dmseay

Rain coming down in a mist. Foggy and bleak. Neon signs blink in colors of red and green. Hazy days ahead. Soon, nothing will be seen. Just outlines of people, buildings, never getting the full picture. Maybe there was nothing to be seen in the first place. Poets silenced.

The L rattles overhead. Sirens and jackhammers pounding. Bicycle messengers weaving in and out of traffic. Cabbies honk their horns. Two hundred dollars has slipped to one hundred overnight. Money spent on food and beverage, diners, and bars.

I tried to sleep on the train from Howard to 95th Street, back and forth across the city. However, excitement and paranoia kept me awake. Bums lying in pissed in pants. Black kids staring at me. Crazies screaming out for salvation. Third shift workers reading The Sun Times. The Blackhawks were on another losing streak.

My book bag was full, filled with a few clothes and accessories, but mostly paperback novels I brought with me to ease my mind. Tropic of Capricorn, Sons and Lovers, Crime and Punishment, Of Human Bondage, books I’d read over and over again throughout my life. Learning something new about the text each year. But, back then, I didn’t know shit about D.H. Lawrence or Henry Miller. And, like most Americans, I read them without asking questions. No exploration whatsoever. What an idiot I was. Maybe I still am today. I’d like to think I’m wiser, I’d also like to think that America has grown smarter. However, that’s not the case now, is it. But, these books were my companions. My friends. And how often do we really understand our friends? It takes years to really know someone.

The sun came up that morning. One hundred dollars in my pocket. A fool never learns. He keeps making the same mistakes over and over. That is human. That is America.

Very quickly, I had nothing, yet I had everything. Complete freedom. I’d starve before joining the  circus of inhumanity. I walked to Belmont Harbor and cleansed my soul in Lake Michigan. A holy baptism. Max, let the  royal rumpus begin.

Icicles hanging on for their lives. Clinging to naked trees. Water droplets hitting a child’s tongue. Deformed snowmen. Brown grass exposed.

Soon, it will be February. The cold will prevail. People walk around wearing thick coats, gloves of various styles, and hats to cover their ears. Saying the cold air is good for them. Mother nature has never let us down. I say, she has.

The Greyhound left town at ten o’clock on its way to Chicago and beyond. Poor people chasing dreams. A girl sitting next to me talking about Los Angeles, Hollywood to be exact. She says a whole new life awaits her. I smile and nod my head.

You believe me? don’t you, she asked. Sure, I say. Why should I burst her fantasy of making it. The big blonde smiles and places her hand on my leg. You’ll see, she said. One day, you’ll look up at a billboard, and there I’ll be. Her hand creeped up my thigh. Wanna come with me? she asked. I remained silent. Her hand slid away.

Drunks, poverty, filthy toilets, graffiti on bathroom stalls. This is as American as it gets. Black men asking for dollars. Fat women wearing pants too tight. A roll of flesh pops out from under sweatshirts that say PINK on them. Lonely people. People with nowhere to go but knowing they need to go somewhere. They head east and west. Bums heading to Florida like birds before snowfall, looking for cigarette butts in ashtrays. Collecting burnt stubs and placing them in empty packs, pockets with holes, and sweaty palms.

I have chosen this. Leaving the warmth of the womb for the coldness of a country that takes more than it gives. But, there is no complaint on my part. I have $200 on me. Enough to start a new life if I choose. Or, hit the town and blow my load in one night on women, taxi cabs, exquisite meals in diners with filled plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a side salad, and buttered vegetables. Perhaps a dessert  of custard or chocolate pie. So many choices this city offers; play it safe or just simply play. Options. Right?

Chicago. Dear old Chicago. Hog butcher to the world Sandburg said. And then there is that incredible book by Sinclair describing the city for what it truly is; a jungle. A city on the make. Politicians, businessmen, hookers, bartenders, factory workers, bus drivers, cops, bums, all on the make. Waiting for their opportunity to strike.

And, me. I sit back and watch man’s inhumanity to man. This is my task. Record the ugliness of Chicago. Of America. Take notes and learn. Where is that meatloaf dinner? Warmth inside the gut? Where?

Before I hit the streets, a bum asked for a dollar. So, I gave him five. Why not? This is perfectly Christian. It’s what Christ would have done. I watched as he went across the street to the liquor store. God bless him, I say. For this is a righteous man.

Wet leaves on sidewalks. Dark clouds above. Frost on car windows. Naked Japanese maples.

Old folks walk home from St. Patrick’s.  Daily prayers said. Holy Mass celebrated. December will soon be here.

I was born in the month of September of 1967 amongst pines,  oaks, and hickory trees. Came out wailing like a jazz trumpeter. Screaming loud notes as Mother held me. Even at birth, I didn’t like what the world had to offer. I sensed evil from the beginning. A crooked world where the fight was to get ahead. Theft, petty larceny, fraud, the killing of innocents, and Christmas all rolled into one. I didn’t want any part of it. So I quit before even starting.

What use is it to be king, I thought. They’ll just kill you eventually. And if you’re a man of peace, God forbid. In grade school, this all occurred to me as truth. This small town, America,  this world was on the take. And while others beat the hell out of one another to get their fair share, I stood in the valley watching, looking at fools play this game.

My father was a participant in all this. Poor bastard thought he could make a difference. Believed wholeheartedly, America was the greatest nation on earth. Capitalism was the true religion. In fact, in the contradiction, he, like all the rest, followed this economic theory of greed as if it were the teachings of Christ himself. Catholics and communists were all going to hell for their sins. The sins of being charitable, kind, and giving of themselves at all cost. I thumbed my nose at this, and at the age of eighteen, declared no more.

Green grass turning brown from September’s heat. Flowers dying. Black-eyed Susans wilting as housewives place mums in baskets much too early. Autumn will be here soon enough. Leaves will change. Morning dew. Crisp air for kids waiting at the bus stop. Morning sunshine and rainy afternoons.

Some do not want summer to end. They like the heat they say. Tans on wrinkled bodies. Sunday BBQ on a new Weber. Charcoal burning. Beers are popped open. Women sit underneath umbrellas gossiping. Husbands talk of football, baseball, and how all is going great in suburbia. Kids ride bicycles on sidewalks, and hopscotch is played.

She waters her plants. Cacti have been dry for weeks now. She read in a magazine to tend to them every month. Blossoms appear.

The young wife talks to herself. Carries on conversations about what she is missing in life. She laughs. Another mistake made, she whispers. Another mistake made.

They met in a bar filled with those searching for something. A wife. A husband. A life like mom and dad’s. Chicago is wearing on them. Some are not made for the city. They cringe at night alone in their beds. They tire of taking the L. No parking spaces. Tickets on cars.

They meet and fall in love. Or, what they think is love. Security is not love. They move in together and play house. He proposes, and voila, they are out in the  burbs cooking hotdogs with Catsup on them.

She waters plants. He mows the yard. Dinner is served at 6:00 p.m.

Dreams do come true.

Alone in bed. Quietly, he lies there. A fan blows cool air across the room. Floodlights come on across the alley, illuminating his window blinds. It is a blue, hazy color. Almost comforting.

The garbage truck rolls down the street. There is no more silence. Now sirens wail, the L goes by, drunks stumble home. Weaving in and out of Mexican restaurants where loud music is played. Burritos for everyone.

He continues to lie there. Thinking about women and taking in the sounds of four a.m. I used to be quite the handsome man, he laughs, coughs, and sputters. Now I’m just old, he whispers.

It’s true. His skin is weathered and wrinkled. Gray hair is slicked back each morning. Yellow teeth are brushed. His bones ache.

The old man climbs out of bed. No coffee. No cream. An empty bottle of Gatorade filled with water is in the refrigerator.  He drinks it halfway down and places it back on the top shelf. Two baby aspirin melt on his tongue. He likes the fake orange flavor. Reminds him of childhood. Two bums fight in the alley. A bus roars past.

It is morning. He has no place to go. Once again, trapped by lack of money. Saltine crackers and sardines in the cabinet. The fat man eats them on a card table and lifts his pen to write a journal entry.

Has the city changed? Or have I? He asks. Youth. Young ones now own this town. Dinosaurs are dying. A tragic life. I’ve accomplished nothing.

He stops himself and realizes he’s rambling. Spewing off words. A taxi cab honks. He looks down on Clark Street, shakes his head, and crawls back into his bed, smiles and covers his body.

The train rumbles past Belmont. This is Belmont, a voice says. Next stop, Addison. Addison will be next. Stay away from the doors.

He feels at home.

The cacti are dying. A mouse caught in a trap. Pots and pans fill a dirty sink. Cars race down Ashland.

Bach is on WFMT. He moves his head to Goldberg Variations and lights a cigarette. The Baroque music plays softly.

Notes on a card table. Bills to be paid. Utilities not included. He stares up at the ceiling. Fan is on high. It squeaks and moans. He scratches the back of his neck. A beer bottle sweats.

Alone in his hovel, he hums to Bach. Now Saint Matthew Passion plays. Listening, he cries. Not loud, but silent. Mouth open. Drool falling to the floor. He wipes his nose on a tee-shirt sleeve. The choral arrangement consumes him. He is eaten alive.

A picture in his wallet of her. An ex-wife in Bucktown. She is blonde with green eyes. They are the eyes of a pixie. She was a fairytale who never was true. No one ever is.

The last beer is finished. He is drunk on music and alcohol. Trying to stand, he trips over his feet. Falling to the floor, he realizes this is it. No time to pray. No grace.

Bach continues on WFMT.

It’s morning. The smell of heated pig fat in a skillet fills the house. Eggs cracked. Turned over easy into the pan of lard. A blue flame underneath.

She wakes up and comes into the kitchen. Wraps her arms around his waist and kisses the back of his neck. Her pot belly fits into the groove of his spine. Good morning,  she says. She squeezes tighter.

How’s our friend today? He asks.

He’s fine, she says while rubbing her stomach. 

That’s good. He flips the egg. Do you want toast?

Yeah. She tells him. I’ll get it.

Sit down. I’ll do it. He grabs two pieces of wheat bread and places them in the toaster. She gets butter from the refrigerator.

I said, sit down. I got it, he commands.

Yes sir, she says and smiles.

Did he ever make you breakfast? He asks.

She shakes her head. No, she says. Let’s talk about something else.

Like what? What do you want to talk about? The toast pops up. He begins buttering it with a dull knife.

Pelicans, she laughs.

Pelicans? Really? He hands her a plate of eggs and toast and begins frying two more eggs, adding more pig butter. What about pelicans?

They look funny but are beautiful at the same time. Would you agree? She asks.

Sure. He moves the eggs around with a spatula.

Right? Funny and beautiful. She says.

Yes, he responds. Funny and beautiful.  Just like you.

Me? Am I funny and beautiful? She crunches on toast.

More beautiful than funny, he tells her.

I was hoping.

Yes. Beautiful.

The air-conditioner shakes and rattles. Water dripping. Carpet soaked. It hums loudly, making it impossible to sleep. He lies in a pool of sweat. Scratching mosquito bites. Blood on the sheets. Music comes from next door.

Voices carry over blues. Muddy Waters is being drowned out by a couple making love. A bed post shakes. Ain’t that a man.

He gets up and makes coffee. It’s three in the morning. Street sweepers are out adding to the noise. Sirens passing by. Lights come on in the donut shop. A man stands on the corner in a wool coat and hat. Talking to himself. The kettle whistles.

Sanka is spooned into a cup. He adds half and half from a refrigerator that sputters and coughs. Climax has been reached. The two lovers yell out in both pain and joy. The music is turned off.

Want a toke? He asks her.

Hell yeah, she says. They both laugh. You always finish before me.

I thought you were with me. He tells her. Sounded like you were.

That? That’s just for effect, honey. She smiles. Just to please you. Make you feel like a man.

You shouldn’t have told me that, he yells. Don’t do me any favors. I can hold my own, you know.

Used to could. She says. Wanna go again? She lies back down. The mattress creaks.

No, he says. You get one shot. That’s it. He starts to dress.

Where are you going? She asks.

Gotta work, he says.

Will I see you again? She lies on her side.

Maybe. He kisses her forehead and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

The loner sits drinking his instant coffee. He hears him walking down the stairs and smiles.

Ain’t that a man.

Where you headed to? He asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Must be going somewhere, he said.

Not really. I might stay here,  I told him.

In Indio? He asked.

Why not? I replied.

This is no place for you. He laughed. Where you from?

Nowhere, I said. Nowhere.

Everyone is from somewhere. He said. Betting the Midwest. Maybe Ohio. Perhaps Iowa? Could be Minnesota. Bob Dylan was from Minnesota.

Yes. He was. I agreed. But I’m not.

You got a buck on you? He asked.

I handed him my last dollar. Quarters were in my pockets.

I’m going to get a candy bar. He said. Maybe a Three Musketeers. I would offer you one, but I’m broke. Thanks for the buck.

Sure, I said. Why not?

Don’t stay in Indio. He said. Go back home.

I nodded.

Smell that? He said. Indio has a certain smell. Flowers from date palms. Smells nice, right?

Yes. Yes, it does.

I can’t smell it anymore. I’ve become immune to the scent. But, there’s always people eating dates. Like candy. Mexicans pick them. He told me. Just get on the bus and leave, he said.

I’ll leave eventually, I said. Where’s the nearest shelter?

You’ll sleep better outside. Among the dates. He laughed. Did I take your last dollar?

No. No, I gave it to you.

He sits in a folding chair; arm resting on a card table. A flabby chest, spare tire around his waist, teeth yellow, a can of ginger ale in his hand, the old man looks out a sweating window while a cat circles his feet.

He lights a cigarette with a match. Blows out the flame. Knocks the ash into an empty seltzer bottle. The steam heater whistles and moans. He coughs and wheezes. The cat jumps on his fat belly. He rubs behind his ears. Whispers to it, want to eat?

An empty bowl sits in the corner next to a bag of Little Friskies. The fat man stumbles to the bag and pours dinner into the cat’s bowl. His green eyes look up at the old man. He meows and eats his supper.

Snow begins to fall. Small flakes glisten in the streetlights. He turns on the radio. Coltrane is playing My Favorite Things with McCoy Tyner on piano. Soon, the fat man will be sliding down chimneys across Manhattan.

He puts on a red suit, finishes the ginger ale, and puts out his cigarette. A red bag filled with candy and toys stands by the door. He rubs his bearded chin and tells the cat, I’ve got work to do.

The old man slings the bag over his shoulder and opens the door. He hears a couple arguing in the room down the hall. Scents of weed permeate the hallway. A hooker passes him by. 

Ho, ho, ho, he says. Merry Christmas, everyone. No one responds. Doors remain shut. The sound of Tom Snyder laughing comes from a room.

Merry Christmas to all. To all merry Christmas. He walks down the stairs sideways, dragging the bag of goodies. He lifts it up off the floor and opens the front door, which leads him to 8th Avenue. He walks the city delivering toys. Not like the old days when he had a sled and reindeer. Like all fairytales, those days are gone.

He stops a man on the street and asks for a smoke. Beat it, the man says. Who do you think you are? Santa Claus? Both men laugh.

Here, the man says. Take one. Go on. And, merry Christmas to you.

The fat man blows out smoke into the cold air. And merry Christmas to you, sir. Merry Christmas, indeed.