

What? She inhales smoke and blows it out of her mouth and nose.

You look like a dragon. He laughs. All that smoke. Where’s the fire?

What? She’s getting angry.

Fire, he says. Dragons breathe fire. Anyway. Is it really that bad?

She continues looking out her window. Mister, she says. I’ll ask again. What are you talking about?

The thing you’re running from.

I’m just running, she says. The girl rolls up her flannel sleeves, revealing a hospital wristband.

They traveled a while. Drove through mountains and onto highways. They both remained quiet. Not a word said. Just silence.

The driver turns on the radio. Karen Carpenter is singing a song. He hums along. The kid remains speechless.

This song is called Superstar. About a groupie. I fell in love with you….before the second show….He sings to her. She sure could sing. Shame what happened to her. Sad. Wouldn’t want to see that happen to you, he said. Here, screw this back on the thermos.  Tight now. Thanks.

Could we not listen to the radio? The teen asks.

Sure. He turns it off.

They go back to silence. Neither revealing much about themselves. Just driving quietly in the cool night air.

Do you go downtown? She asks.

I can. He tells her. Any particular place?

Just downtown. She says.

I’ll drop you off by the hospital, he tells her. Maybe they can get a straight answer from you, he says.

I doubt it. She looks at him. I seriously doubt it.

Back to silence.

You don’t believe me. Do you? He asked. I can tell by looking at you. You’re saying this man’s a liar. And, you could be right. He took a drag from his cigarette. I’ve seen your type before, he added. Always questioning. Always a doubt. The short man said to her. What is it about me that looks suspicious? He drank from his coffee cup. What is it? His fist slammed down on the table. She sat quietly.  Looking at him. Right, he said. You can’t name it. The waitress brought over their plates.

You know what gets me? He asked. The point of it all, he continued. All this digging in the trenches. And for what? She took a bite of her omelet. Look at me, he told her. I said, look at me. He grabbed the fork from her hand. I’m making a statement here. Saying something important. Now, look at me when I speak. He demanded. The empty man touched the face of a younger woman. Just look at me.

Is everything alright here? The waitress asked. The two of them nodded. How’s your breakfast? They smiled. The tall server wrote out a check and turned it upside down on the table; sliding it towards him. I’ll take it when you’re ready. She said. No rush.

As she walked away, the gray-haired man watched her. They both looked at the way she walked. Admired her long red hair. Smiled when she turned around.

Your food is getting cold, the girl said. You should eat.

When I was young, my mother made me eat everything on the plate. She said they were starving in China and Africa. Spoke of famine and disease. All this over bits of uneaten food. She laughed.

Well, he said. I hated her, too.

There’s nothing there. No one. Not a man or woman. No children laughing on swingsets. It’s all very quiet. No cars going by nor trains rolling on tracks. Just silence.

I walk throughout this city in hours before dawn. People are dreaming. Some in love hold onto each other while many sleep apart; opposite sides of a bed that peaks and falls. These are the lucky ones. They know the truth. Battle scars on their souls from lovers of past and spouses of present.

Neon signs blinking over closed liquor stores and bars along Division Street. Soon, the Polish will open their doors just as the sun is rising. A shot and a beer before pouring concrete, building driveways, stacking bricks, bumbling through another day of  life. A Nelson Algren nightmare.

Me? I’m going nowhere. Simply walking to where life takes me. Body filled with chemicals. A growling stomach. Breath hollow. A rat runs down an alley.

But still, no sounds. Just silence as streetlights flicker, reds and greens gleam into morn.

Upton Sinclair died for our sins. Need I say more.

I was telling Patty on the way over here that you strike me as a charcoal man, he said. And sure enough, here you are starting up the old Weber. He laughed. Need any help? The host shook his head. Smiled and took a drink of his Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.

The briquettes were formed in a pyramid. Doused in lighter fluid. A match was struck.

Love that smell, the guest said. Something about lighter fluid and  charcoal burning. Smells like summer. Don’t you agree? He asked.

The host nodded his head and took another drink. They stood there on the concrete driveway, watching flames rise up. Orange and blue flames. Smoke poured out into the suburban sky.

Funny, our wives being hair stylists, the guest said. They used to call them hair dressers. Nowadays, it’s stylists. Just like you can’t call a waitress a waitress anymore. They’re servers. Did you know that? He asked. The host nodded. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling mechanics auto specialists. He laughed.

The host tore off a branch from the oak tree in the backyard and began stirring the burning charcoal into an even spread on the bottom of the grill. Flies flew around the hamburger patties. He took his hand and shewed them away.

Patty really likes JoAnn, the guest said.  Says she makes her day at the salon go quicker. Makes her laugh. Does she make you laugh? The host smiled and took another drink of his beer. Great little body on her, he said. Yeah, you’re a lucky man. She’ll never get fat.

Right, the host said. He began placing the burgers on the grill. Yeah. I’m really lucky.

I’m going to go inside real quick and take a leak. You need anything? Another beer? He asked.

Sure.

He began flipping burgers. Putting cheese on each one. Real cheese. American cheese.

Sure does smell good out here, the guest said.

Yeah.

Oh. Here’s your Miller. The sweaty bottle was handed to the host. Yes, sir. This is summer. So. What’s your game? The host looked at him. What do you do?

Nothing right now. Just take unemployment each month. That’s all, he said. Just waiting. Like everyone else in this town. He began taking the cheeseburgers off the grill. You want your buns toasted?

That’d be nice.

Why don’t you go grab the buns from JoAnn. The host said.

I’ll be right back. He slid the glass door open, then shut.

A single gun shot was heard. The fire was now gone. Just white smoke off a hot grill.

Watching her. She moves slowly. Playfully. Like a cat batting a ball on a string. She knows what she is doing. It’s killing you, he says. She runs and hides behind a smile.

The motor is humming. Wiper blades go back and forth. Headlights turned on.

She sits up front with you. Fiddling with the dial. Jazz is played at four in the morning on the public radio station. She lights a cigarette with a glowing lighter. Cracks her window a bit and says, I’m ready.

A yellow light blinks at the intersection. He slows down and drives through. Everything is covered in snow. Santa has come and left.

I remember being a child the day after Christmas, she says. The disappointment of it all ending. A month of  celebration done overnight. Lights and a plastic tree were put away till next year. She continues looking out her window.

Life goes on, he says. Look at where you are now. Music continues playing. Sidney Bechet blowing his clarinet. Playing clearly, loudly. Not a single squeak.

I love Sidney Bechet, she says. I played clarinet when I was a kid, she says in between puffs. I liked Pete Fountain, too.

Snow plows take to the streets. She places her hand on his thigh. We should be there by nightfall, he tells her. There will be time for lunch in Pittsburgh. Or would you rather wait for dinner in Detroit?

Whatever you want, dear. She looks back as they leave town. Whatever you want.

It’s a game she plays. Telling him whatever he wants. Then, setting a price for his next move. I’d think about that, she says. Lunch or dinner? I’d think about that.

Right. Yes.  I will. He tells her.

She moves slowly. Playfully. She smiles. That’s good, dear. That’s good.

Sidney Bechet hits his final note.

.

Candy bar wrappers lying in the gutter. Coke cans crushed in the street. A yellow light flashes at the intersection. Left goes west, and right leads you east. Dogs chase an old pickup truck down the street. A feral cat roams the alley. Cop cars cruise by stores on Main Street. The donut shop is open for business.

He carries a book bag filled with underwear, deodorant, toothpaste, a tee-shirt, and a copy of Ulysses. This is not Dublin.

On the corner, men stand in line for work at City Day Labor. Jobs handed out to those lucky ones; they’ll get to drink tonight. Tickets are given with company names on them and addresses. Some will take the bus. Others will walk a mile or two.

The young man gets in line with the others. A job is handed to him; laborer on a construction sight out by Highway 30.

This all you got? He asks the man in the cage, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee.

You don’t want it? The caged animal asks.

Something a little closer would be great, he tells him.

You’re white. Sober. I’ll see what I can do, the boss man tells him. What’s your name?

Bloom, the youngster says.

Have a seat on the bench. I’ll see if something comes in. He goes through tickets and gives the laborer job to a Mexican waiting next in line. The immigrant makes no complaints and takes the job. He has a long walk ahead of him.

Hours go by, and the young man reads of Irish pubs and whores. A day in Dublin. He wishes he was there.

Bloom, the canary sings. Your lucky day, he says. Got a beer truck for you. Pays more than the rest. Lots of lifting. You want it? He asks.

How much? asks Bloom.

Fifteen an hour.

I’ll take it.