dmseay

A pebble thrown at her window. A slight tap on glass from down below. A light shines through blinds. Another pebble thrown. This time harder. It bounces off and lands by the dumpsters, which smell of piss and vomit. Brown snow surrounds them.

Now, a snowball, handcrafted, and packed, crystallized. I toss it gently, and there is no response. It explodes into a million pieces. Every little bit of it mixing with the snow it came from; back to the mother’s womb. Perhaps I should go back to the womb as well. Leave this current life and start anew. What good is it to always be in want? I know the Lord is my Shepard. I shall not want. Right? If only that were true. But, the Lord is no longer my Shepard. I have abandoned him. Or, he has abandoned me. It’s hard to say. 

The good book says he will never leave us unless we rebuke him. Have I rebuked him? This sinful life of mine filled with lust and greed and cursing and worshipping false gods. What have I done? 

I used to envy no one. I was never greedy nor scornful towards my fellow man. In fact, I wished nothimg more than to help humanity. But then Cleo came along with her bag of goods, and I found myself wanting more. More money, more food, more sex, more warmth, more wine. I have thrown my soul away. I have rebuked God. And for that I will pay the rest of my days.

Finally, a light comes on. The window is opened. She looks down upon me like an angel smiling on a sinner. Hello, I say. She nods and smiles. My name is David. Would you like to get a cup of coffee?

Yes. She says. Yes.

Sitting at a coffee shop, I find myself recovering from the clandestine Christmas celebration, thinking of the woman in the window of Kurtz’s Tower; how she spoke to me in that alto voice as if singing. Singing to me alone; not scared to express her feelings. A true artist.

Yet all this is not true. She is in my head, dancing and spinning to classical pieces, then turning and twisting like a contortionist at ease with herself. All with Goethe looking down on us.

Did this happen to me? It is too great for me to differentiate what is truth and what fiction is anymore. What has actually happened versus what I wish to be.

These words on paper. I search for truth every day and come up short of the mark. Is Cleo real? I no longer could tell you. She baffles me yet at the same time, is so easy to figure out. She is a lover and caretaker all in one. She is a liar and a thief of souls. But, she has not stolen mine. Cleo feeds me wonderful pates and fruits in bed with jugs of wine. She tempts me every morning with that beautiful cello she plays naked between her legs. But could it be that I am the instrument she plays upon? My soul is the strings she plucks.

Once again. What is real, and what is fiction? I have a feeling I will find out soon enough. God forbid if this ever gets published. For murder will surely happen. Cleo will strum so hard with her bow that it will cast out the devils and angels within me.

What am I doing? I am going mad. Madder than a hatter. Do I belong back to sleeping on the L? Back to scrounging for food and dollars? Or was that fiction as well? I ask myself these questions as I sit in luxury on Dearborn where it is easy to reflect. Yet hard to remember.

Tonight, I will go to Diversey and look up at the ballerina’s window. Maybe she will dance for me. Perhaps there is nothing behind the blinds. Just darkness.

How I wish she appears tonight. I hope. I pray. Prove to me that I’m not crazy, but merely in love.

It is six o’clock in the morning, and I’m listening to classical music on WFMT. I am alone. She is gone. Gone to Ohio for the most Christian of Christian holidays; Christmas.

There is no tree with lights on it nor silver balls, or hardened cookies from the fatherland. A lone Christmas cactus sits in the window with pink blooms on it. This is my symbol of hope. My symbol of renewal. I pray to Christ almighty it does not die.

I water it just enough every other week. Just enough for a drink to a plant that needs so little. Sometimes, I wish I was a Christmas cactus, blooming only twice a year. Requiring  no attention as I sit in the sun and grow. But, alas, I need much attention.  Despite my survival techniques of when I first came to this city, I need care. In fact, I scream out for it. I yell at the top of my soul. Feed me, clothe me, take me in, love me. I am unable to make it in this world on my own. Is this true? Yes and no. 

Like everyone else, I only want the good parts in life and partnership, while at the same time, I miss the suffering, which wasn’t really suffering at all.

And the question is, why wasn’t it really suffering? Answer, because I’m insane. A real loon. Even in my youth, I invited loneliness and melancholy. In and out of hospitals. Different medications. Lots of yelling out at society like a mad man.

Yes. Even back then, I wanted to be a cactus. Or dead. Something that didn’t feel. Does this make me unique? I hope not.

So I sit here at Christmas time alone. I am miserable but completely happy. Totally at peace. Disturbing thoughts enter my mind and fill my soul, yet I am pleased.

There is food in the refrigerator and drink to be had. Who needs Cleo’s love. She has left all and sundry for me while she is gone. I do not miss her.

This runs in my family; this borrowing and never paying back. My father, bless his soul, a true citizen of these United States, filed for bankruptcy three times. He’d max out his credit cards until they were bursting at the seams. The old man borrowed from this bank, and that bank, trying his damndest to break the system. Hell, he even threatened to sue when financial institutions sent nasty letters and horrible phone calls came during our Sunday meal.

Sunday is the day of the Sabbath, he would say. What are they doing committing blasphemy on this day? Probably New York Jews dialing phones, he said. First, they kill our savior, and now they want money paid to them ten-fold. They always want something from us. Always, he yelled, then asked for the roast beef and gravy to be passed his way. I never had the heart to tell him it was the Romans who killed the son of God. Like I said, a true American.

But there was a tender side to the old man as well. Despite his racist comments and ongoing paranoia, he did have a soft spot. He cared for my mother deeply. He cared about humanity; somewhat. And he would often be quite charitable; giving money away that he’d just borrowed. It was the damndest thing I’d ever seen. Giving money away that wasn’t really his. It was his way of giving society the middle finger. Like I said, a true patriot.

That’s where I get it from, my borrowing and spending and giving away tens and twenties to people on the street who were down on their luck or just plain crazy. 

A man in rags pushing a grocery cart, I’d slip him a bill. A thrue schizoreno, give him or her a fair amount as well. Why not? Are they not entitled to the American dream? Yes. Yes, they are.

And though my giving left me without, it made me a better man. Paid today, gone tomorrow, was my rule. No savings. Nothing in the bank. Always behind. My father taught me well.

Those who are capable are the unlucky ones. The group I belong to is so, so fortunate. No ability to hold down a job but keeping our heads above water, as they say. What is the trick? I asked myself. To lie, cheat, and steal was the answer.

I befriended several people in my life and have taken advantage of them all in one way or another. Take the case of Thomas Schmidt, a proud man of German stock. A true fighter for the regime of America. One who believed in capitalism in its complete form, yet he had a heart. And with that heart he gave to me constantly. 

Once he said to me, David, I believe in you. One day, you’ll be a great man at something. You just had to find what that something is. His advice spewed like water in Buckingham Fountain. Reaching high in the air with colors of hope shining from it, an amazing sight, and a beautiful sentiment from Thomas Schmidt, to say the least. You’re just down on your luck, my boy. You need a starter. A kick to get you going, he told me as we sat in The Gingerman one night drinking beer on his dime. Say old sport, he smiled. You need some cash to start your new life with? he asked. I nodded. I felt and heard his next words before he even said them. I’ll loan you a grand, old Thomas said. That should do the trick. Meet me here tomorrow, and I’ll give you the cash. He smiled. But, on one condition, he said. Once you’ve established yourself, you must begin paying me back. Deal? He extended his hand. I nodded and shook hands with an angel.

A thousand dollars blown in two nights on booze, women, fine meals. For once, I could take Cleo out on the town. For once, I felt as though the world was at my fingertips. And, when Cleo asked where this money came from? I told her a lie. An untruth. Which always comes back to haunt you.

An advance, I said. A small publishing house wants to take a chance on me, I told her. They like my writing. So they gave me two grand to live on for now so I can write my novel. That’s wonderful, she said. Now, you are a true artist. No, I said to myself. I’m a journeyman thief.

After two days, I called Thomas and told him in a worried and stressed voice, almost in tears, that I had been robbed at gun point on my way home that night. I told him I was back to being broke. 

Don’t you worry, David. I’ll loan you another grand, he said. A fellow like you only comes around once. Meet me tomorrow night at The Duke of Perth on Clark Street. I’ll bail you out.

I thanked him as tears overcame me. Why was I crying? I was thankful to him and to God.  All that giving on my part was beginning to pay off. Was it really paying off because of past generosity? I’m afraid not. It paid because I had become a true American. A patriot, you might say. A great liar.

I am watching snow fall and listening to wind howel in the evening time. Cleo lies asleep in the bedroom as I stand naked in front of a window, eating an apple given to me earlier that day. Cleo picked the apple at the market from a pile. A large Gala apple in my hand. Biting into it, I realize that this gift isn’t a gift at all. It is just one of her many temptations; offering fruit that will give me knowledge. Perhaps a peek into the souls of humankind. Then again, sometimes an apple is just an apple. A banana is just a banana. A cigar just a cigar.

Eat it, I tell myself. Eat the whole thing down to the core, I say. What the hell. Eat all of it. Devour the fruit seeds and all leaving nothing behind; not even a trace. Maybe just the stem, which I use as a toothpick. There is no waste.

That’s what she has done with me. Cleo has devoured all of me, body and soul. Perhaps it is time to give up the fight. Admit failure. Comply with her demands. She gives me comfort, but at a price.

So many times, I’ve wanted to give up in this life. The constant dreaming of death. To sleep until awakened on the other side. Perhaps a bar room in heaven. Maybe a bed in a whore house. Or, could it be the fires of hell? A place where I would spend my days paying for sins committed against my fellow man. There is always a price to pay.

I remember as a student, I wanted to end it all. Be done with it. Finalize the deal. And so I tried with a bottle of pills right there at my locker in my school. That poor girl next to me who asked how I was doing? What fear I struck in her. Telling her I was fine and then swallowing the whole bottle of muscle relaxers, slamming the locker door, and walking away. A horrible thing to do to a person. To think only of yourself. Not caring how my actions affected her. I was on my way to the burning pits to suffer for eternity. This was clear to me as I watched the ambulance drive me to the hospital from up above only to wake up the next day in a bed with my mother scolding me for this action. There was no sympathy, only anger and rage towards me. And perhaps she was right to be angry while my father said not a word. It was at this time I realized that my suicide attempt was futile. Just a silly stunt, perhaps. Not sure. There would be more to come.

And so I stand naked eating an apple in paradise as snow falls. Cleo is calling my name. Telling me to come join her. How can I resist? A woman’s touch? A taste of death? Chinese laundry; same thing.

The cello awakes me. She awakes me. Again, that music reaches my soul as I lie here in the afternoon sun seeping through the window shades. No blankets are on my body. I am naked to the world; Cleo’s world.  The Planet Cleo, where all is plentiful and beautiful and given with no remorse or any anger whatsoever. The planet feeds on another planet, Planet Daddy, and then feeds me. The goods are bountiful. Luxury never ends.

She comes into the bedroom where I’m having a delicious dream of my newfound love with no name. The structure of her body. The long hair tied in a bun like a school teacher from my youth. That voice. Such a lovely voice. So giving. So charitable.

I dream of her kissing me under blankets on a beach. Or in a tavern bathroom with the latch locked and women pounding on the door to get in. We are laughing. We are holding each other. Her right leg wrapped around my waist up against the sink where water flows, and her ass slips in my hands. I awake with a smile on my face.

Dreaming? Cleo asks. I sheepishly nod my head and smile. About me? Yes, I whisper as I pull her down on me. Yes.

But I can’t stop thinking of the ballerina in Kurtz’s Tower. A place where I laid my head on a futon upon the floor. A folded jacket for a pillow. A coat for a cover. What has she done with the place? I wonder. Is all the bamboo gone? Does it no longer smell of cat piss and Limberger cheese, old cold cuts, rotted lettuce, incense left behind, reeking of Sunday Mass. Jesus, how I missed it.

And I lie here with Cleo on top of me.  Her eyes shut. Who is she dreaming of ? Not me, I’ll bet. Not me.

To hear one’s voice in the hollow night is really something quite spectacular.  I walk down Clark Street in darkness. It is five in the morning, and all bars are closed. Good people of Chicago are sleeping, dreaming of a girl they left behind, a man that treated them kind, children wondering what’s in the closet, the joys of life before sunrise. 

City plows move swiftly throughout the town, blocking in parked cars whose owners were forewarned of such tragedy. A few men out cursing with shovels and brooms in their hands, making a path in the snow, shaking their fists as plows go by, and stars twinkle above them. 

I am walking  east on Diversey now, kicking snow and on a mission. There’s old Goethe standing above us all; few cars on Lake Shore Drive. I walk till I come to my old place of nesting, Kurtz’s Tower. The blinds are drawn, and I see a silhouette of a woman doing turns and stretching her body as if she were a contortionist. The form is so beautiful that I begin to cry. I watch, captivated by her shadow. Long and tall, lean, naked during her morning exercises. I stand in the alley and long for her. I can’t stop looking. If there was ever perfection, this was it.

The blinds are rolled up, and she looks down at me, a peasant who waves at her.  To my surprise, she bows and opens the window.

Beautiful morning, isn’t it? She asks. I tip my hat to her. I’ve been caught and begin to walk away at a hurried pace. Wait, she says. What’s your name? I turn around and look up at her. I don’t know what to say.  My face is red from the cold, blowing snow and embarrassment. Tell me, she whispers in the hollow morn, Who are you?

An admirer, I say. She nods and laughs. My name is David. I used to live here in this magnificent place. It was my home for a short time.

Why did you move? She asked. I got a better offer, I tell her. Well, what I thought was a better offer.

Oh yeah? What’s her name? I laughed and told her about Cleo. Are you in love? I shake my head. Sad, she says. Everyone should be in love.

She closes the window and pulls down the blind. I walk on in pure in delight. What is her name? I wonder. Does love have a name? I’m no longer sure.

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.