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A wooden door leads down into the basement. Dirt floor. Wood beams run across the ceiling. Shelves with canned tomatoes and Hungarian peppers are lined up and dated. A light bulb dangles above.

He tries opening a jar of the peppers while she sits in a corner, knitting a sweater for their grandson. Colors of red and yellow are woven together.  The old man taps on the jar with his fist and tries to turn the lid.

Why did you have to put these on so tight? He asks. I mean. I know they got to be tight, but these are impossible to open.

She shakes her head and places the fabric in her lap. Give me that, she tells him. Come on. Give me that jar.

He hands her the jar of yellow peppers. You’re going to break your wrist, he says. Break the bone right in two.

She gives a little effort and opens the jar. Here, she smiles. Have at em. She then continues her needlepoint. She begins to sing a song. Humming at first,  then singing out loudly. Cause when she gets behind closed doors, she belts out. And no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. She laughs. I love that, Charlie Rich, she tells him. He sure can sing that sonofabitch.

Right. He munches on a pepper. These ain’t that hot, the old man says. Not hot at all. Kind of sweet, he tells her.

They’re Hungarian peppers,  she says, still knitting. They’re not supposed to be hot. She holds up the small sweater. You think he’ll like it?

Honey. He’s gone.

Gone where? She asks.

To heaven, he says.

Ohhhh. I forgot. Ain’t that something. Me, forgetting that. You could have reminded me before I stitched this, she throws the sweater down in the dirt.

Hey, he picks up the sweater. Don’t do that. You worked too hard on that. We’ll give it to the kid down the street.

Nevermind. I’ll just put it in the cedar chest with the others, she says. Besides. I don’t like that kid down the street. Looks like Chairman Mao.

All Chinese babies do, he laughs.

Yes. And white ones look like Winston Churchill, she looks away. Why didn’t they adopt an American kid? She asks her husband. Nobody buys American anymore.

Right.

I miss him.

So do I.

A dust covered light fixture hangs on the ceiling. Cracks in dry wall. Staples coming up in the carpet. Windows broken. A cold breeze blows through torn blinds. The plants are dead.

He sits watching television on a small black and white screen. The Andy Griffith Show is on. Opie comes home with a black eye. Barney gives boxing lessons.

The old man turns down the sound, and the radio plays next door. Jazz is playing. Ornette Coleman blows into his saxophone. The Shape Of Jazz To Come is played in its entirety. Some say the album sounds like a high school band, while others think the recording is genius. The old man removes his pork pie hat and hums along. He pats his foot and watches the screen. Opie has avenged his earlier loss.

Rough fingers rummage through a filled ashtray. He looks for a butt long enough to smoke. An old KOOL is found. Stale, tasting of ash, he lights it and searches for another. All stubs. He lines them up on the table. Takes one drag off each and crushes them in the glass bowl.

Another episode of The Andy Griffith Show comes on. This one has Jack Nicholson in it. He watches. Adjusts the rabbit ears. And sips on a half filled warm beer. Ornette Coleman continues to play.

It doesn’t work, he said. Too cumbersome. Awkward. The sentence doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. By the time you’re done, you feel as though a mile has been run, almost out of breath, the fat man said to himself.

You must convey a message to the reader; coffee in hand, typewriter in front of him. Pinpoint and precise as possible. Clean. Crystal clear, with each sentence getting to the heart of the matter. That’s what you should do. He pulled the filled page from the machine and threw it away. Far away. Tossing it across the room. A three-pointer missed. He sipped his coffee. Lit a cigarette. And, sat there. Just sat there, wondering how to say it. A simple sentence. A pristine paragraph. He placed another white sheet into the beast.

The fat man stared at the thin paper; examining it up and down, side to side. Imagining words written on it. Not big words, simple,easy for the reader to digest. Another swig of joe. He began typing.

He awoke every morning casting shadows of rabbit ears behind his head upon the wall. Moving side to side and scratching his nose, he said, what’s up doc?

This was now on the page. He felt as though something was accomplished for the day.

Now it was time for toast and honey. Read it over a hundred times. Throw it away and start all over again.

A painting hanging crooked. The wooden floor slopes. Moths fly from vents. An upholstered couch is torn.

Upstairs, the sound of a shower running. The toilet is flushed several times. A woman complains about a backed-up sink. A cat makes hunger sounds.

He listens and looks around the apartment. On the coffee table is Mann’s Death in Venice and Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. His dog, Scout, licks his ankles.

Are you hungry? The old man asks Scout. Or, just wanting attention? He rubs the beagle behind her ears. Says loving things to her.

You’re the only friend I have, he tells the dog. Yes, you are. He continues petting her. I remember when the kids used to play with you. At the park, he says. Children from all over the neighborhood loved you. He laughs. Now you and I are getting old. Yes, we’re getting old.

Upstairs, the shower has stopped. The toilet runs. A plunger and a woman’s voice make horrific noises. As if in pain. Scout pants.

OK, girl. Let’s get you something to eat.

Chicago is a town of karma. Every sin you commit, every mistake you make against your fellow man is paid for in whole.

Lie, steal, cheat, turn your back on an ally, murder somebody, and eventually, there will be atonement. Rest assured, your day is coming.

So you left? He said.

Yeah. Left, Max told Charlie.

Left the body there for all to see? Charlie asked. Right there on Cottage Grove? For all to see?

Yes, yes, and yes, Max said. The waitress came over to the table and filled their cups. Is it hot? Max asked the brunette. She nodded her head while chewing on gum. Thank you. He turned to her. Thank you.

I think she heard you, Charlie stared at Max. She heard you the first time.

Right, Max  slurped his coffee. I’m just being polite.

Save it for Thanksgiving dinner. Charlie lit a cigarette. Placed the burning match in an ashtray next to the sugar and cream. You know what happens to people who lie?

Max nodded.

They die, Charlie said. One night, in bed, or in a burning car, they die. Could happen out in the middle of Lake Michigan. Shot and pushed over the side with a bag of cement on them. You never know. My question to you is, when I turn on the news tonight, am I going to hear about a body left on Cottage Grove?

Max again nodded his head. Yes. Yes, you will.

You know, this is an example we’re making here. A sign of, don’t fuck with us. Right? Charlie stated.

Right.

So, you killed him?

Uh-huh.

Good. That’s good. He had it coming.

That white van’s been across the street for days, he said. Just parked there. Nothing wrong with it that I can see, he told his wife. A train whistle blew. The sun was rising. I wonder if anybody is inside of it, he peeked through the blinds. You know, F.B.I. or C.I.A.. Maybe it’s the Russians or Chinese. Could be Arabs. Maybe ANTIFA. The president warned us. Porchlights up and down the street were being turned off.

Let it go, she said. You’re talking crazy, she told him. The train chugged along on the steel tracks. It came to a stop. Brakes could be heard throughout the neighborhood. C.I.A. F.B.I.. she shook her head. You’re nuts.

You don’t know, he said. You don’t. The train started rolling again. Slowly. Picked up speed. Continued to the next town. You don’t think it could be Russian or Chinese spies? Now, who’s the crazy one?

She stared. Both eyes pierced through him. Tree limbs swayed in the backyard.

He sat on the deck drinking a gin and tonic. Table umbrella down. A barbecue grill in the corner with an apron wrapped around the handle that said, kiss the cook. A kid kicking a soccer ball.

The husband saw her in the kitchen window. He waved at her. She nodded her head. There were no cars in her driveway.

She gave the signal, wiped her forehead, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

The father shook his head. Mouthed, no, and went back to watching his son kick goals.

The housewife next door undid another button. With her pointer finger, she motioned him to come to her. A child on a bike with ribbons on the handlebars peddled down the street.

Again, he silently said no and turned his back to her.

He was done.

A carpet smells of cat piss. Beer bottles overflowing in a trashcan. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann sits on a stained coffee table. A couch sinks in when he sits on it. Bathroom down the hall.

He sits drinking coffee and indulging in his morning cigarette. He watches the smoke climb to the water damaged ceiling. He hears a couple fucking down the hall.

The fat man laughs as noises get louder. Soon, they will be drowned out by morning traffic. The cabs honking, police sirens, fire trucks through Mid-town. The couple continues their loud moans.

When was the last time you had a woman? He asks El Gato. He meows and rubs against the old man’s calf. That’s what I thought, he says. You get laid every night. He laughs.

No, El Gato. You’re just as lonely as I am. He pets him. We’ll stick together you and I. Screw them, he takes another puff. Don’t need them anyway. They get into our business, he states. Yours and mine. We got a thing going, El Gato. Why ruin it?

El Gato purrs.

Half a glass of whiskey. One cube of ice. He sips at it. Let’s the liquor roll around in his mouth. He tastes it on his lips.

People yell and scream at the television in the corner of the bar. The White Sox are on, and they’re losing. What else is new.

He orders a small beer back to go with the Wild Turkey; an Old Style on tap. He drinks the beer after each swig of whiskey. Cleanses the pallet, you might say.

The barkeep washes glasses and turns up the jukebox. Johnny Cash is singing Rusty Cage. He’s not sure whose version he likes better; Cash or Cornell. He sings along. Waiting to pour another drink. More yelling at the Southsiders from the Southsiders. Sox lose 9-1. The bartender shakes his head while the old man finishes his whiskey and beer.

They’ll win one of these days, Charlie, the old man says. But, until that time, I’ll have another round.

You got it, Charlie says.

I got nothing.

Cold brick walls. Carpeted floor. A couch with holes in it. Coffee pot on a hot plate.

He sits on the edge of a bed that has no sheets. An ashtray is next to him on a small table along with pictures of women he’s known. One blonde. A redhead. A black woman in Chicago. He looks at the photos and grabs his pack of cigarettes, lights one, and blows out smoke. The ceiling has a crack in it.

There is no such thing as till death do we part. Even when couples stay together, they parted years ago, he thinks. They forgot about each other years ago. After the kids, the vacations, and retirement, there is nothing left. Parting is such sweet sorrow. He laughs.

The window is open, letting in a cool breeze. He puts on his robe and stares out at Main Street. Couples walking hand in hand. Moms pushing strollers. Steaks in the butcher’s window. A neon light blinks. The Irish tavern is open.

Time for a drink, he says. An Irish coffee. That should do the trick. Cure the loneliness. People, he says. I hate them, but I love them.

Before he leaves, he kisses two fingers and touches each woman’s lips. Goodbye, my fair ladies. Goodbye.