dmseay

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 Yokham 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.

She’s done. A cigarette burns in the ashtray. Some red wine in the bottom of a glass. Moths fly around a yellow porchlight. Mosquitoes bite into her skin. She sits in silence.

The kitchen light is on above the sink. Curtains are open. He washes out a coffee mug. Steps are taken. The refrigerator hums. There is no half and half, only expired milk. He’s willing to gamble.

A raccoon climbs into the trash barrel. Chicken bones, ground turkey wrappers, potato chip bags, ice cream containers are dragged through the yard. Damn it, she says. The animal scurries away. She shakes her head and steps off the porch. Wet grass coming through a gravel driveway. Weeds and dandelions as high as her knees. The big dipper twinkles. She twirls around. Dancing to a song inside her head. Chet Baker sings to her. He blows into his trumpet. She begins to laugh. This is how people get carried away, she says and laughs harder. They’ll put me away, she cries. Lock the door. Shoot me with medicine. I’ll sleep a hundred days. The porchlight flickers.

Standing at the backdoor with a coffee cup in his hand, he watches her. He sees the orange glow of a cigarette in her mouth. Her fingers are snapping to the inner beat. She’s done it again, he says. Done lost her mind. The young lady walks towards the highway.

Bess, he yells. Bess, come back here. She keeps walking. Where you going, honey? She begins to skip. Honey, you’re scaring me. Come back here. A semi rolls down 41. It passes in front of her. The truck is carrying pigs going off to slaughter.

She sits down at the end of the driveway. He walks out to her. Come on dear, he says. Let’s go inside. Electric wires droop.

I want to stay here, she tells him.

Get away from the road, girl.

I’m fine, right here, she looks down the road at another diesel coming her way. She stands up and sticks her thumb out.

This ain’t funny, Bess. She looks back at him for a second or two. The truck slows down and comes to a halt. Air-brakes make a hiss. The passenger door is opened.

Bess, come back here. I’m not going to chase you.

She climbs into the cab.

A burnt smell in town. Gray and black ash lying in smoke. Wood smoldering. A bathtub and toilet unscathed.

For years, windows were boarded up. A couple had cracks. No one saw anybody enter or exit the house, but a hanging porchlight burned at night time. An old Ford was parked in the driveway.

Sometimes, you could hear voices coming from inside; an old man and a woman yelling at each other. Saying horrible things at loud decibels. Other times, a loud TV would drown them out.

You know what your problem is? She would ask him. Too much money and no ambition, she told him. Look at the way we live. Like vagabonds. Homeless people staying in a condemned building. She said.

You’re just jealous, he said. Jealous  of my first wife, he remarked. There were pictures of his first wife all over the house. He never took them down. Never replaced them with pictures of the new one. I loved her, he yelled. You, I just tolerate.

Then why did you do it? She asked.

Do what?

Marry me.

We never really got married, he said to the younger wife. Never blessed by the church.

A courthouse is the same thing you old goat, she screamed.

That’s blasphemous. That’s evil talk. I knew what I was doing. He pulled out a cigarette. Nothing is official until God deems it so.

You’re insane.

Yes, ma’am.

The two fought like this for hours. Neighbors would stop on the sidewalk in front and listen. They could hear the meanness in their tones. Their voices screeched. So much that they always sounded hoarse. He’d threaten to kill her. She’d threaten to kill him. But no one ever called the cops. Neighbors just let them be. Just let them be.

The Ford was gone. No one saw them drive away. No bodies were found inside. Just burning embers. The only thing that remained was a picture of his first wife; pearls around her neck, a smile on her face.

Some folks reported the Ford driving up and down Highway 41. Others said it was parked at a McDonald’s or for sale at some used car lot. Always turned out the thing belonged to someone else.

No one knew what became of the two. Speculation was that he burned the house down. The Fire Department said it was electrical.  Others say it was an insurance scheme. No one knows for sure. No one ever will. I guess.

Pillows on a concrete floor. A coat to cover his body.  Small bags of half empty potato chips and Fritos cluttered around the room. Wrappers for chocolate bars.

He sleeps in a half daze. Eyes blink while those around him snore the night away. An old man wets his pants.

Odors of alcohol. Cheap vodka bottles inside coat pockets. Men talking about women from the past. Bragging.

There was a woman in Philly, one says. A blonde with a great big ass on her, he goes on. She was built for speed. He smacks his lips. I fell in love with her. Wasn’t able to hold on. Some things be that way.

Outside on 8th Avenue, men lean on a building as they smoke cigarettes and suck in the night air. Neon signs flash. Liquor, nude girls, open all night, twenty-four hour diners, Chinese laundry, and mini-marts scattered up and down the street of a town that now longs for dignity.

Whores hustling and bums bitching. Mexican men going home for some sleep before their second jobs. A garbage truck passes by.

Anyone got a square? He asks. I’ll give you a dollar. An old man takes his buck in exchange for a Newport. Thanks, he says.

Pleasure doing business with you, the old man laughs. What’s your story?

I’ve lost my mind. He grins. At least, that’s what Bellevue says.

I been there before, the old drunk tells him. Years ago, when I first came to the city. I done thought I lost my mind, too. He shrugs. Gave me a bed to sleep in for a couple of weeks. Three meals and a cot. They both laugh. My shrink was a real pretty woman. Gave me some pills and sent me on my way.

You still on the pills?

He holds up a bottle of gin and says, this is all the medicine I need.

The sun rises. Men start to disperse. Going out to beg, steal, and borrow.

There’s never enough.

The cactus she gave me was dead. Something got into the soil. Leaves just started dropping. It no longer bloomed. Wilted like lettuce, lying on its side. I’ll miss him, I wrote. I’ll miss him.

It was the last thing I packed in the van. Books, clothes, a black and white TV, various ashtrays along with plates and cocktail glasses wrapped in newspaper and boxes were carried across country on I-95 from D.C. to Montpelier, Vermont. I had no schedule. No job to go to. Just a couple of thousand and a full tank.  Everything else was hers.

Up front in the seat beside me was my prized processions. A couple of  crates filled with over two hundred jazz albums. Everything from Charlie Parker to John Coltrane. Bill Evans and McCoy Tyner. Miles Davis and Chet Baker. And a few Johnny Hartman records were along for the ride. Good company to have.

She often laughed at my selections of music. Jazz is dead, she told me. You’re the only person who listens to that stuff. My ex said. So depressing. Bill Evans. So sad. And they were all a bunch of junkies. What the hell? I brushed off her statements as a person with no soul.

So, I drove into the night. A six-pack of beer between my feet on the floor. I kept the heat off so they would stay cold. One by one, they were polished off by the time I got to Philly. I decided to drive around town. Go get some steak sandwiches at Pat’s and Gino’s across the street. Compare the two delicacies and then look for a hotel. I was tired, drunk, and my body ached. I bought another six-pack before checking in, tuned in the public radio station, and listened to Ornette Coleman. This was the shape of jazz to come. A tear ran down my face. Dead music? I whispered. Should’ve known the relationship was over when she told me that, I said. Just like the time I took her to Central Park in New York, and she said, I don’t see the big deal. Who would want to be involved with a mind like that? But she was beautiful, I cried. She was beautiful. 

The next morning, I awoke and got ready for another day’s journey. I looked inside the van while unlocking it and noticed the jazz collection was gone. The passenger door was unlocked. The albums were gone. And so was my soul. Some things wear down and die. Others are killed by man’s unkindness.

I sent her a letter. It said, someone stole my soul . Records, too. The cactus is dead. No more blooms. But like you said, maybe this is for the best. Maybe?

Goodnight, nurse.

Bread. Stale bread. No butter for salvation. No jam nor jelly. Can’t even scrape up a cup of coffee. Saul looks around the room. A mouse scurries across a carpeted floor.

Water, John says. We’re stuck with water. It’s not even pure. There’s a rust color to it. Diseased water. He sticks his head under the faucet and opens his mouth, filled with decaying teeth. The water is slurped. A loud sound as he sucks it upside down. He cups his hands and splashes his face.

Do you remember when we had everything at our fingertips? Saul asks. Plenty of whatever we desired. Birds gather in the backyard. A rooster crows. Saul takes the loaf of bread from the table. Someone will get use of this. He says. Saul begins to walk out the backdoor and is stopped by John.

Where are you going? John asks.

Get out of my way, Saul tells him. John lodges his body between the door and Saul. Arms spread. Legs wide. I’m not going to tell you again. Now move, Saul demands. Flies are stuck to a strip hanging from the ceiling. There are holes in the walls exposing insulation.

John grabs at the bread. Let go, he yells. The rooster crows. I said, let go.

Saul carries the loaf of wheat like a football and attempts to run over John. John tackles him, and both men wrestle to the floor. Hair is pulled. Both men bite each other. They kick and punch. Saul throws the bread across the floor and holds onto John’s neck; choking him. The mouse dashes behind the refrigerator. Both men lie there, side by side. John is blue in the face. Saul is scratched up. His body bleeds.

On his hands and knees, John goes over to the loaf of bread and tears off a piece. He catches his breath. You ain’t taking this bread nowhere, he says. This is now all mine. None for you. And none for those stupid birds.

The rooster crows again. Birds chirp. The sun is coming out past clouds. Both men stare at each other. John  bites into the bread. He can barely chew it. His gums bleed. He throws it at Saul.

Do what you want with it, John tells his friend. Throw it out to the birds for God’s sake. I don’t care anymore. Just get rid of it.

Saul nods. He grabs the stale food and walks to the door. He tears off pieces and throws them out into the yard.

The rooster crows.

There’s nothing. Not a thing comes to mind. A vast space. Blank canvas. Stale white toast on a plate.

At one time, he had ideas. Sleepless nights in his study, drawing pictures of  furniture. Tables, chairs, cedar chests, bookcases, a day bed for his wife to lay on and eat grapes, drawn up and perfectly designed. A craft well attended, thought out, each picture carefully drafted. Lead pencils in a coffee can.

He sits on his porch now during the night watching rain fall, cars driving by, neon signs blinking, mosquitoes dancing; an ashtray by his side. Fly traps hung from the ceiling. The swing goes back and forth. His feet barely touch the concrete floor. He bends just a bit.

Some say the mind goes first. Forgetting our past. Others say it’s the body. A temple that now sags. His eyes twitched. Yawned. His once tanned skin is gray. Inside his head, a blank slate.

Streetlights no longer shine. The night is done. Head tilted back, eyes closed. Birds sing the old man to sleep. I should have been there for him.