dmseay

Scott LaFaro plays bass. Paul Motian on drums. Bill Evans tickles the keys. It is three a.m. 

I sit on the edge of a twin bed rubbing my eyes. There is snow falling on Manhattan. Steam heat fills the room.

A couple argues next door. She calls him an asshole and he says she’s a whore. Screaming and yelling while Sunday at the Village Vanguard plays in its entirety, drowning out the fight just a bit. A glass is thrown at a wall.

My Man’s Gone is turned up. Cracks and pops from the vinyl. A tea pot whistles. I remove the kettle from the hot plate and place tea bags inside of it. More shouting. More yelling. I turn up the radio to tune them out. There is silence next door.

Which one is dead? I wonder. Did she finally kill him? Every night, she threatens. Maybe tonight was the night. My money’s on her.

Tea is poured. Sugar and out of date cream are added. I stir while Solar begins to come over the speaker. I listen and smile. It’s half past three. Only music is heard. Beautiful, beautiful music. I open the window and stick my head out, looking down at the snow-covered sidewalks of 24th Street. There is no other place I’d rather be.

Windows open. Drops of rain fall onto the card table. A breeze blows on his face as he looks out at streetlights glowing, neon signs flashing, red lights turning green. He pours himself a drink.

Scotch, he says. The killer of all poisons in your soul. He turns the rocks glass in his hand and feels the chill of a melting ice cube. He sips. Smiles. And remains looking out the window. It’s raining harder now. The breeze has picked up. A candle is knocked over. He cracks the window.

Mozart is playing on WFMT. Despite thunder and rain, the music comes in clear. The Magic Flute brings back memories. He would listen to this opera back when he was a child on an old turntable his parents got as a wedding gift from Service Merchandise. He remembers the pops and scratches on the album. He listens now and smiles as he cries. Bellowing like a baby. The beauty of music. The wonder of life, he says softly, closing his eyes and moving his arms to the piece. The beauty of music. The wonder of life.

The storm has lifted. Red and orange leaves cover the sidewalks. Couples walk home, and cabs pick up people who have been heartbroken that evening in Chicago by lovers returning gifts and tossing rings aside. Car doors are slammed. Sirens in the distance. The silence of an ambulance that got there too late. The Magic Flute plays on.

He crawls under blankets  and rests his head on a small pillow. A pen and paper on the nightstand waiting for him. He turns on his side and writes. The beauty of music. The wonder of life.

Goodnight.

Two sides of the twin-size bed are mountains high above a valley in the middle where he falls every night. He lies there in darkness, moving side to side, trying to climb to either peak but is unsuccessful. Sheets and blankets wadded up at his feet, kicking them off of his warm body at three every morning with moonlight light shining in his window. A train passes through town.

Again, he struggles to reach the top. Sheets are soaked and stained with yellow makings on a dingy white. The old man is gasping for air. The train whistle blows a final time. Dreams have turned to nightmares.

He pushes with his arms and legs on the sides of the bed, hoping he can get out of it soon. He finally gives up hope, pisses a stream down the middle, and cries out to Jesus.

Every night, it’s the same. A wrapper of Saltine crackers on his nightstand along with two towels. First, he reaches for the towels and begins wiping himself and soaking up the urine. He reaches over the mountain top and grabs a cracker. He eats it hungrily, wishing there were sardines to go with it.

Sunlight now shines. A nurse tells him it’s time for his medicine. She pulls on his arms till he lies erect. The meds are forced down his throat. She leaves him there in the valley.

You wet the bed again, she says. I’ll get an aide to clean you up. Change the sheets, and you’ll feel like a new man. She smiles as he lies in the stream.

He ties a knot in a rope. Tightens by pulling on it with both hands. Ties another one. The rope cuts into his hands, making them bleed a bit. The old man wipes blood on a white towel with automotive oil on it; reeking of petrol. He stares at the cuts on his hands. He laughs, picks up the rope again, and begins forming  a noose.

A folding chair is in the corner. He walks over and brings it to the center of the garage. He stands on it, bounces with his thin legs, trying to decide whether or not this is the right one. He throws the noose over the wooden beam, places it around his neck, and tightens the rope by making another knot. He jumps off the chair. The task is complete.

While hanging in air, the old man thinks while he is choking. Children whose names he forgets. A wife who died long ago. The dog sits under him and barks.

His face is turning red, then blue. Thoughts have stopped. A body swings. The old man is done with this life. He has moved on to the next. No heaven nor hell. Just a baby crying as her mother has given birth.

Randy. Did you hear that? I said, did you hear that? Randy nodded his head. Came from over there, Paul said. Something in the bushes. Could be anything, he said. A stray cat. Some lost dog. I don’t think it’s a coyote, Paul whispered. Could be somebody trying to sleep. Some husband who got kicked out of the house. A kid hiding from the cops. They laughed

Two men in the backyard of suburban paradise. Sitting at a glass table, drinking beers, and talking over old times. They converse about high school football, girls they laid, parties attended.

Do you remember that boy in school. That one kid who walked funny, kind of swishy like. Talked funny, too. Randy said. He was different. Not like the rest of us. Kept to himself. I don’t think anybody talked to him. Not even the retarded kids and they spoke to everyone. He just had a way about him. Remember?

Barely. I was too busy watching girls. Too busy hanging out with my bros, said Paul.

I wonder what became of him. Never see him at reunions, Randy said while lighting up a cheap cigar.

Yeah. I don’t know, Paul told him. Couldn’t tell you.

Sounds came from the bushes. Two squirrels chased each other. The wind blew warm, and the sky grew dark. More noise. They walk towards the side of the backyard, where neighbors are divided by a wooden fence.

Shhhh, Paul said. Don’t say a word. Don’t make a sound. Shhh.

They approached the noise. A groundhog scurried from the scene of the crime, leaving behind a banana peel and an apple core.

Told you it wasn’t no coyote. They don’t come out here no more, Paul proclaimed. Not since I shot that one. Got him in the hind leg. Killed it.

You don’t remember that queer in high school? Randy asked. Paul shook his head. Huh. I guess I’m the only one who thinks about him. I wonder. Just wonder.

What’s that? Paul asked.

If he made it, Randy said.

Probably left town, Paul said, lighting up his cigar. Not everyone is that lucky in life. He twirled the cigar in his mouth. They don’t have what we have, he said. Few people do.

Rusty electrical outlets screwed to baseboards. Water damage to walls. Loose Linoleum tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. Chipped paint. Cracked toilet. Stained carpets. A hot plate on the window frame.

Water is boiled, and tea bags float atop. Sugar and cream containers sit on a card table. Folding chairs on all four sides. The old man sits and waits for the conversation to begin.

Would you care for some tea? He asks his imaginary friend. Wait. I’ll pour it for you, he says to himself. He walks over to the cabinet and pulls two dirty cups from the top shelf; he uses his tee-shirt to wipe out mouse droppings . He pours tea into the cups and hums a song. Is that all there is? He sings. Is that all there is? The old man does a shuffle step and continues singing. If that’s all there is my friend….then let’s keep dancing…

He sits down and pushes the filled cup across the table. Here, he says. Drink up while it’s still hot. He tells him. Go on. Have a sip. He looks at nothing. Would you like some cream and sugar? The pretend partner nods his head. Good. Very good. The old man stirs in spoiled cream and pours sugar into the cups.

There, he says. Isn’t this nice? Lovely? I’m glad you stopped by. He pulls out a half burned cigarette from a pile in the ashtray. Always great to see you. Again, the invisible man nods his head. Yeah. Always great to see you.

He drinks his tea and looks at no one. Turns his head and looks out the window. Snow is falling.

Lovely, he says. Just lovely. He raises his cup. Cheers.

There is no sound like that of quiet. Nothingness. Maybe a faint car horn in the background. A siren, perhaps. Everything still. Steam rises from manholes. Diners with few patrons. Windows wet. The sound of a glass door opening and shutting. Only briefly. Then, back to silence. It’s five o’clock in the morning.

He sits alone in Washington Square Park and hears birds chirping, singing, just before daylight. The air is brisk, and colors have changed. God bless Manhattan in autumn.

Vagabonds lay on benches. Some go through trashcans. Others look for cigarette butts. To find a half burned one is finding gold. He watches. Looks on. A regular is by his side in a blue and white cup that states, We Are Happy To Serve You. He takes a sip, and lights a loosie bought for a quarter.

Someday the smoker will be persecuted, he says to himself. They’ll ban these everywhere. The cigarette police will be out in full force. Wait and see. He laughs. Wait and see.

The sun emerges, and suddenly, there’s  sound. Night drops into day. A pigeon dances beside him. 

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. No cigarette butts. 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.