dmseay

Services for Dell “Pennyhead” Sullivan will be held, 2:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. on Friday, May 8th, at McDougall and Sons Funeral Home. Come and say goodbye to a jazz legend.

They stood in the corner with drinks in hand. Smitty drank his scotch and milk while others had  cheap bottles of beer. A box of red wine was poured for some as well.

I heard his liver was so swollen you could lose a jar of quarters in it, Jermaine “Jellyfish” Matson told the group of men by the coffin. Let that be a lesson, boys. Too much of this stuff will get you, he said.

Amen, said Shifty. Gotta watch that drinking. It’ll kill you. He looked at Dell’s body laid out in a pinstripe suit.

Shit, Marty Philps said. You gonna die anyway. Might as well enjoy it, he toasted, glasses clanked in the air.

Here, here, Jimmy “Fatman” Jones agreed. Here’s to living till the end, he said. Enjoy every day the good Lord gives you, more clanking of bottles and snifters.

He was a hell of a tenor man now, wasn’t he. I remember playing The  Mill with him a long time ago. The more the night went on, the drunker he got, and the better he sound, said Lonnie Tatum. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Don’t put a brother down when he’s lying there, Matty Davis told him. Ain’t right. Pennyhead was about living. Living life to the fullest. Shit. That man had women all over the country, Davis laughed. We’d stop to play a show in K.C. and there’d be a blonde. Detroit, some redhead. More women than Coltrane had notes. They all grinned. But hell. Didn’t we all. More toasts. More clanking of drinks.

I’m gonna miss him, Lonnie said. I’m sure gonna miss him.

We all are, said Fatman. We all are.

Short nights. Morning comes way too soon. No dreams to speak of. The constant state of being awake.

I thought of you. How there is no beginning, middle, or end. Just an existence. A myth we can not erase.

When I hear rain hitting a tin roof, the sound tells a story. A tale of two people wanting a small portion and getting nothing. We asked for just a taste. The gods were not kind.

They gave us love. And we fell into this trap knowing we were being laughed at. A play for their entertainment. Bacchus watched and turned the channel.

Sleeping between Kerouac and Nabokov. Dreaming with Dean Moriarty and Humbert Humbert. Wondering what the outcome will be. His life on the road. And his infatuation with a teasing young girl. Are there any saints left. Maybe. Perhaps.

Steam heat whistles throughout the night. A train runs past my window. The Red Line going to Howard. Then back to 95th Street. All night long. The stopping and starting up of steel wheels running on tracks above a city and below in Hell. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Do you know where your writers are?

A tossing in bed has become routine at this time of night. I get dressed, grab Henry Miller, and join the drunks coming out of bars, nighthawks at diners, cops cruising, whores seducing, and vagabonds who make up this town. We all have to die someday.

I get on at Belmont and take the train south while reading The Rosy Crucifixion. Sentences yellowed with markers. A coffee stain on page thirty-five. Candy wrappers for book markers. I was thirty-three, the year Christ crucified.

Men and women asleep in seats. Heads up against windows. The smells of booze and stains on their clothes. A woman talking to herself. Some kid about to pounce. I have given my life to this; watching, observing, and writing what I see. Recording the details in poetry. Isn’t that what writers do?

I watch some and read a little. Comparing Chicago and New York. Heaven and Hell. There will always be the poor among you. The meek shall inherit the earth.

Dear God. I’m ready for my inheritance.

Running through a crowd of people. Not knowing where you’re going. Being chased? Maybe. Problems have chased you all your life. Some were created by you and others not. You just keep running as fast as you can.

He lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey. Had not eaten for days. Waking up on a hardwood floor with wicks still burning. Candles melted. A window open.

I see a pattern here, I said. How much do you sleep?

Not much, he said. Maybe two or three hours. Too much on my mind. Worried about the guy next door.

What about the guy next door?

He’s a strange one, he said. Plays weird Indian music all night long. Sometimes, he listens to songs from the Far East. Asian. Maybe Chinese. It’s hard to tell. I don’t speak anything but English. And the smell of burnt sage comes from under his door. Through the vents. Stinks up the place.

He’s trying to keep his room clean from evil, I told him. People do that. They burn sage and other spices to eliminate evil.

Does it work?

Not sure, I said. Never tried it.

Do you have evil in your house?

I don’t believe so, I poured myself a whiskey.

He chants throughout the night. A loud humming noise comes through the walls.

Have you ever met him?

Not officially.  Hello and goodbye, he’s says to me in the hallway. You know, have a nice day. Short talk. But no. I do not know his name or who he is. Not sure where he comes from. I just know I don’t like it. These disturbances.

Maybe you should introduce yourself and ask him to turn it down a notch.

I’m scared to.

Why?

He’s a foreigner. He scares me.

It could happen, he said. When you least expect it. Some kind of disaster takes place. A car crash. Some guy holds you up in an alley. Tornadoes tear through a small town. Your house catches fire. All of this could take place. It’s part of living, I suppose, the older man said. Just part of living. Or not.

You could get lucky,  his son told him. Skate through life. There are those who are quite fortunate.

Yes. They never leave the house. No risks. Never gambled in life, he said. The old man poured a cup of coffee. He pointed the pot at the kid.

Please, the son said. Thank you. His father nodded. Placed the pot back on the burner.  Take my in-laws, the kid suggested. Look at them.

Bob and Thelma?

Right. He has skated through life. Nice house and two cars. A daughter and a son. Grandkids. 

He’s quite lucky.

Dad. He sells insurance. This is not the most ethical man. He looks good on paper, but he has no soul. His idea of risking it all is in the fine print of a life insurance policy.

Yes. The house always wins.

I remember you leaving us when I was young. I wondered what you were doing. Why? And it didn’t strike me till years later. You were trying to discover yourself. The old man laughed. No. Really pop. All those years ago. You had no idea who you were. Just some man carved out of soap.

Hmm.

Mom cried. I cried. Out of anger, I guess. You never see it coming. You’re right about that.

I’m sorry. Sorry, I did that. I was on some quest. Some kind of journey. I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing. Took it one day at a time. And here I am. Living in a rented room above a dirty bookstore. Paying monthly rent. Nothing to show for my work.

They both looked at the card table in the corner. A typewriter and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. Papers scattered, tossed all over, no order.

What’s all that?

The beginnings of a great novel, the old man said. I got a kick start, but never finished. Maybe a page or two every other day, but nothing beyond that, he told him. It’s true what they say. There are writers, artists, who never finish. They talk a good game, but they never complete the task. No sacrifice. Just a lot of heartache. No drive, he sipped his coffee. Your father-in-law doesn’t know about that. That kind of life. He is linear.

Yes, pop. He has one purpose. To take care of his family. That’s what he’s about.

And that’s fine. It just never suited me. He reached for the whiskey. Oh, I’d send money when I could. A job here or there. Tax returns. I sent it to your mom. Figured I owed you two that much.

His son sat there motionless. He looked at his dad. He placed his arm on Pop’s shoulder.

They sat silently. Not a word. The kid patted his dad’s back and walked towards the door.

Don’t be a stranger, the father said.

Right.

They talked. Spoke in some weird English. Words. Nouns and verbs, broken into pieces. Screaming and carrying on like caged zoo animals.

He sat on his bed, listening to the two through the thin wall. High decibels. Screeching. Kicking. Punching. Saying his name out loud.

I know you’re listening, he yelled.  Laughter was heard.Wait till we get our hands on you, Fatty said, with the other one chiming in.

Yeah, Skinny said. Just wait. We have plans for you. One move against us and pow. The two continued laughing and shrieking.

He couldn’t move. Fear gripped him. He’d heard these threats before. Years ago. But now they seemed serious. 

You’re not going anywhere, Fatty said. So. Just stay there. Don’t make us come through this wall. You’ll be sorry, he sang.

Slowly, he got off the bed. Quietly put his shoes on. Tiptoed to the locked door and slowly turned the knob.

You better stay right where you are, Skinny said. You think it’s any better out there? Do you? Do you?

The door creaked a little. He stepped out into the hallway. One foot at a time. He could still hear them raging anger. Just pure hate. He closed the door and ran until he got to the street, where he caught his breath.  Peace had come as he walked among the crowd on 8th Avenue. Feeling he was going somewhere, never to return. He just kept walking.

There’s no magic left, he said. All gone. They laughed. Maybe it never was.

What’s that? She asked.

Magical.

Uh huh.

I’m thinking out loud here, he told her. Words get into my head, and they just come out. No filter.

It hurts, she said. When you say there was never any magic.

I said, maybe there never was.

It still hurts.

They drove at night. Less traffic. The darkness in New Mexico was mysterious. Red clay mountains disappeared. Towns looked ancient. Gas stations closed.

When did you start feeling this way? She asked him as they drove east into West Texas.

Not really sure. It’s been on my mind for a while.

Do you still love me?

Yes, he confessed. But I can’t do this anymore, he said. Driving from one town to the next. Staying a couple of weeks, then leaving. The uncertainty of it all.

You said you’d give me a life of adventure, she raised her voice. See different things. Look at this country. Explore it. Get to know all the regions.

We have done that, he said. Hell. I took you to Niagara Falls. You’ve seen Seattle. Vegas. The Mojave.

He placed his free hand in her lap. She removed it. The drifter put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them. He handed one to her. A radio station was coming in from Amarillo. Buck Owens and Dwight Yoakam singing together. He tapped his left foot on the floor mat and hummed along to the accordion playing. Sun was peaking through clouds. 

Where we heading? She took a drag.

Not sure, he said.

Just running, huh? 

I guess so. 

Making it up as you go along? 

He looked at her and nodded. There’s a shelter in Joplin. We could sleep there tomorrow night.

Joplin? Real glamorous. That’s where people go to die, she said. There’s nothing in Joplin.

Right. It’s just one night. Next morning we could leave for St. Louis. Get a couple of pork steaks. Maybe settle there. Get some more money, he said. Maybe a trailer home. Or some apartment in the city.

So. You still love me?

Yes. I still love you.

Something unique is going on here, he said. Strange, you could say. I watch and I watch and I watch yet nothing happens. There is no movement, he says to Jim.

Did you check the pulse? Jim asks.

I put my hand on her wrist. Placed my head to her heart. I felt it beating. Heard it, Thomas told him.

So she’s alive?

Yes. I guess so. But there’s no breath. Thomas sits next to the body. No air. Not from her mouth or nose, Thomas says.

Laughter comes from a room down the hall. A boy singing loudly. Yelling about nothing in particular. Just screaming to hear his own voice. It’s two o’clock in the morning.

Jim and Tom look at each other. They don’t say a word. The boy down the hall continues his tirade of incoherent verbiage.

Thomas lifts the woman’s arm and lets it fall to the floor. She still does not move.

Maybe she’s in a coma, Jim speculates. She’s not dead. There’s a pulse. A heartbeat. Right? Or am I hoping for that?

Thomas shrugs.

Should we call an ambulance? Jim asks.

And say what? What would we say? They’ll put us away forever, Thomas explains.

We didn’t do anything. Jim looks out the window. He looks down on 24th Street. Help me lift her.

No. You’re not serious, are you? Thomas looks at the body.

Just help me. Jim holds the window up with a yard stick. They drag the girl across the floor. Jim looks down and sees no one. He grabs her under the arms and lifts.

She’s still breathing, Jim. Come on now, Thomas tells him. Let’s just call 911. Please.

There is now loud music coming from down the hall. A tribal beat. Drums struck. The boy yells out words and sounds. The noise is piercing.

Come on, Jim says. Pick up those legs. The two lift her like a two by four. Jim sticks her head out the window and then her torso. Push, Tom. Push. Get out of the way. I’ll do it. A boy to do a man’s job.

The beat is getting louder down the hall. The music is driving Jim insane. He lifts the legs over the window seal, sending her into flight. She does not land. She just flies.

The screaming and drums down the hall have come to a halt.

Covered by a blanket with dogs on it. He lies on the couch , head resting on a throw pillow, TV is on, but there is no sound, just a black and white screen. Wavy lines disrupt the picture. A lava lamp glows in the dark.

She is asleep down the hall. He hears her snoring and talking. Muffled words. Something about a used car lot. She rambles.

He thinks about what it has come to. Arguing daily. No conversations over dinner. Packed lunches are a thing of the past. They don’t even kiss anymore nor share the same bed. The toilet is flushed.

Because I used to love her, he sings softly. But it’s all over now. It’s cold in the house. The heat kicks on. It is December. There is no tree. No decorations. It’s just another month. Maybe if we had kids, it would be different. He tells himself. Maybe we would try harder, he laughs. Life is predestined, he thinks. No getting around it. This was meant to be. Everything has a purpose.

She is walking in the hall towards the living room. Opening the curtains, she watches flurries fall and dance. Reminds her of nothing. Good memories are gone. Time does that to some.

He gets up and turns on the coffeemaker. Sugar and little containers of half and half she stole from work are on the counter.

She walks into the kitchen. The coffee smells good. She opens the can of Maxwell House and takes a whiff. Good to the last drop, she says. They both snicker.

Coffee is ready, he says. Takes down one mug from the shelf that reads, WORLD’S GREATEST HUSBAND.

She looks at him and says I’ll have one, too. So he gets down the mug that says, WORLD’S GREATEST WIFE. He sets both down by the coffee pot. The two mugs side by side. He pours himself a cup and leaves hers empty. The husband walks back to the couch. The wife fills her cup and walks back to the bedroom.

The cactus died; diseased soil. It got plenty of sunlight. Died in front of a window. Wilted like bad lettuce. I close the drapes.

A mouse runs across the room. Holes in walls. A sink in the corner drips constantly. Rusted pipes. A twin bed with lumps in it.

On a shelf next to Moby Dick is a jar of instant coffee. Sugar and powdered cream are down below next to On The Road. A coffee cup works as a bookend.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Outside looks cold despite the sun. Ice has formed on windows. There is snow on the sidewalk. It is January; the loneliest time of the year. I smoke a cigarette and tap it in a beanbag ashtray on the floor, rub my eyes, and blow my nose into an old tee-shirt bought at Goodwill. A morning cough clears the lungs.

The clock radio is turned on to WKCR. I listen to Phil Schaap talk about Charlie Parker in his monotone voice.

Interesting thing about Parker, Schaap says. One time, Bird played a plastic saxophone he borrowed for a concert at Massey Hall in Toronto from the promoter. If you listen to the majority of his work when he played brass, you can tell the difference. Albeit ever so slightly. And yes, there is wide speculation that Bird pawned his instrument to pay for his drug habit. The plastic sax is in Kansas City at the American Jazz Museum. The time is 8:00 here in New York.

There are statistics showing that September and January have the highest suicide rates. Other studies say May, June, and July. I read this information in an article once on depression and how to combat it.

What do psychiatrists know? I ask myself. Numbers. We’re all numbers. Stats and test subjects. Lab rats, he puts out the cigarette and looks outside again.

The time is 8:20 here in New York.