dmseay

A nice thick slice of rye or pumpernickel is what I craved. The rest would settle for plain white. Anything for the next bottle, crack whore, or fix. Something to take their minds away from life’s catastrophes. Some fell from grace a long time ago, whereas others were simply born into it, knowing no other way to live but to damage the body, the soul they were given.

Did I feel pity for them? Yes. My heart went out to each and every one in that line every morning. The blacks, Mexicans, those who never had a chance in America, but to work themselves to the bones, making their skin calloused and feet ache and for what? A simple piece of white. No mustard, no relish, just a heel with nothing on it. This was the reward. A slice each day if they just did as they were told. Instructions coming from a fat Irish prick behind a cage.

The recipe for success given to them by King James don’t you know. The book tells us that if we just hang on in this life, we will be rewarded. Streets of gold and all that. Good King James knew how to sell a bill of goods to the common man, and so did Donahue. King James, Donahue, Chinese laundry, same difference.

I decided to take the Donahues for all I could. Make them pay for their sins against man and God, for that matter. Play them for all their worth, I said. Play them for everything they got.

I had a mission now. A reason to live. I would lead the Isrealites out of Egypt. Far, far away from Pharaoh’s wrath. This was my assignment handed down to me from a burning can of old newspapers, cardboard boxes, beer cases, everything, and sundry. God spoke to me at Lower Wacker Drive. His voice was clear.

The mind numbing, that is American labor. They have us by the balls, hands, feet, neck, and soul. Devoured by corporations, small businesses, and all that is under the sun. Sweeping and mopping floors, assembly lines, brushing shit stains out of toilets, washing windows, all of this, and more, waiting for you; the uneducated,  the poor, immigrants,  blacks, coal minors in West Virginia, auto factory workers in Detroit, meat packers in Chicago, and day laborers sweating it out till the day is done; working just enough to make ends meet, or not.

I thought I’d said goodbye to work when I left for Chicago that night on the Greyhound,  but I soon realized after coming down from my manic high that simply wasn’t the case. You have to work in America. Very few have the luxury of pursuing creative and artistic lives. We are worker bees that keep this nation going. God have mercy on us.

As I stood in line waiting for my daily bread, I overheard men comparing diseases they acquired from whores in Chicago. A black guy named Charlie explained that he had the clap so bad his cock was falling off. Of  course, this was overstated. I decided it best to keep my mouth shut and not offer any medical advice. It’s not good to come off as a know-it-all around these guys. Keep a low profile. The less they know about you, the better.

I pretended I was a spy. My arrogance lead me to believe I was better than the rest in line. But, there I was.  Wanting my daily bread.

The train runs above me. Sometimes, blue and orange sparks fly off the steel wheels, looking like fourth of July fireworks. Glowing as they disappear. And that sound, that beautiful music of the L stopping and starting, running at high speeds with voices carrying into night. The conductors tell urban travelers to watch their step, doors opening and closing before them.

I walk down Lake Street shivering, wearing my hoodie and freshly washed pants. Clean underwear feels good. My socks are dry. I’ve got a five in my pocket for a cup of coffee and a roll. My lips are chapped, and my face is burned. Cop cars pass me by. I continue my morning stroll, now thinking not of childhood, but questioning how I got to Chicago. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember.

It was an act of mania, nothing really planned. I had just gotten paid from my job at a car wash where myself and other juvenile delinquents worked steadfastly cleaning cars of the rich. Saving tips for something important such as bottles of booze bought at the nearby liquor store. Food for their families to eat. Clothes for the seasons. New pairs of shoes.

With tips and a bi-weekly paycheck, I managed to have a couple of hundred on me. I walked swiftly through my small town and thought, what is the point to all this? A voice kept telling me to leave this Winesburg, Ohio, for a bigger place; get rid of this Midwest melancholy once and for all. And, I did. I left behind the comforts of warm, dry housing and hot meals prepared by mom and stern lectures from the old man for freedom. What I thought was freedom.

No plans, no schemes, just get on the bus and go. Proving that old German right when he said what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Interesting. The old bugger suffered from syphilis.

But, it’s the loneliness that gets you. Ever since I was young, I hated the idea of being alone. And, yet, while all the neighborhood kids played games together, I stayed away. I had this fear of rejection hanging over my head that I would never be accepted by many. This led to rumors of arrogance. Kids and adults alike thought my fears and silence were due to snobbery. They said amongst themselves that I thought I was better. But, nothing could  be farther from the truth. I felt as though they were out to ruin me, and I had no course of action. Stick to yourself, I said quite often out loud to imaginary friends. And, with the exception of Robert Grisham, I did.

I was constantly talking to myself; carrying on full conversations. Years later, I told a psychiatrist this, and he asked if I answered myself. Yes, I told the quack. Do you hear voices in these conversations? He asked. I nodded my head. Do you act out in fits of mania? Go into deep sadness? Again, I nodded yes. Do these voices tell you to kill yourself or do harm to others? Only myself, I answered. And then, don’t you know, I was waking up in the psych ward of the downtown Lutheran hospital.

When word got out, I was crazy, kids became even more inhumane. Spreading rumors. False statements. Glaring at me as I walked down my high school halls. Insults right to my face. Parents pointed fingers. I was a monster being chased out by the villagers. Only a small girl down by the lake offered me a flower and a kind smile.

I had a morning ritual. After sleeping on the train throughout the night, there was a need to feel human again.  A need for night to become day, which meant keeping myself in check. I became a constant user of hotels downtown to keep clean; The Westin, Palmer House, and The Drake, nothing but the best public restrooms in Chicago were used in my daily practice of hygiene. I used their soap to wash my face and hands. Nice fluffy towels for drying and wiping my mouth after brushing my teeth. Hell, they even had cologne, gratis for my needs; rubbing the potion on all parts of my body; a whore’s bath.

Even as a homeless person, I kept up appearances. I owned three pairs of pants, which I rolled up in my book bag along with four tee-shirts, three underwear, and some socks. Toothpaste and deodorant were kept in side pockets while books rested at the bottom of the bag. Clean. I was always concerned about cleanliness. Others in the homeless community did not care; a constant state of disrepair with hair matted, breath smelling of booze from the night or the hour before, smelling of dried urine like a carpet soaked in cat piss, and glazed over red eyes. And like a true Christian, I would listen to them babble incoherently about the ones that got away, an abusive father, a non-caring mother, not having any meds, mental institutions, hospitalizations, panhandling, pimps, Johns, the whole works. Sometimes, I’d give them a buck for coffee or a five for an Ialian beef dipped in juice with sweet peppers. Why not? Did Christ not say there would always be the poor among us? He did. And he said it for a reason. Help them, you dumb cocksuckers. No one chooses this life. This life of insanity. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. Hard to say.

God bless the child that’s got his own. That’s got his own.

That was me. Standing on that bridge just before sunrise. I remember it being just before sunrise because my mind was distracted by the glimpse of light in back of me. It made me think of ending it all and also of my beginning. The smell of sourdough bread coming from my mother’s kitchen. Baking away like so many of the goods she baked; cornbread, cinnamon rolls, cheesecake, for Christ’s sake, it was like a downtown bakery where people gathered for morning news, coffee, and gossip.

But I also thought of riding my bike up and down the streets of my neighborhood each day after long hours at grade school. My best friend was a black kid named Robert Grisham. He lived in another part of town where white men dare not go at night. Why? Because of this inane fear, the Caucasians have of the black man. And what was that fear? Fear that vengeance would be theirs one day. A true uprising of blacks against whites, knowing full well they would lose; anger and heart always prevail.

Robert was a sweet kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly. He stuck by me in times of sorrow when sadness and madness took their toll. Yes, even at that young age, I was bitter and wanting to kill myself. Never those around me or those responsible for my pain, no, the focus was on me and me alone.

That smell of sourdough. Always brought me back to reason. No matter how bad things had gotten, it was always there for my comfort. Like when a kid would bean me with a baseball or threaten me, and I’d ride home as fast as I could, crying the whole time.

However, one instance stands out. The kid’s name was Chuck. And Chuck was a prick. A real mean fellow who got his kicks by terrorizing the  neighborhood; particularly those of us younger than him.

I was so angry at him that one day, the word I never thought I’d say came from my lips. I called him a nigger. I called this big white bully a nigger. And, I instantly cried. I wept because I had betrayed Robert. I had said a word that I thought I was above. But in sheer madness I called him a nigger. I was so shaken up that Chuck apologized to me for being a bully. He said he was sorry so many times as I cried, that he wept as well.

It’s OK you called me a nigger, he said. Maybe I’ve been acting like one. This tore into me so badly that I let him have it. His non-understanding, his lack of humanity, drove me to punch him in the gut several times till he doubled over in pain. Boys on the sidewalks cheered. They didn’t understand either.

I was saved by the smell of sourdough bread. Nothing was ever said to Robert.

Death is at the doorstep, but I have no door to open. I certainly can’t close it. This doesn’t exist. However,  I hear people knocking constantly, yelling, let me in, let me in. And I ignore them. I don’t even say, go away, or nobody home. I just let them knock.

Who is it knocking besides Death? Angels, demons, the devil himself, all of them, even ghosts from the past. Friends and enemies, all knocking to see me. Yet I keep my mouth closed. Not a peep do you hear from me. These voices come and go. The ups and downs. Mania and depression.

I look down at the river from Wacker Drive, thinking, where’s your guts boy? Go on, end it all right now. Come back as a tree branch, a rabid dog, some animal in the Lincoln Park Zoo, maybe a can of tuna. Something.

There’s five bucks in my pocket. I could really go for a hotdog with mustard, neon green relish, tomatoes,  a dill pickle, and celery salt. Don’t forget the sport peppers.

Maybe this is what keeps me alive. Perhaps the city keeps me alive; I’m not sure. But the voices and thoughts are there. Always there. I could live anywhere, and they’d still be dancing a waltz inside my head. Or, maybe an Irish jig. It comes and goes. It comes and goes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my day of rest. I will not go to church and tithe. My payment has been paid for now. I want something for the price. A reward, don’t you know. A free trip to heaven or some paradise. I cling to the ticket.

A million ants. All of us ran around this giant, vast monstrosity made of steel and concrete, sweeping away bits and pieces of America’s promise.

A new boat. Rifles, bows, and arrows. Scantily clothed women casting fishing lines into a beautiful little man made pond, crystal clear mind you with no litter or oil film atop of it. Zero toxins. A place where fish could breathe, youth could play, jet skis zooming and skipping over waves. All brought to you by various companies of massive proportions selling the American dream. While I and hundreds of men toiled on this presentation.

I watched all the busyness of it and asked myself, why am I doing this? Slowly, I strolled, broom in hand, observing while poor black men and Mexicans new to this country performed tasks that no one else would do. At least not for a decent wage.

The Donahues had it all locked up. The whole mess that is American labor. On one hand, they owned Donahue Day Labor, offering slaves to  companies on the cheap, while on the other hand, this Irish family ran the local labor union lock, stock, and barrel. There wasn’t a corner of the contracts with conventions or city labor they didn’t have their paws in. They were the true kings of Chicago. Not the mayor. That Irish prick was merely a pawn to them. Someone they squeezed come any event sponsored by the City of Chicago. This meant the festivals, the conventions, and the whore houses of which we all worked in one way or another.

But I swept up confetti around McCormick Place till I could no longer see straight. A true mind-numbing experience. And I said to myself in me best Irish brogue, steady boy now steady. Don’t rush this. Relax. Let the others sweat and moan as they cry out to Jesus, save my soul. Just watch, I said. Collect two hundred dollars and go home. But there was not two hundred dollars waiting for me at the end of the rainbow. When I went back to Donahue the next day, my check was for thirty-three dollars and no cents. It was forty-two, but taxes were taken out. Taxing those who need it the most. Very American.

On the corner of Halsted and Randolph sat a bar where men went to cash their checks for a two dollar fee and the price of a beer. They sat there, wallowing in self-pity and defeat; drinking away the crumbs of a nice fat sandwich of rye with mustard and corned beef and Swiss cheese. But, there was none of that for us. I sat with my black brothers and drank. Drank till there was just enough money left over for the L that night to sleep in. Back to reading books and resting my head on the windows of the train as it went back and forth across the city. Closed my eyes just a bit until the start of another day.

Chicago. Hog butcher to the world indeed.

I had plans for that twenty. A bowl of chili at the diner on Clark Street. Maybe a roast beef sandwich, open faced with mashed potatoes and brown gravy salt and pepper mixed in. Or a stein of beer at the German American Restaurant with a bit of sweet purple cabbage.

The plans I had. Gone down the street in one quick motion, one act of kindness. Why did I now feel bitter? Men laughed at me. They howled with laughter like mad hyenas after the kill.  All I could do was laugh with them. Laugh at myself.

The gate opened at five or a little after.  A short little black man named Cookie weaved in and out of the line, telling those who were too drunk, too tired, too worn out by life to go home or back to the dumpsters and streets they called home.

He looked at me and laughed. What’re you doing here, boy? He asked me. White boy in line with a bunch of niggers, he said. Never seen anything like it, he told me and announced to the others. Looks like a Tarzan movie out here. He got up in my face. You Tarzan? I smiled.

Men moved forward inside the run-down hall with benches along the walls. I stood, wanting to be called, waiting for the fat man behind the cage to point at me to come forward and receive my gift of eternal salvation.

You, he pointed at me. You, come here, he said. What’s your name?

David, I said. David Michael.

What the fuck are you doing here? The fat man asked while slurping on coffee and stuffing a cherry filled donut in his mouth. I knew it was cherry. The red goo dripped down his white chin. You want work? I nodded. Here, he slipped a small note to me through a tiny hole in the cage. You’re going to McCormick Place to take down after the trade show. It’s easy. Ask for Gregory. He’ll be your boss for the day. He slurped more black coffee. Get out of here.

This was my reward.

Sidewalks covered in vomit, blood, and acorn shells left behind by black squirrels. A dead cat in the street. Candy wrappers tossed away carelessly. Empty bottles of gin and vodka. Hookers conducting  business  behind dumpsters. The smell of urine filled the air.

America does not like poverty. The poor are shunned. Christ walked around without a dime to his name. Look what they did to him. America, Rome, Chinese laundromat, same thing. Money is the honey, and people fight like hell for a buck every day. Some are born with it while others want it, and some have just given up; settling for less, much less.

Did I give up? Maybe watching my father sweat all those years over nothing more than a meager paycheck  did something to me. But, reality is reality. Twenty bucks left in my pocket. Do I spend it and jump in the Chicago River? I asked myself. Buy one final round of drinks and a Polish at Jim’s on Halsted? I can still taste those greasy fries leaking through a brown paper bag. Why not? I say. Why the hell not?

I walked south past the bars, the Mexican restaurants, through crowds of people congregating on sidewalks. Past all-night convenient stores and hot dog joints. Past North Avenue, past  Division, past Chicago Avenue and onward; looking at billboards with advertisements on them to drink Old Style, smoke Camels, and just before Lake Street a wall where it is written, FRESH KILLED LAMB.

And it was a fresh killed lamb who offered salvation to whores, pimps, drunks, junkies, thieves, and the uncleansed. All are welcome by the son of God. That’s what the Bible says.

Just as I was about to give up the ghost, a sign above a gated door that read, Donahue Day Labor called to me. My Hajj was complete. I got in line with the blacks, the Mexicans, and poor men with bad breaths reeking of alcohol, wanting just one more try at making a buck. God bless them. And God blessed me.

I stood with the rest of humanity. Waiting to be let in. The morning air was cold. Men dressed in dirty pants and stained jackets with rips and tears in them. I felt ashamed to be wearing my black leather with wool lining in it. The man in front of me shivered. I offered him my coat.

Here, I said. Take it. I got a sweatshirt on. Go ahead. Take it.

He grabbed it from my hand and tried it on. It’s yours. You can have it, I said. He smiled and said nothing. Just looked at me.

This is mine? He asked.

It is now, I said.

He slowly stepped out of line and then ran down Halsted like he was running for his life. Laughing hysterically. I was pleased by this.

I placed my hands in my pants pockets to get warm and realized that I had placed the twenty inside my coat. Some men would have cursed or chased after the poor soul. I did neither. I just smiled and waited with the rest of them. Knowing that a good deed had been done.