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Randy. Did you hear that? I said, did you hear that? Randy nodded his head. Came from over there, Paul said. Something in the bushes. Could be anything, he said. A stray cat. Some lost dog. I don’t think it’s a coyote, Paul whispered. Could be somebody trying to sleep. Some husband who got kicked out of the house. A kid hiding from the cops. They laughed

Two men in the backyard of suburban paradise. Sitting at a glass table, drinking beers, and talking over old times. They converse about high school football, girls they laid, parties attended.

Do you remember that boy in school. That one kid who walked funny, kind of swishy like. Talked funny, too. Randy said. He was different. Not like the rest of us. Kept to himself. I don’t think anybody talked to him. Not even the retarded kids and they spoke to everyone. He just had a way about him. Remember?

Barely. I was too busy watching girls. Too busy hanging out with my bros, said Paul.

I wonder what became of him. Never see him at reunions, Randy said while lighting up a cheap cigar.

Yeah. I don’t know, Paul told him. Couldn’t tell you.

Sounds came from the bushes. Two squirrels chased each other. The wind blew warm, and the sky grew dark. More noise. They walk towards the side of the backyard, where neighbors are divided by a wooden fence.

Shhhh, Paul said. Don’t say a word. Don’t make a sound. Shhh.

They approached the noise. A groundhog scurried from the scene of the crime, leaving behind a banana peel and an apple core.

Told you it wasn’t no coyote. They don’t come out here no more, Paul proclaimed. Not since I shot that one. Got him in the hind leg. Killed it.

You don’t remember that queer in high school? Randy asked. Paul shook his head. Huh. I guess I’m the only one who thinks about him. I wonder. Just wonder.

What’s that? Paul asked.

If he made it, Randy said.

Probably left town, Paul said, lighting up his cigar. Not everyone is that lucky in life. He twirled the cigar in his mouth. They don’t have what we have, he said. Few people do.

Rusty electrical outlets screwed to baseboards. Water damage to walls. Loose Linoleum tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. Chipped paint. Cracked toilet. Stained carpets. A hot plate on the window frame.

Water is boiled, and tea bags float atop. Sugar and cream containers sit on a card table. Folding chairs on all four sides. The old man sits and waits for the conversation to begin.

Would you care for some tea? He asks his imaginary friend. Wait. I’ll pour it for you, he says to himself. He walks over to the cabinet and pulls two dirty cups from the top shelf; he uses his tee-shirt to wipe out mouse droppings . He pours tea into the cups and hums a song. Is that all there is? He sings. Is that all there is? The old man does a shuffle step and continues singing. If that’s all there is my friend….then let’s keep dancing…

He sits down and pushes the filled cup across the table. Here, he says. Drink up while it’s still hot. He tells him. Go on. Have a sip. He looks at nothing. Would you like some cream and sugar? The pretend partner nods his head. Good. Very good. The old man stirs in spoiled cream and pours sugar into the cups.

There, he says. Isn’t this nice? Lovely? I’m glad you stopped by. He pulls out a half burned cigarette from a pile in the ashtray. Always great to see you. Again, the invisible man nods his head. Yeah. Always great to see you.

He drinks his tea and looks at no one. Turns his head and looks out the window. Snow is falling.

Lovely, he says. Just lovely. He raises his cup. Cheers.

There is no sound like that of quiet. Nothingness. Maybe a faint car horn in the background. A siren, perhaps. Everything still. Steam rises from manholes. Diners with few patrons. Windows wet. The sound of a glass door opening and shutting. Only briefly. Then, back to silence. It’s five o’clock in the morning.

He sits alone in Washington Square Park and hears birds chirping, singing, just before daylight. The air is brisk, and colors have changed. God bless Manhattan in autumn.

Vagabonds lay on benches. Some go through trashcans. Others look for cigarette butts. To find a half burned one is finding gold. He watches. Looks on. A regular is by his side in a blue and white cup that states, We Are Happy To Serve You. He takes a sip, and lights a loosie bought for a quarter.

Someday the smoker will be persecuted, he says to himself. They’ll ban these everywhere. The cigarette police will be out in full force. Wait and see. He laughs. Wait and see.

The sun emerges, and suddenly, there’s  sound. Night drops into day. A pigeon dances beside him. 

Red numbers keep clicking away on the meter. Heavy plastic with a sliding  window separates the driver from the passenger. The cab is spotless. No gum wrappers. No cigarette butts. Smells of cloves and cinnamon permeate the taxi. It heads uptown from Chelsea.

Salam, the passenger says. Salam. What kind of name is Salam?

It is Arabic, the cabbie tells him in broken English. Safety. Security. Peace and wholeness. Take your pick. Yes?

The man in the back laughs. I’m a McNulty. That means drunk. Inebriated. Passed out. He laughs. Take your pick. Right?

You had good day today? Salam asks.

Yeah. It was alright. McNulty reaches in his pocket for a square. He lights it with a match. Laughs. I killed a man today, Salam.

You killed a man? Salam looks into his rear view mirror. Why? He asks.

We do these things, Salam. He had it coming. The guy was being a nuisance. So. Bang. I shot him, McNulty said. These things. Why? Couldn’t really tell you.

You shot him for no reason? Salam asks. How? In your conscience. How?

Why not, I figured. One less nigger, he looked out the window. People pay for their sins. You believe that, Salam? The driver nods his head. And sooner or later, I’ll pay for mine. Right? McNulty crushed out his cigarette. Drop me off on the corner up here, he says. I feel like walking.

The cab comes to a stop by Lincoln Center. The meter reads $8.50. Salam hesitantly opens the window. McNulty slides him a twenty.

Keep it, the Irishman says. See. I’m not all bad.

A cup of yesterday’s coffee sits on a table next to On The Road and Lolita. I drink the cold caffeine and light a cigarette. My day has begun.

Sitting on a couch typing away on my phone, a short piece comes to mind; a memory. Isn’t that where all our stories come from?

I was homeless in New York for four years; living in shelters, drop in centers, sleeping in synagogue basements, and Catholic chambers. Or, riding around all night on the 6 train, writing, always writing. Going back and forth between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Bronx. Vagabonds sleeping. Kids drunk on love, third shift workers going home in the early morn, all of us underground while dear old Manhattan wakes.

Trips to Bellevue. Always going to the hospital on 1st Avenue for meds, bloodwork, an occasional stay as if it were a hotel for the mentally ill; sick people coming from all over America in search of help; food stamp cards, free health care, a place to sleep, a therapist’s ear to bend.

We have all wound up here in Gotham. Waiting our turn. Wanting what everybody wants; a home.

Paintings on white walls. Still lifes and abstracts. A bottle of wine with a single glass. Lines and circles of different colors on black canvas. He walks to each one and looks at these pieces of art. French windows open. A cold breeze blows into the loft.

A cup of tea sits on a stool. Best Dad In The World is written on his mug. A gift of a long time ago from a son who now sells used cars in Omaha. At least that’s what the old man heard.

Jazz plays on the public radio station. Hank Mobley makes his saxophone sing. The artist stretches canvas across the back wall. He looks at the blank sheet. He walks away. Drinks more hot tea, holding the mug with both hands, hugging it. Holding it tightly. Covering the phrase on it. He drinks the last sip and stares at books on a shelf.  Where The Wild Things Are. His son’s favorite story. Max and his royal rumpus, the monsters joining in. He used to read the Sendak classic to his son. Now, he’s married and has two kids. At least, that’s what the old man heard.

There is nothing coming to mind. Only memories of a past life. He takes the mug and throws it against the brick wall. It shatters. He leaves broken pieces on the hardwood floor.

The kid had the potential to be a real artist. Just like his dad. At least, that’s what the old man heard.

He sits in a recliner watching TV. Lights are off. A cat circles his bare legs; rubbing against them, purring. The old man opens a beer and cuts his knuckle on the metal tab. He sucks blood off his finger, presses it against his white tee-shirt, and continues watching baseball in silence.

She’s cleaning up in the kitchen. Putting leftovers away in Tupperware bowls. Sealing lids. Wiping off grease on the stove and counter. She hums a song and taps her foot. Patsy Cline sings in her head. The words and music are sad. Crazy for feeling so lonely, the wife sings softly. He yells at the third baseman’s error. Runners round the bases. She folds a towel.

Could you bring me another Old Style? He asks her. She brings him the cold can and pulls the tab. Careful, he says. Always cut my finger on that damn thing, he tells her. She nods and hands him the slippery beer.

This game is almost over. He says. Top of the ninth.

OK. I’m going to bed. She kisses him on the forehead and walks down the hall.

And, like every night, the old man falls asleep in his La-Z-Boy with the cat in his lap.

Cubs win….Cubs win….

Vagabonds took baths in sinks. Toilets ran. The tile floor reeked of piss. Graffiti on the stalls. Cracked mirrors. A child with his father stands at the urinal. His pants soaked.

A voice over a loud speaker tells passengers to now board for Dallas, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and Phoenix. With connections to Indio and Los Angeles. Now boarding at gate seven.

The line is long. Grandmothers going across country. Hustlers and hookers with dreams of stardom. Frightened sixteen year olds running away from suburban homes. Old men with booze on their breath traveling aimlessly,  spending social security checks on constant fights with themselves. They hadn’t given up yet.

I sit on the back of the bus, smoking a cigarette and drinking cold coffee. No one is next to me. I am alone, drawing stick figures on the window as we go through New Mexico in early sunshine glory. Surrounded by red clay mountains and cacti. I crush the cigarette out with my boot.

A woman sits across from me. She keeps looking at me with brown eyes. I am naked. Completely exposed. I know I’ve been caught.

Where are you going? She asked.

I don’t know. I told her. My ticket says Los Angeles. I tilt my head and laugh. But, I might change my mind once I get there.

None of us know where we’re going, really. She said. Life’s uncertain. Right? I nodded my head. Some spend a whole lifetime and never go anywhere. They just stay in one place. She told me. Stagnant. Lifeless.

Right, I said. They sell insurance in bumfuck Arkansas.

Is that where you’re from? She asked.

I don’t know. Yes and no. I said.

How so? She asked and reached in her purse.

I’ve just never felt comfortable anywhere. I said. Always moving. Going somewhere but getting nowhere.

Ain’t that the truth, she stated. Ain’t that the truth.

And where are you going? I asked.

To LA,  she said. Got a boyfriend waiting for me.

That must be nice, I said. Someone waiting on you.

She smiled. Took out a handheld mirror and a tube of red lipstick.

He’s lucky, I said. You’re a very pretty girl.

Thanks. He never tells me that. She confessed. I think he takes me for granted. Just expects me to run to him at his command. She laughed.

That’s not funny, I said to her. Sad, I told her. Very sad. I would tell you every day how pretty you were if you were mine. I’d bring you flowers, I said.

It got quiet. She turned and looked out the window at the red clay.

So did I.

I told you there was no heaven. Pete said. Nothing up there. A cigarette was  lit. A sip of beer was had. You think I’m kidding? He asked. I’m not fooling around. This is destroying a myth, Pete told his friend. Up there or down there, he said, pointing to both the floor and the ceiling. That’s what they told us when we were kids. Right? Our parents told us if we were good, you go up there. And if you’re bad, you go down there, he laughed. That’s what they told us.

At the end of the bar, an old drunk laid his head down on the wet wood. His gin and tonic sat next to him. Vanna was turning letters on the television. Patrons watched in anticipation.

A vowel, you idiot, said Pete. A vowel. They never follow my directions. Always doing their own thing.

Pat. I’d like to solve the puzzle, the woman told Sajak. Loose lips sink ships, she said. Pete clapped and laughed.

Well. Good for her, Pete said. Good for her. He took another drink. Lit another square. Looked in the mirror behind the bar. I’m getting old, kid. Getting old. Soon, I’ll be either up there or down there. Have I been good? Or bad? He continued looking at his wrinkled face. It doesn’t matter. He laughed. It’s all a myth.

Water drips from a faucet. Staples stick up in the carpet. Electrical outlets loose in walls. Dust and dirt on  baseboards. Stained tile in the kitchen. Mousetraps set.

He sits at a folding table, eating bread from the wrapper. No peanut butter. Jelly gone. Bach plays on the radio. Morning time music on WKCR. It’s a concerto. He knows it by heart. It’s a piece from the Brandenburg collection. A highlight of the Baroque age. He breathes it in. Tilts his head back and smiles while he chews. A mouse is caught.

A glass of red wine poured. He starts his day. In the corner stands a stack of books. He has read all of them. He selects Crime and Punishment. The old man knows it by heart. Every decade, he reads the work by Dostoyevsky and learns something new. Bach keeps playing.

Come afternoon, he will nap and dream in Russian. A window opens in this dream. There is a light coming in. It is blinding. Is it God? He asks. No. Only the sun.