dmseay

The floor dips. Paint is peeling. Dirty glasses. Beer bottles in an overflowing trashcan. Lamps turned low.

They lie in old recliners. Torn leather, smells of cat piss. A fire burns in the fireplace. She picks up old newspapers and wads them into a ball. They take turns throwing old headlines into the fire.

Cold tonight, she says.

Yeah, he responds.

Ever notice how the sun never comes out in winter? Cloudy all the time. Either rain or snow. Never a dry day, she says.

No. Never. He lights a hand rolled cigarette. God does not like us. He’s punishing us.

How do you figure? She asks. We all make our own choices.

Is this yet another discussion on free will? He brings the foot rest down on the recliner and walks over to stoke the fire.

I’m just saying. We have choices. We made our choice. We decided on this life. Did we not? She looks out the window. Snow is falling. It turns to rain. Slushy streets. A snowman melts.

You think I chose this? He looks at her. This life? It chose me.

Stop with the pity. God gave us free will. She says. Had to.

He didn’t have to do anything, he says. Not a thing.

She picks up a small shovel. Stop your sniveling. Just stop it. Tired of your attitude.

I’m tired of it, too. He places his feet in the fire. He yells out, why have you abandoned me? And lets the flames consume him.

She stands back and watches the man burn. The man she’s known for years. Goodbye, she says. You made your choice.

He sits in the living room, peeling an orange. A candle burns in the window, letting off a yellow hue. The cat rubs against his leg. He offers a slice and rubs kitty’s neck. The calico licks at the piece of fruit. The old man places it in his mouth. Chews on it. And puts the bowl and knife on the coffee table. He sits back in his recliner and stares at shadows on a cracked ceiling. Close your eyes, he says out loud. Just close your eyes.

The old man dreams of when he was younger. Jet black hair and thin. He’s at a wedding. Kissing a girl in the garden. Roses have evening dew.

They kiss, and he places his suit jacket on her. The air is chilly and crisp. It is autumn. A thousand days hath September. He smiles while he sleeps.

The cat jumps in his lap. With eyes closed, the old man strokes him, talks to him.

I have a confession, he tells El Gato. There were many before you. He laughs. Many. The cat stares up at him and says, you’re forgiven.

The candle continues burning.

It’s blue outside, he said.

What do you mean? She asked, rolling over in bed.

Lightning, he told her. He stood at the bedroom window a little longer. I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?

No, dear, she replied. Just some more sleep. The wife folded the pillow under her head. Pulled blankets up to her chest.

He placed the coffee in the filter. Poured water and turned the machine on. All while looking outside. Blue, he said. It’s blue.

Coffee was poured. He added cream and sugar. Sat at the kitchen table. Slowly, he took sips from his mug, which had a picture of Lake Michigan on it.

The thunder began an hour later. Loud crackles. Rain fell. He began mumbling to himself about events of long ago. Talking in loops. Information was discussed over and over again with himself. Stories of when he was younger and watched storms from the bedroom window. He laughed.

She came into the room. Watched from behind as her husband chuckled. Dear, she said. Are you alright?

It’s blue outside. It’s blue.

Birds squawk. High pitched tones. Are they singing or discussing the topics of the day? He asks.

Probably talking about where all the worms are, Mike responds.

Probably, John says.

You’d think they’d stop. They know they’re waking people up, Mike tells him. Damn dinosaurs.

What?

They’re the last of the dinosaurs, Mike sits up and lights a cigarette.  Once they’re gone, poof. That’ll be it, Mike’s hands move in opposite directions.

The last of them? Huh,  John says.

Actually,  it’ll be the end of everything. They’ll be gone. We’ll be gone. Every living thing gone. Mike takes another drag.

How you figure?

There’s only so much they can take. So much we can take. Mike spits on the concrete floor. They’re getting a good beating right now,  he says. The air quality, lack of food, global warming.

You believe that? John asks.

No reason not, too. I’ll take science over idiocy any day. These guys go to school and study this shit. They know. And we’re not listening. Mike starts to get dressed. Others are still asleep. He buttons his shirt and tucks it into his dirty jeans.

You think we’ll be dead soon? John asks.

Afraid so.

Then what?

That’s up to you.

A lamp on in the living room. Books on an end table. Electrical outlets screwed loosely to the walls. Music plays softly on the transistor radio; jazz on a local public radio station. His watch says three.

Streetlights glow through windows. A yellow hue. He stares straight ahead at the closed blinds.  Walks over to them and takes a peek outside.

There is nothing. A few cars parked on the street. Porchlights turned off. A cat scurries down the alley. A typical night in a typical town in America.

While others sleep, he stays up, thinking,wondering what will tomorrow bring. It’s always about the next day, he says. Why can’t I live in the moment?

Some couples are making love at this time. Others are arguing. Many dream of something worse or better, he thinks. Then there’s the nighthawks. Those who can’t sleep, make love, or dream. He laughs. We are our own species.

The old man gets dressed and fumbles through a pile of keys. He grabs his house key and locks the front door. It is silent outside. Absolutely quiet. He wants to sing but hums instead. 

An old song has come to him. Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn. He used to play it all the time on the tavern jukebox. Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life…to get the thrill of life…of jazz and cocktails, he softly sings a few words. Laughs. Continues walking. Just walking on a summer’s night. There are birds starting to chirp. Pigeons on park benches. Bums with bottles in their hands. Asking for a buck or two. He gives one fifty cents at the door of the diner and walks inside where other nighthawks greet him. He feels at home.

The coffee is warm. Room temperature at best. Sugar barely dissolves. Cream curdles. He orders eggs and sausage with a side of toast, drowning in butter. Fran takes his order.

Two sunnys and sausage, she yells as she butters burnt wheat bread. She scrapes off the black ash as much as she can, cuts the two slices into four pieces, and serves the old man. Here you go, hon. Enjoy.

He takes a swig of coffee, and she fills the cup. The old man nods his head and smiles at her. He begins humming again.

I used to visit all the very gay places….those come what may places….He dips his toast in the yolk. The old man is pleased. Life goes on.

An old Ford pickup is parked out front of her house. The porchlight is on. Mosquitoes fly around it. Screen door is unlatched. It keeps slamming in the wind. A light in the kitchen glows. Blinds are open. He looks out at his truck. She comes from behind and wraps her arms around him; rests her head on his back. He holds her hands that are placed on his chest. A pack of cigarettes on the counter.

Did you ever think of leaving me? She asks. You know. Taking off somewhere. Getting away from me. She holds him tighter. Cause if you did, I’d be lost. I couldn’t make it without you, she cries.

I’m not going anywhere, he says. I’m staying right here. Shhh. Come on now. You know I’d never leave you. He turns and faces her. How about some coffee? You want some coffee? She nods. Closes her eyes. It’s four in the morning, he says. I didn’t realize.

Time flies….she whispers.

When you’re having fun….he laughs.

I got Sanka, she tells him.

That’ll do.

She places a cup of water in the microwave. Turns it on to three minutes. Then stirs in the brown crystals. She adds sugar and milk. Just the way he likes it.

You going to have some?

No, she answers. You better get dressed. She’s waiting on you.

He sits on a park bench, peeling an orange. His hands are wiry, veins show through skin, finger nails yellowing.

Pigeons dance around. They pick up small pieces of rind and carry them off; hanging in their beaks. The old man waves at the birds as they take flight. Last of the dinosaurs, he says. Last of the dinosaurs.

Couples walk by holding hands. Some women rest their heads on shoulders of men who have well trimmed hair and wear expensive sweaters. They laugh and sometimes stop to kiss. The old man continues peeling his orange. He notices a seed, shakes his head, and takes a bite. Young couples continue marching by like circus performers. He takes another bite.

Young kids roller blading speed past. They do circles and cruise on one skate; a leg lifted in the air. Girls wearing yoga pants and boys in tights. The old man remembers when he used a key to adjust the skate with its four hard wheels and laces. Technology, he whispers. What will they think of next? He eats another slice.

There is half an orange left. He leaves it on the ground for a bird or rat. Maybe a homeless person will eat it. He stands up and begins to walk away. He kisses his fingertips  and places them on the plaque screwed to the bench. In loving memory to Elsa, the carved sign reads. In loving memory.

The old man adjusts his hat and walks away.

She wasn’t sure what he wanted. He told her a hundred times. Maybe she wasn’t listening.  Perhaps she didn’t want to hear.

Screaming matches took place. Loud voices raised with each sentence. Each accused the other of sins against them. There was never enough holy water to save them.

You’ve screwed everything in this town, she said. Your mark has been left in every bed. That scent you leave behind. Women don’t wash their sheets for weeks after you’ve left them.

What evidence do you have? He asked. You have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Sad, really. Pathetic. I don’t know who I feel sadder for. You, or the women you leave behind, she said to him. And it’s not just here. You’ve been with women in other towns, too. Philadelphia, Lancaster, over in Jersey. The whole Eastern Seaboard.

That’s not true, he yelled. Not true at all. You’re just jealous. Jealous that people like me.

Women like you. They like you till you leave. Then they call here trying to track you down. I get strange calls in the  middle of the night from complete strangers. Asking for Jimmy. You’re so dumb. You give them your real name. How stupid can you be?

Obviously pretty stupid, he laughed. I’m out of here.

Where are you going? To find some whore at a bar?

He nodded. Put his jacket on. And walked out the door. She stood in the kitchen and watched him leave. Her husband put the truck in reverse and drove off.

Goddammit, she said. She pulled off her ring and placed it in her mouth. On top of her tongue. A whiskey was poured. A toast was made. Here’s to nothing, she said. Absolutely  nothing.

He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Years ago, she would fill his Thermos with coffee before he went to work. She made breakfast, too. Eggs, bacon or ham, and toast with fried potatoes. She even added salt and pepper to his liking. He’d kiss her goodbye and head out the door. The old man never said, I love you. Nor did he say thank you. Just a peck on the cheek, and he was gone.

The husband never came home on time. Always late, one sometimes two hours. Dinner was left in the stove. The wife asked where he’d been? Always the same answer. At the bar or talking to coworkers in the parking lot. She got used to eating alone.

She got used to doing everything alone. The two could be in the same room watching television, and she’d feel alone as he laughed and carried on. She knitted and smiled. Till death do we part, she would say to herself. Till death do we part.

Both of them began to tire easily as they got older. They both went to bed around eight. Laying in darkness. Turned on their sides. Laying in total silence. No words. Just an occasional cough or hiccup.

Is it over yet? She asked herself. Are we done? I should have ended this years ago. Back when it all began, she said. Thirty years of nothing. No kids. No trips. No love, she laughed. Why?

He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Till death do we part.

He sat on a park bench, counting his money. Nine hundred and ninety-four dollars. No loose change. Just bills. He did not look at the sky. He did not whisper a prayer of silence. The old man just sat there, counting twenties and fifties over and over again, placing each bill in his pocket next to his watch. The other pocket was empty.

The two brothers sat in the diner across from each other. Frank looked at the plastic menu while Fast Eddie watched the waitress walk by.

That coffee smells good, said Frank. I always liked the smell of coffee. Smells like you’re starting something new. Waking up. A new day.

Yeah, Fast Eddie responded. He continued looking at the blonde server.

You said you had something to give me, Frank said. Fast Eddie nodded. What is it?

Out of his pocket, he handed Frank his ATM card and a piece of paper with the code on it for withdrawals. Take this, he told him.

Eddie. What are you doing? Frank asked. What is this?

The eagle flies tomorrow.

Right. First of the month, Frank said as he tried to flag the waitress down.

Look at me, Fast Eddie told him. I’m serious.

I know you are.

I’m not going to come out of this surgery tomorrow. Too many cards stacked against me, Eddie said.

Come on now, Eddie. You’ll be fine.

I don’t think so. Not so easy. The ticker is always tricky.

It’s done every day, Frank laughed. You’ll come out of it brand new.

Just take it. In case I don’t, take all my money out and walk down to the park.

Where the fountain is?

Right. Take that cash and give it to the first homeless person you see. Just say it’s a gift from Fast Eddie. Actually,  better yet. Don’t say nothing. Just give it away to someone who needs it.

Some bum?

Hey. I was a bum once. I was on the streets till I got SSI. Just another crazy person. Remember?

Yes. Yes, I do.

So do this for me. Will you?

I will.

He saw him. Walked right by the man in the park. Talking to himself. Talking about myths and legends. Frank didn’t know what to make of the man. He didn’t even say hello.

Here, Frank said to the older gentleman with the torn Cubs hat on. Take this. He took out the wad of dough and handed it to him. That’s a gift from God, Frank said. A gift from God. And he walked away.

The bum laughed with joy as Frank walked on. Thank you, sir. He said. Thank you.

Frank held his hand up and waved. His way of saying, you’re welcome.

I’ll drink to that, the old man said. I’ll drink to that.