I never cared for it, he said. Just let the place fall apart. Gutters needed cleaning. Wood floors rotting. Holes in the drywall. Didn’t even attempt to cover them with pictures. The holes seemed to grow bigger and bigger each day. Rips in the walls. You could see the insulation. Had fiberglass in it. Always cut my hands.

The stove was never cleaned. She used to clean it every night after supper. When she left, it just became too big of a task. Spaghetti stains, dried up bits of onions, cheese sauce, all caked on it. It looked like a pop art painting. Or maybe an alternative way of looking at things.

She would vacuum, too. This old rug was clean. When we were younger, we would roll around on it. Funny how things stop when you get older, he told me. Just like that. It’s over.

I looked around the property. Tall grass and wildly grown shrubs covered the windows. A tree in the front yard was missing a few limbs.

You’re looking at that oak, I see, he said. Tornado tore into it. If you look real close, you’ll see a carving. Linda and Jimmy carved out inside a heart. He traced over it with his fingers. So, he said. What do you think?

It’s going to take a lot of work, I said. But, the price seems right. I’ll just tear down the house and build a new one.

Why? He asked. Why would you do that?

I don’t know.

Let me think about it, he told me. Lots of memories. Maybe I should just die here.

You’ll make forty grand off the deal.

Forty grand, huh? That would be enough. She always wanted to go to Las Vegas. See the lights. Gamble a little. Look at Caesars Palace.

The old man walked ahead of me. I could tell he was thinking. He was silent. We sat on the front porch, all covered in moss and vines, poison ivy, wildflowers.

Alright,  he said. Looks like I’m going to Las Vegas. I’ll take her with me.

Oh, I said. Her ashes?

No, her. I’ll take her with me. In my mind. He looked around the yard and at the house. Nodded. Honey, he said. We’re going to take a trip.

I signed the check.

 

A blanket on a footstool.  Some quilt made by an Amish woman. Mason jars on shelves. A few with handpicked daisies in them. Two wooden benches under the dinner table, father made years ago. Exposed brick walls and a toilet with a pullstring above. Copper pipes.

Spring came and went. One day, it was thirty-five, and the next eighty-two. A couple of tornadoes passed over. All stayed in place. We kept in the storm cellar, listening as the winds stirred and grumbled. Dad said it was God showing his anger for our sins. Mother kept quiet.

At the dinner table, dad said grace. He prayed for a nation to heal. Prayed for the Lord’s return. We all said amen.

Sundays were for church. Mom and dad wore their best while I dressed in slacks and button-down shirts from the Goodwill store. There wasn’t money to waste, dad said. One must save.

All the women in church eyeballed  him. Tall and handsome. A deacon who tipped his straw hat to the married as well as the single. Mother walked behind him. I held her hand.

I remember hearing about it. She was young and with child. Father didn’t say much about her. Mother said the poor girl had made a mistake. Mom said we all do. Dad would just look at her and say pass the biscuits. He made us quite aware of what acceptable dinner conversation was. Father preferred if we broke bread in silence. He hated gossip. Said it was the devil’s language. We would continue eating in silence.

Sundays passed. Summer turned to fall. Halloween was upon us. Candy and caramel apples for kids. Hay rides on a dirt road. Mazes in cornfields. Dad turned his eyes away while mom took me trick or treating. I dressed as a ghost every year. A white sheet over me with holes cut out. I carried a basket she had woven together with a handle on it. We would knock on doors till it was filled. Laughing the whole time. Your father doesn’t know what he’s missing, she said. Don’t tell him. Don’t talk about it. He’ll just get mad, she told me. Hide your candy in your room. When he’s gone, I’ll help you eat it. She giggled as we walked home.

The goods didn’t last long. Candy was gone before the middle of November. And so was dad.

Mom said he was in the hospital. Said he’d be in there a long time, she cried. The pickup was gone. So were his clothes and tools. The straw hat was left behind.

Some said that pregnant girl had gone with him. Said she tempted him long ago. A sixteen year old with eyes that make men weak. I didn’t pay attention. Dad always said gossip was the devil’s language.

Blinds open. A light on across the street. Dead quiet. He sits in his living room on a Shibumi beach chair in a pile of sand. A large umbrella is raised overhead.  It blocks out the light directly above. He turns it on when it’s cloudy outside.

He listens to The Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Dick Dale, Mungo Jerry, and The Drifters on a turntable with speakers giving way to crackles, scratches, and pops. A six-pack of Corona sits in a bucket of ice by his side. He squeezes limes into the bottles of cerveza and drinks them down one at a time. Fruit flies and gnats hover around a garbage can in the corner.

The old man wears the same boxers every day, and a button-up shirt with flowers on it opened just a bit to expose the gray hair on his chest. His body reeks of tanning oil; hair disheveled, Wayfarers pushed up on his nose. 

It’s five o’clock in the morning. Soon, the sun will rise, and it will be another perfect day at the beach.

He and his wife used to go to North Avenue every day in the summertime. They’d pack a lunch, carry their chairs, and drag an old umbrella alongside. Soda pop in a cooler.

They’d sit at the beach all day long and into the evening with a portable radio tuned to an oldies station. Metal antenna reaching as high as it could go.

The two held hands and would walk into Lake Michigan. Sometimes, he’d carry her like Burt Lancaster carried Deborah Kerr in From Here To Eternity. He placed his wife in the sand and kissed her passionately as darkness fell over Lake Shore Drive. Forty-five years of marriage always seemed new.

And now he sits by himself, alone in a studio apartment on Clark Street waiting to see her again. He raises a bottle and says, til we meet again.

She lives across the hall. Every night, there’s noises coming from her room. The sound of a television drowning out a male’s voice. An R&B song she sings to. Full on conversations at times with herself.  Banging on walls at three in the morning. A door slamming.

I lie in bed listening. Sometimes, a pot of coffee is made. Cigarettes smoked. She screams out, but the words are mumbled. Ranting incoherently. 

It is cold. I know. She is complaining about it. Loudly. I want so badly to tell her to pipe down. Say to her, I know it’s cold. I know the heat doesn’t work. We’re all getting screwed on this deal. But what’s the point. She will continue to babble.

Yesterday, she left her room. I heard her door shut and watched as she limped downstairs one foot at a time. She is middle-aged, black, and skinny. Her hair is spray painted blonde.

I went to my window to see her meet a man on the sidewalk. Kisses were exchanged, and he followed back inside. He started to talk, and she said shhhh. Quiet now.

I’m not sure what took place in her room, but Otis Redding was singing as the record player popped and scratched. Glasses clanked. And he said, here’s to us. Happy anniversary.

An Indian blanket over a couch. A metal folding table with a typewriter on it. Overflowing ashtrays. Half empty beer cans. Stacks of blank paper. Notes on a legal pad.

He sits on the edge of his twin bed and looks at the clock. The sun has yet to rise. He reaches for a cigarette, mumbles, and lights it. No sense in trying to quit now, he says. He blows smoke through his nose.

The typewriter sits there. Like a woman, it stares at him. She has not been touched in a week. The old man has neglected her. Keys have been silent.

He wants to write but has nothing to say, he thinks. Just old stories of living on the streets, eating at churches, homeless shelter fights, and bags of books he’s read. A few broken relationships come to mind; the same story over and over. His mind is quiet.

The old man puts on a kettle for tea. Reaches in the small fridge for a carton of expired milk. Twists the cap and smells it. It’ll do. He puts sugar in the bottom of a cup along with a tea bag and pours in the hot water. He smokes, then drinks, he smokes, then drinks. His morning ritual has begun.

He prays for an opening line. Something to write. A sentence that demands attention. Nothing is coming. He sits on the couch and stares at the machine. Glares at it before walking over to it and saying hello. He sits in the chair and hits the typewriter with both fists the way he used to hit her years ago. Before she left him. Before he realized what damage he had done.

She walked out on him one night while he was passed out. Left a note that said, I’ve found someone else. Goodbye.

He still has that letter. Two sentences can be powerful. The old man laughed and typed out, I’ve found someone else. Goodbye.

And that began his story.

A man passed out in the bathroom. Small empty bottles of tequila on a tile floor. Mariachi music plays through speakers. Some soccer games are on the televisions in the cantina. Men speaking in Spanish. Voices drowned out by blenders and cocktail shakers. Ice clanks in a glass.

The barstools are old, and the seats are torn. Tables wobble. Pictures on the menu are stuck together and stained. He looks it over. Red salsa and tortilla chips are served.

Tacos are cheap. Burritos are a little more expensive. He orders the caldo de res. It’s two o’clock in the morning. The old man can barely keep his head from falling onto the table. A bell rings. A fat waitress walks by with enchiladas and rice and beans. Her beautiful daughter is at the cash register reading books for school the next day. He looks at her for a moment and then turns away, having been caught.

College kids and drunk yuppies sing songs along with the jukebox; mocking Mexican singers and yelling out Marty Robbins songs. Sour cream and guacamole smeared on their white faces. The old man looks at them, says nothing, and rests his head on the ink scarred table. Drawings of stick figures, crowns, and the Mexican flag.

Caldo de res, the waitress says as she presents the bowl of broth, short ribs, oxtail, and vegetables. The smell wakes up the old man. Cilantro and other spices permeate his space. The Lincoln Park boys choir walks past on their way out.

What is that? One of the yuppies asks the old man.

Caldo de res, he replies.

Smells like shit, another one says.

The old man slurps the soup from his silver spoon and says, ahhhhhhh. Just what the doctor ordered. The group of boys laugh and walk on.

The old man pays his bill and leaves a five for a tip. He walks along Belmont to his rented room and hears music coming from a gay disco called Berlin. He sees lights on in the back of a Swedish restaurant named Ann Sather. Pizza slices sold to drunks towards the corner of Clark and Belmont. A liquor store closed for the night.

The old man crawls into bed and hears a couple fucking in the room next door. She yells out in Russian, and he breathes heavily. The old man turns to his side, resting his head on a sweaty pillow and whispers, I’m tired of being alone.

Cornbread and rye spread across a green backyard. Cats roam in and out from under the porch. Crows swoop down and make reservations to eat. A hawk circles.

We watch from the kitchen window. Nature. Weeds are starting to sprout through rocks in the driveway. Leaves on trees have made their return.

It’s a nice picture, she says. Like a watercolor painting.

I nod and smile, fold my arms around her, thinking, we used to fight. I kiss her cheek.

We fought over the smallest of things. What coffee to buy. Or, which car to select. I wanted used, and she wished for brand new. She always got her way.

We fought over money and bills. Blaming the other. Never having enough.

She turned her face to me and whispered, Happy Easter.

I smiled and held her tighter.

There’s no rain, he said. It was supposed to rain. He continued looking out the window. I see clouds, but I don’t see rain.

A kettle with water boiling in it sat on the burner. A mug next to it reads, WORLD’S GREATEST DAD. Two tea bags hang inside of it; Earl Grey.

He pours hot water into a cup and stirs in a spoonful of sugar and milk, which is out of date. Looks out the window again. Sees clouds forming and hears thunder. Still, no rain.

Sitting in a metal folding chair at the table, he turns on the radio to WKCR in New York. Phil Schaap is talking about Charlie Parker in a monotone voice. Music begins to play. It’s Salt Peanuts by Dizzie Gillespie and Kenny Clarke. This is the beginning of Bop. He drinks his tea and keeps time with his fingers on the tabletop. The rain has begun.

Pellets of water hit the window. He walks over to look outside. Twenty-fourth Street is soaked. People scurry from taxi cabs to their apartments and rented rooms. He turns the music down just a bit, so it mixes with the storm. Salt peanuts…Salt peanuts… he sings in a whisper. He opens the window, sticks his head out, and lets the rain wash away his sins.

Candlelight casting shadows on walls. Blinds pulled back, letting in darkness. A radio station plays Charlie Parker. The speaker sounds like a tin can. A cat rubs up against his legs.

He wants to call her. Wonders if she would pick up. What’s she doing now? He asks himself. Who is she with? Some younger guy? She never looked her age.

Water bugs crawl on the counter. The kitchen sink is clogged. He pulls down a glass from a shelf and fills it halfway with whiskey. The cat purrs.

Where is she living? He takes a sip. She was always ambitious. Constantly pursuing news labels. Better pay. A new position. Luxury cars. More… more… more…She read Dale Carnegie.

It’s three in the morning. She’s lying in bed next to someone. A lawyer or some kind of executive. She competes with him. A game. Her marriage is a game, he whispers. One thing is certain. She’s winning.

What time is it? She asked. It’s gotta be after midnight. He nodded his head. Both were tired. Neither could sleep. They just stayed up most of the night, looking at each other and drinking whiskey.

When we were younger, she said. We’d stay up all night catching fireflies in a jar.

I remember that, he said. Kept them in Mason jars. They’d light our way home on the trail.

Yeah. Why did we stop doing that? She asked. When did we stop having fun?

Not sure exactly, he told her. Maybe when we stopped making love. That was a long time ago. She reached out for the bottle. Quiet between them.

I wasn’t the one who stopped, she laughed.

Blaming it on me? You’re wrong, dear. You are dead wrong. She passed the whiskey back to him. I used to curl up behind your back and wrap my arms around you. Used to kiss the back of your neck.

Right. I remember a few times you did that. Mostly, you just turned over and snored all night. Still do.

Yeah.

They looked outside through the window and watched as fireflies danced.