dmseay

It is two o’clock on a Sunday morning, and the city slumbers, dreams of the week ahead. Much to do at the office or any grindstone throughout town. Steel buildings filled with ants wandering around halls and in front of screens at cheaply made desks, sitting in swivel chairs. Secretaries walking by in skirts with hair in a bun and men trying to stay focused on the task at hand. Why bother? I ask. Why, indeed.

I walk down North Avenue to The Old Town Ale House for a pint or short whiskey. A few cabs are out running swiftly through snow in the streets, which has yet to be plowed. The drivers are used to this torture. Customers telling them how to drive in the white frozen piles that have accumulated in each lane, on every sidewalk, doorways blocked and icy, men in caps with shovels trying their best to keep up, and yet some drunk from Rush Street in the back seat believes he’s in charge. In charge of what? The weather? The cleaning of a filthy city? The cabbie? Yes, the cabbie. It’s my buck, they say to themselves, and no one is going to screw me! It’s the American way. To be in charge, that is. Even the lowest guy on the totem pole at Donahue’s thinks he’s in charge of something or somebody. I’ll show him, they say. I’ll show him a thing or two. Just you wait, mister. Soon, you’ll be under my shoe.

The bar is filled with all types, but all the same. People in from the snowstorm for a glass of beer or a shot. They are lawyers down on their luck. They are jaded journalists waiting for retirement. Waiters and waitresses complaining about customers and Mexican line cooks speaking in Spanish about their homes far-away that they left for the promised land.

I sit there alone yet surrounded. I drink my whiskey on the rocks and throw away the swizzle stick on a napkin next to my hand, which twitches. I am tired, cold, and overjoyed to be in this old drunken palace with other miserable people while Peggy Lee sings, Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friend then let’s keep dancing….

There is much crying in the land of Lincoln. Yelling and screaming in the hometown of Jane Addams, Carl Sandburg, and Saul Alinsky. Poets and politicians of Chicago throughout the years have made this town a refuge for thinkers, artists, intellectuals, scholars, people far smarter, and harder working than I’ll ever be, are the makeup of this metropolis, this Midwest town, this second city. Yet, none of them come close to the working man, the poor, the Southside drug dealers, and Northside whores. It is a city divided in two. What am I saying? It’s a country divided in two.

And here I sit in luxury, having not earned my place. I have not worked hard. I’ve hardly worked. Nothing accomplished in this life. I wonder why I write. No one will ever read it. Hear what I have to say. I am simply scribbling. There is no course of action.

How does one make money and still have dignity? Become a lawyer? A liar? A thief. A businessman who robs and steals from those less fortunate? A minister who prays on the hope and faith of the blind? Who knows.

I knew one thing to be true; I was suffering. I needed a way to make some dough. Relying on Cleo was too easy, too demeaning. I was a little boy getting an allowance. Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes. For you will surely get it.

What a paradise this is. I lie here in total comfort. She is next to me in deep slumber. Looking at her, in the night, with a streetlight coming through sheer curtains, I feel this is too good for me. Where is the struggle? It is nowhere. Certainly not in this apartment, in this  neighborhood, this ward. No. This is easy street. A place where every hard-working urban dweller dreams of being. And I’m  here for free. My sins have not been paid for. In fact, I am paid for committing sin; the sin of sloth, gluttony, fornication and so on, etcetera ad nauseum.

But I am paying for these sins. No work has been done. Not a word written down. Just delicious ham sandwiches, beautiful music, a strong cash flow and constant fucking. And, I am miserable. 

This is playing it safe. This is hiding out in America. I don’t belong here, and if the powers that be found out, I would surely be tossed to the streets to live out my days.

They’re waiting for me. These police of capitalism. Waiting for me to muck it up. They hate people like myself. Those of us who have left everything for chance, a roll of dice, cards played, the ball on the roulette wheel landing on my number. No. They will not stand for any of us taking the easy way. America is hard work. Labor intense. Or complete boredom. Standing on an assembly line riveting tiny screws to cars, you’ll never own. Perhaps baking bread. Yes, our daily bread. Made by machines filled by humans who wait patiently for the clock to ring. The heavy lifting, sore backs, and broken old men with  nothing to show but a few bucks given to them from their own hands. No rewards. Only a percentage of what you’ve paid into the system. A system constantly clogged with shit by the rich and powerful. For Christ’s sakes, grab a plunger. It’s all backing up now and never ever to be flushed away. The smell of money. Thrown at us in small chunks. Bite-size pieces. Hard to digest. Yet it is swallowed whole. And every two weeks, we come back for more. Pigs waiting for ears of corn.

And do I feel guilty for not participating? No. I lie here next to Cleo, my patron Saint of the Arts. The hour is three in the morning. I can not write. The comfort is too great. My spirit is broken. 

I’m in Kurtz’s Tower looking at that old German Goethe. What a smart guy he was. A man focused on the art of writing. A true hero to artists everywhere. I’m trying my best, you old kraut. I’m trying my best.

I open the squeaky doors of the cabinets, and there is nothing. No crumbs of bread nor noodles to boil. Not even a spoonful of peanut butter. And the same is true for the refrigerator. No moldy lunch meat or cheeses. No soft broccoli or rotted lettuce; not a bit of food in the place. I look again at that marvelous statue, and I say to myself, this is the life you’ve chosen. Now get to work. But it’s impossible to work on an empty stomach. There is a constant growling, noises from within telling me to eat you fool. Eat.

This meant seeing Cleo. She had the goods. Ham and turkey on Rye with Swiss cheese and mustard and thick slices of onion, don’t you know. Yes, she was what Miller would call a patron Saint of the Arts. She fed me, and fucked me. Took to my times in need. And the need in that instant was great big sour pickles floating in seasoned brine, a nice bottle of merlot, or a cheap red. I looked in my penny collection and found quarters and dimes, for wine, enough to look like I’m making an effort and traced through the snow-covered streets of Chicago’s Northside to her apartment on Dearborn.  I was on a mission to eat and drink. Perhaps a little merriment with her.  Spend the winter in her place like a babe wrapped in a blanket and fed every hour on the hour.

What was I saying? I could not survive  a season with her. Trapped in her clutches. No writing would get done. But that music would be played. That beautiful music. Bach and Chopin, and Beethoven and Mozart all at me beckon call. She would play for me. And, please me. But, everything comes with a price.

Cleo wanted me to move in with her. She said love had struck her. She could not live without me. This poor creature had no idea what she was in for. My tyraids, my ups and downs. The crying and laughter at odd times. My whole outlook on humanity or lack thereof. I knew one thing. I could not afford to lose her. Financially, there was too much at stake. Emotionally, I figured I could deal with if she ever kicked me out to the streets again. But, I had no wanting to be a part of that. Too much. I could always jump off the downtown bridge in spectacular fashion. End it all if it came to that, I said. End it all.

So, these were the choices. Stay in Kurtz’s Tower with nothing but pad and pencil or live the good life for a change with nightly cocktails and morning coffee, sweet marmalade, and warm wheat toast with seeds on the edges. Eggs and pot roasts, with carrots and potatoes and onions and beer and seasonings for Christ’s sake. Do not spare the salt and black pepper ever. There was plenty to go around. This life. Waking up at midnight and making a sandwich of cold cuts. Eating potato chips. Washing it down with a Coca-Cola. A constant feast. And an ever filled wallet, which I would donate a tenth to the church of  misfortune. Hand out bills to the poor, right under her nose, and then ask for more. Why not I said. Why the hell not. From her father’s bank account to her given to me and passed out to the masses. Christ demanded it. Who was I to let him down.

I’ve learned my lesson. In my youth, the easy way was always taken. No matter what price. Was it easy living on trains for the first year in Chicago? I say yes. Yes, it was. Day labor as well. But, these are young man games and old man hardships. In my insanity I chose that lifestyle. I wanted freedom to come and go as I pleased. But after a while, the body aches a little, and your soul craves comfort. No more staying up most nights worried about the crazies, the criminals, the bullies, and the bullshit that goes along with being homeless. In short, I was tired. And on thirty bucks a day, I knew my chances of getting out of the mire were slim, to say the least. Could I go to a shelter? That would be admitting defeat, I thought. Food stamps? Too lazy to apply. I had to get off the streets somehow. And that’s when criminal behavior begins.

Panhandling was never my scene. I found it to be too self-deprecating. The thought of asking a stranger for a buck or two was a clean way to make a living, but, again, I wanted something easier. So, I gambled.

After each day of work, I showered up real good at the local gym, where I took out a membership for fifty bucks a month at a nice place in Lincoln Park. That first shower felt like water from the heavens cleansing me from within. I was truly thankful. I even bought new black tee-shirts and a pair of jeans as well. A couple of pairs of underwear and I was set for businesses. And, every night, especially Sunday, when people  felt most charitable, I would go to local bars and sit there trying to make conversation. Have them buy the drinks, I thought. Why should I? These scotch and sodas should be gratis. I worked hard or hardly worked to earn them, sitting there listening to hours of bullshit for a small touch from a new friend, so to speak. A ten spot was usually the going rate. They’d inevitably ask what I did, and I told them I was a writer. A struggling artist. They lapped it up like  pigs at a trough wallowing in the shit eating ears of corn they’d later pick from their ass. Schmooze. That’s what I did. And Cleo was smart enough to catch on. One of the reasons I fell for her.

She recognized the type of man I was. And I knew she would be a few months’ investment of time and patience to steer her to my way of thinking. The mindset that it was good to be charitable and give your soul to people down on their luck, especially young artists who needed a break. Long story short, I guilted her. And as you are familiar with capitalism and Ayn Rand, this was no easy feat.

But, I talked her into it. At first, she wanted me to move in, which I told her was not good for the artist. Said I not only needed artistic freedom but freedom to move about the night without her worrying about me. I needed to focus solely on the writing. I needed a place to barricade myself in for weeks on end, delving deep into my soul. And, with some hesitation, God love her, she decided to create the David fund, loaning me money here and there of up to a couple of grand making Kurtz tower a dream come true. Now, I could work at the writing and become a true bohemian artist. Goodbye streets. Hello salvation.

Whether she knew it her not, she was filled with the Holy Spirit. A true daughter of the Father and a sister to the Son. God and Jesus Christ smiled down upon her and blessed her for blessing me. Let the madness begin, I said to myself one night, walking home from her place, kicking a rock on down the sidewalk. Let words bleed through my veins and onto the paper. The blood of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost fill me with sentences, paragraphs, and full-on novels. Write, write, write. Thank you, God. Thank you, Cleo.

In my youth, art was foreign to me, a different language spoken by beautiful souls, put out there on canvass, the stage or screen, with clay or other materials, books, and songs. It was all hard to comprehend. Would I ever be a writer? an artist? No, I often thought. Too much discipline, too many hours of labor. And when you’re young, what does anyone know of discipline and hard work. Humans are soft and squishy like a run over apples in the road on a fall day; nothing solid. Nothing coherent. Just mush.

It wasn’t until I left home and started examining the world around me and writing it down on paper with pencil that I even began the process of being a writer. And those early notebooks were filled with terrible short stories and poems, writing, if I even dare call it that, which was dark and brooding. This is what I thought good writing was. What the hell did I know?

But these hours spent around Chicago writing down these self-indulgent thoughts and scenes from around town at least got me on the path of what it takes to be an artist. I was beginning to gain discipline in my art. If I saw it, thought it, hummed it, encountered it, believed in it, I wrote it down.

This is my task, I said to Cleo. My pencil is my cello. And with it, I shall make music that brings one to tears or great joy. But never to be pitied. I will never pity myself on the page, I told her. That would be inexcusable and just simply bad art. And God knows there’s enough of that around.

David, she said. You are a creature of streets. A vagabond. Don’t ever forget that, she told me. Now, even though there’s a roof over your head and food in your belly, you are still cold and hungry. She laughed. Saying I was an idealist. Nothing more than an idealist who one day might be an artist. But, for now, nothing more than a dreamer.

I wanted to take that cello and stick it right up her ass and pluck those strings as hard as possible with hand and bow. Teach her a lesson her father never taught her. Give her something no lover nor teacher ever had; a lesson in humility.

The problem with Cleo was that life came too easy for her. She was intelligent and beautiful, which are two things needed in America to succeed. God had definitely blessed this child. But, had he really? Remember, the meek shall inherit the earth.

Throughout my life, I’ve always hated the rich and beautiful. Perhaps it was jealousy. Maybe it was the fact that most are assholes, non caring individuals who were out to get theirs and damned be the rest of us. Does that sound of self-pity? Perhaps on the verge of it, but it’s just the way things are in this land. In fact, I think it’s in the Constitution. It sure seems that way. And who am I to argue with that.

All that hate towards rich, beautiful people. And here I was fucking one of them. But, that cello. That music. It drowned me. She drowned me. Submerging me the whole time. Telling me to be myself yet trying to change me into what she wanted. Not only was she a cello player, Cleo was also a sculptor of men. And, there were plenty of busts around her apartment she had shaped and formed to her standards.

Just hang on, David. I told myself. Hold on and enjoy the ride, but don’t lose your soul.

I lived in a studio above a garage; an old brick  carriage house with bamboo on the walls, tacked and taped by its former tenant, a Vietnam vet who lived there briefly. I never heard much about him other than he left in the middle of the night with gun in hand screaming, fuck you, to the world. He sounded like a perfectly rational person, a good human being who had just had enough. Needless to say, I could relate to this man. This symbol of courage and bravery. I assume he had courage and was brave, not necessarily because of his service to his country, but due to the fact he decided to leave it all behind and say, fuck you to all and sundry. Perhaps he was a lesson to us all. A man who realized he could not change anything on this earth for the better. Only heartache, disease, and pestilence throughout this world. And so I decided to call this place Kurtz’s  Tower. The horror. The horror.

I would stand in the window and watch cars pass by on Diversey and stare at the statue of Gothe. Maybe someday I, too, would leave Kurtz’s Tower yelling fuck you to the world as well. Nothing is possible. All is probable.

The futon on the hardwood floor was comforting to me. Often, I would lie there scribbling notes for a book someday, a big fat juicy book of sorrow and pain, along the lines of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace came to mind. Was I seeking pity? no. I merely wanted to tell a tale of how this world is constipated for God’s sake. How this globe was in need of  one giant bowel movement. Get rid of all the waste, all the shit that’s been clogging up the pipes for years. And I decided to write each day at a great pace like a speed freak. Saliva ran from my mouth, and sweat poured from my body as I structured each paragraph. But, what did I know about writing back then? Nothing. Nothing. But I did know this; happiness is the death of art. You might as well murder the work if you’re happy. Take it out into an alley and shoot it for Christ’s sake. Or, chop off an ear. And why not? Why not.

So many thoughts race through my head. The brain never stops. The tears are a constant flow with joy and sorrow. Sometimes, I am light as air, a cool autumn  breeze, while at other times, my mood would change to sadness. A sadness of such despair that I’d often think of ending it all right there on the spot. But then streaks of wonderment, happiness would take over. A feeling I could do anything I set my mind to. These were the nights when I would skip through town, from north to south, the lake to Wicker Park, looking for whatever I could find that would appease me; women, drinks, a great meal at Friars Grill or Sophie’s Busy Bee. Mingling among the normal people. The people I despised, who when I was down and out had nothing to do with the likes of me or anybody else who was not hep or cool, or filled with money and ambition. They were enough to make me sick, wretch out behind a bar in a dumpster, smelling of piss. Maybe my whole life reeked of piss and shit and vomit. I wore these like a fancy man wears cologne, slathering it all on me in times of madness only to wake up after a month or two and realize I was only dreaming, the dream of being awake, an outcast in this city yet fitting right in.

It was during these times that I would call Cleo more and more often. Sometimes for sex and compassion or just a bed to sleep in. For a Republican she had a heart of gold. For someone who spoke so fondly of Ayn Rand, she was very giving. She was ripe for the picking. I could convert her, I thought. I could teach her new tricks in life. Make her believe, dear old dad was a horrible person, which he was, and lead her astray. She needed this. I needed this. She would become something I could not live without. Joy and pain all wrapped in one. A bipolar paradise.

My mind was no longer filled with thoughts of saving this world for the poor and destitute. Sure, I gave a dollar here and there to bums at Lake and Halsted, but no longer did I wish to save their souls. What man wants to save this world anyway? A fool, I said. Only a fool.

No, from now on, I would become a true American. A true patriot if you will. I would follow the lead of the mighty dollar. Watching it wherever it would go. Actively going out and pursuing the riches that God and man have placed before me. This was the American way. Do not help your fellow man. Take from him all that he has to give, they say. And, why not?

So I work at saving money. I worked at getting off the streets and into a cozy bed with stuffed pillows, warm blankets, clean sheets. While some are born with this notion, it took me a while to catch on. What a naive fool. An uneducated fool, I thought. Although I’d read many books, I knew nothing. From now on, I would be Ahab. A man in search of his nemesis. Some pursue whales while others chase the dollar. There are no whales in Lake Michigan. But there are sail boats and jet skis, and women frolicking on the beach with newfound lovers while the riches of the city act as a backdrop to decadence.

Think of all you’ve missed, Davey boy,  I told myself. Start this mission of money now. Earn it, marry it, steal it, whatever you have to do; just do it. Commit these sins of the earth. These laws against God. The meek? I will be meek no longer, I said. No longer.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was Cleo. She came from new money. Her father, the old bastard made a fortune selling toilet paper, plastic cups, paper plates, and all that was required for decency. If you needed your ass wiped, he was the man to see.

She went to the finest schools. Private institutions where the rich and powerful sent their kids to learn culture, art, history,  linguistics, the Greeks, and how to screw over your fellow man. Cleo had that in her. Yet, at the same time, while admiring William F. Buckley, she had a tender side as well. What artist doesn’t?

The problem with Cleo was that she had never suffered. I’ll show her suffering by God. I’ll give her enough grief to fit into two or three lifetimes, I yelled silently. And why not? See what it gets you, I told myself. Give it a shot.

But, when I think of her playing that cello. I hear suffering. I hear beautiful pain. I want to be a part of it. A part of her.

Your time will come, David Michael. Your time will come.

I lay in bed as she makes a humming noise from the kitchen where she is preparing a meal fit for a king; a sexual king who’s been up all night riveting and turning the screw within. What a joyful task.

There is music playing from her living room. A beautiful sound of classical music. It could have been Bach or Mozart or that crazy German Beethoven who, in later years, could not hear a single note, the poor bastard. All that music in his head to drown out the silliness of others only to hear marvelous symphonies connecting purely to the heart, no discussions by pseudo intellectuals pretending to be well read, well educated, well hung. All of society tossed out on deaf ears. Ludwig, you lucky sonofabitch. Cursed in one way and blessed in another. May I be that fortunate some day.

Of course, I say this fully, knowing that I, too, have become somewhat deaf. Deaf to the struggles of men in mines trying to survive. Deaf to famine and the diseased. No longer do I hear the crying out in the streets of Calcutta or Bogota, or Lima, or definitely not Chicago, where the poor are poor and the rich along the Gold Coast are truly rich with old money and old ways.

Her body is wrapped in a white towel. She carries to me a tray of oranges and ripe melon and granola with vanilla yogurt. I am famished, and I eat like an animal as she stretches her hand under the sheets and begins stroking my cock. She smiles and says, where were we?

For the life of me, I can not remember her name. I look around the room as she slides me into her mouth. Frantically, I look at pictures of her, and others, hoping a name appears, a soft wondrous name that is full, and I can truly wrap my lips around. A name that I can’t wait to say, like an infant trying desperately to utter his first words. She grabs my face and kisses me. She then leaves the bedroom, and I hear a cello playing a lovely piece. She is stroking the instrument with her bow. It stands between those beautiful legs of hers. She is now naked.

You like? She asked. I tell her very much. She continues to play. Softly at first then in dramatic fashion, she caps off the piece with a loud crescendo. I feel as though I will burst. I have burst. Only a feeling of ecstasy fills me.

Every morning, I practice in the nude, she says. Naked to the world. The only way a true artist can become one with their art, she said. I have become one with my art.

I sit and listen to this cellist with long red hair and freckles on her breasts. I am captivated. She tells me she plays in the Chicago Philharmonic. She says each night she is paid to climax on stage in front of a large audience who truly appreciate her. Imagine that, I say to myself. Imagine that.

Upon leaving, she hands me a matchbook with her name and number along with a large pair of red lips.

Cleo, I say to myself. Her name is Cleo. I kiss her goodbye and whisper till next time Cleo into her ear. Till next time, she says. Till  next time.