A copper cash register. Penny candy in jars on a counter. Bottles of pop in a fridge behind glass, displayed in single order; Coke, Fanta Orange, Dad’s Root Beer, different cream sodas, and Squirt. The sign above says ALL FLOATS $3.25.

Sitting in a corner is a fat woman with a cigarette burning in an ashtray. She’s watching television on a small black and white set. She laughs and coughs while knitting a sweater of different colors; red, white, and blue with gold stars across the chest. She takes a drag and says out loud, that Barney. She takes a drag and coughs some more.

A kid walks into the shop. He twitches. His nose runs. He looks at the sign. I want a root beer float, he tells the old woman with drooping breasts. How much is that? She points above the selection of sodas.

What does the sign say? She asks.

Don’t know, the tall boy tells her.

Can’t you read? She puts down the half done sweater. Squishes out her cigarette. Three dollars and twenty-five cents, she says slowly with a blank expression.

Well, he looks at her, I want one.

Grab a pop, she tells him. Bring it over here. What kind of ice cream you want?

Chocolate. I want a chocolate root beer float.

Fine, she says, as she scoops balls of frozen dairy into a large Styrofoam cup.

The boy looks at the different candies on the counter. Jolly Ranchers, Pop Rocks, lolli pops in big round circles, small chocolate bars for a quarter each. They call them fun size.

She hands him the float and asks for the money. She is greeted by a small pistol he holds in his hand, drawn from his jacket pocket. 

Oh my, she says. I ain’t got much.

Just empty the drawer,  the teenager tells her. Dollars, dimes,  all of it.

She places the money in a brown paper bag and hands it over to him. He slowly backs out of the store with the gun pointed at her.

Don’t you call no one, he says. Not the police, not anybody.  You understand?

The old woman nods her head. What about the float?

Keep it.

Sweaters in ninety degree weather. Old pizza crusts in a box marked Luigi’s found in a trashcan. Taxis rush by on Eighth Avenue. The Port Authority takes in more kids from the Midwest in awe of a city, a country they never knew existed. Businessmen  carry brief cases with secrets inside. A hooker offers her services.

A small bar is open at seven in the morning. Some Irish joint serving Guinness and corned beef  sandwiches on rye with mustard creeping over the sides. Fat slobs with brogues eat and drink after working the third shift. Distancing themselves from their wives. Soon, the horses will run at Aqueduct.

He looks in the window. Waves at the bartender. Holds a ten in his hand. Petey motions for him to come on in.

The barkeep sets him up with a sandwich and a pint. He eats and drinks slowly. Chewing every little bite, sips on stout, washes it around in his mouth before swallowing. Sits back and enjoys a smoke from St. Pete.

He feels human again.

Saltine crackers. A jar of peanut butter. Some Cheezits left in a box. The old man rummages through his bookshelf and behind The Brothers Karamazov is a can of tuna hiding from him. The date expires a month from now.

He opens the can with a rusty opener. Pours the tuna water into a plastic bag hanging on his door knob and picks at it with his dirty fingers, placing the fish on a Saltine. He devours the whole thing in one bite, wishing there was more.

Phil Schaap is on WKCR talking about Bird. Speaking on the subject of Parker with strings. Telling stories about old movie theaters where Bird  played before shows and intermission.

The radio is transistor. Schaap reminds us that a lot of people don’t even know what a radio is these days. That time has passed, the old man whispers. It’s all leaving us behind, he says to his cat. And what do we have? Better technology? He laughs. People are looking at a phone constantly instead of talking to a woman at the same table or a barstool next to them. Better indeed.

Time moves on, he says to El Gato. Time moves on. And a few of us get left behind. We few. We lucky few.

Downstairs, a neon sign blinks in the pawn shop window. The bail bondsman has his lights on. A fountain flows in front front of city hall. Bums dip their feet in the cool water. Women stand outside of the county lockup, waiting for their men to be released. An old El Dorado drives by.

In a bar on Main Street, men drink whiskey; talking about crime and punishment. Old timers watch television as they salt mugs of beer. The late, late show is on Super 55. The Sands Of Iwo Jima is watched in silence. All of them wishing they were John Wayne. Siren sounds from far away gets closer. Another fight between two drunks over on Broadway. A squad car for each. Blood drips from mouths. A gash to the forehead on one. A broken nose on the other. No one notices. No one ever does.

I heard Lenny’s in lockup, Junior says to another guy down on his luck. Got caught pimping out girls over on Pontiac.

Heard about that, Bobby says. Also heard he trashed some windows over at the massage parlor on Calhoun. Them joints are owned by Macedonians. Tough motherfuckers. Best not to mess with them.

I hear you, Junior agrees.

Good thing he’s downtown, Lenny offers a cigarette.

Shit, Junior says. They’ll find his ass eventually. Count on it.

I guess. I guess eventually we all pay a price, Lenny tells him. I know I have.

Me, too.

Winds stir up and blow down Main Street. An ambulance is on its way to Lutheran. Under the bridge, there’s a fire in a barrel. Bums watch the flame as it burns on into the night.

The two sat opposite each other in the booth. They used to sit on the same side. A lit candle on the table between them glows orange. He’s drinking a straight-up whiskey while she twirls her hand around a glass of ginger ale. She’s had her fill of drinks. They sit quietly.  Looking away from one another.

Menus are placed on the table by a waitress who wishes them a good evening. Sicilian flatbread is the special tonight for an appetizer, and fettuccine Alfredo is the special main course. It comes with a salad, she tells them. Take your time. I’ll come back in a little bit. She notices the couple is silent.

He tells the server thank you while she looks through her purse. He takes another drink and swirls the liquor around in his glass.

I forgot my reading glasses, he tells her. Could you tell me what my options are? She grabs the menu from his hands and slides it between them.

You’re always forgetting something, she says. Always something. She points at the eggplant parmesan with the red sauce. There. Have that, she tells him. You always liked eggplant parmesan. You’ll eat it. You’ll eat anything, she whispers.

What’s that supposed to mean? He asks.

Forget it. Just forget it, she says. If you’ll excuse me. She walks away from the booth and heads towards the door.

Blank walls. Nothing on them. No pictures nor paintings. Just white. Even the baseboards are white. Window frames white as well. A real sense of nothingness.

He sits on a torn couch. Rips in the seats exposing foam cushions that browned over the years. Marks on them. Stains. Spilled beers. Wiped off mustard streaks. Piss.

A coffee table is in front of him. Old pizza crusts in a box. Stale. He teeths on one like a baby with a toy or a dog hanging onto rope. He chips a tooth.

Goddammit, he says. Not another one. The molar is stuck to the crust. The old man pulls it out and examines it. Brown. Yellowish brown, he says. Years of bad dental hygiene. He drinks half of a warm beer. This is living, he laughs. This is living.

Streetlights shine through the windows casting shadows. He stands up and goes to look outside. The sound of a train in the distance is getting closer and closer. He digs through his pockets, looking for cigarette butts or loose change. Nothing, he says. I got nothing.

The train whistles louder. He’s thought of jumping it. Leaving this behind; the bare white walls, ripped couch, littered floor. Jump on that train and leave, he says out loud. But, where would I go? Some other town? Another rented room?

Stick with what you got. He lights up an old Newport butt. The taste of menthol is gone. Tastes of ash.

Watching three flies climbing the front window. They’re going nowhere. Trapped between glass and blinds, escalating to the top, then climbing back down to the wood frame. They do not move side to side. Just up and down.

They’ll never be caught. The flies are too smart for that. Sure. People kill their kind all the time with newspapers folded, fly swatters bought at the dollar store, a broom sometimes for high places, ceilings, and such. A can of Raid.

Looking at the insects, wondering how they manage to escape most times. Quick movements. Rapid speed. Faster than the human hand. People think they’ve caught them, but they really haven’t. The species will never die. Just multiply.

They’ll out live us, the old man said. We really can’t stop them. He blew smoke into the air. We have a short time on earth. The flies? They’ll live through the apocalypse. The second  coming.

He stood up and looked at the flies. He laughed at himself. Alone. Always alone. They’re all I’ve got.

Where did you go this time? Kenny asked. I’m curious. Where did you land?

Up and down 95, Lynn responded, winding the telephone cord around his right hand.

Just drove up and down I-95? Kenny crushed a cigarette in a coffee can. From where to where? He asked.

Maine down to Virginia. Stopped in cities and towns along the way, Lynn said. I was up in Portland one day and down in D.C. the next. Drove throughout the night. Drove all the time, he told him. Spending money till I had none.

Is it all gone? Kenny lit up another Viceroy. All of it?

All of it. I’m here in Montpelier with nothing. Gas tank is on E, Lynn said.

Montpelier?

That’s Vermont, Lynn wrapped the phone cord a little tighter.

That ain’t on 95. You’re way off course, Kenny laughed.

I veered left in New England the third time. Decided to see something different than Philly or Baltimore. New York. Just got tired of driving all the time. Every day. Taking off aimlessly. Going nowhere but winding up somewhere. It became nerve-racking, Lynn said.

How’d you come up with Montpelier, Vermont? Did you buy a map? Kenny asked his friend.

Nope. Just landed here, he said. After going through five grand and all those women, I just landed here. Lynn let go of the black cord.

Did you meet some nice women? Kenny poured himself a cup of coffee and stared out his window at the stars. Noticed mosquitoes dancing around his porchlight. Were they good-looking? Kenny laughed.

Meet some real nice women, Lynn laughed as well. They’re all nice when you’re spending money. There was silence. I did meet this one waitress. Real nice. Real pretty. She could only make love with Dr. John playing in the background. Or, Barry White. 

Where was this? Kenny’s interest was peaked.

In Philly. Met her in a bar, and we talked all night. Talked till the sun came up. She was something Lynn told him. Had blonde curly hair and brown eyes. Little meat on her. Nothing small about her. When she laughed, she really laughed. Real nice lady. Had two sons. Her husband blew his brains out. Left them behind. Sad, really. I think her name was Tracy. Can’t remember.

That was in Philly?

Yeah. Lynn answered.

Why did you leave? Kenny kept looking outside. A dog barked. A pickup started up.

Just did. Left in the middle of the night. Took off. Next day I was in Maine. Then Vermont.

Sanctuary. Kenny laughed

Yeah. Sanctuary. Say Kenny. Can you send me a couple of hundred? Just wire it to me. I’ll pay you back.

The Ouachita River runs through Southern Arkansas. Big, muddy waters traveling through poor communities. Old men on the banks cast fishing lines two at a time, hoping for a bite, tugs from a cat, or a buffalo, maybe a blue gill. Something to take home and fry with cornmeal. The Ouachita rushes on.

He used to take me fishing there. Dad sat in a chair while I stood up, casting against the wind, my line tangled in tall oaks.

You’re fishing for squirrels, he said. Here. Give me that. He took out a pocket knife and cut the line, leaving the bobber up in the trees. Now, he said. Start all over again. He handed me a bobber and a small piece of bologna to throw out onto the brown water. We’ll make a fisherman of you yet, he said. Just you wait. He laughed. He laughed at me.

His catch was always plentiful. We’d stay out there till he caught at least three, maybe four. From sun up to high noon, we fished. Him with his six pack of Pepsi in a cooler along with egg salad sandwiches and a bag of Fritos. Me with a leftover chicken leg or cold hamburger mom would throw in there. She knew I hated egg salad.

You got plans in life? He asked one day. Real plans. Something you can use to get ahead, he said. I shook my head. You gotta hustle, he told me. You gotta hustle. That’s all I’m saying. To get ahead, you have to know what the next guy is up to. Capesch? I nodded. Not knowing what capesch meant.

If you know of something, don’t go blabbing about it. Keep it quiet. Go get it yourself, he lit his pipe. That’s what you do. That’s what men do, he said. Opportunities seldom come to those who wait. Go out there and get it.

I think of those words from time to time. His advice. I  often wonder if I’m hustling enough. If I’ve explored every opportunity in life. Probably not.

The Ouachita makes you think. Daydream. Now I cast my line, and it does not get stuck in trees. I do  bring home fish for my family. And I go from job to job just like he did. Hustling. Wanting the American dream to come true. I’m not waiting on it.

I’m a journeyman just like the old man. Hammer and saw in my pickup. A square to keep things even. And a fishing pole. You never know when opportunities are going to strike. You got to be ready.

Two chairs in the kitchen. Items on the table spread out like a hotel continental breakfast. Mandarin oranges, cream cheese filled danish, bananas, hard boiled eggs, buttered wheat toast, and a couple of cherry yogurts in a bowl of ice wait to be devoured. Coffee from a carafe is poured in a cup with a picture of sand and ocean, which reads, Wish You Were Here on it. He bought it years ago while on vacation in Myrtle Beach. They went there often.

He sits at the table and sips his coffee, opens a yogurt. Do you remember the time you opened a yogurt in Myrtle Beach? He asks. And it exploded on you. Covering your whole face with cherry yogurt, he laughs. I couldn’t help but laugh at you. You always had a sense of humor about you. He took a bite of toast.

Music plays in the background of his morning ritual. Easy listening music. The kind that plays in hotel lobbies. Elevator music.

It’s a rendition of Eleanor Rigby played with violins and piano. He hums along. Do you remember me putting suntan lotion on you? Rubbing your shoulders and back? He looks at the empty chair. You always wore a one piece, he says. Kind of shy. He cracks open a hard-boiled egg by tapping it with a spoon and rolling it on the table. I remember, he says. I remember.

Can I take your plate? Are you done? He places the paper plates in the garbage can and pulls out the empty chair.

After you, my love. After you.