I sit too long in darkness

Waiting for the sun to arise

Giving me hope

First glimpse of orange and blue light coming through my window

Street lights fade

And then…strange…I want it to grow dark again

Where is he?

Hiding.

He’s always hiding.

From you.

Me?

Yeah. Even when he was a little boy, he used to run from you, she said. He’d run and trip over his own two feet. Falling right into my arms. You’d call his name, and he’d turn away.

That so? Never realized. I know I don’t see him much.

You never see him. And when you do, he runs. Like you’re some kind of monster or something. And when you call, he gives me the phone. Just hands it over the second he hears your voice.

He never liked me.

What do you want? she asked. I don’t think you ever liked him. He was just some mistake you made on a Friday night.

Huh. That so?

Yeah. I told you no. Remember? You just had to push it. Made me do something I didn’t want to do.

So you regret him too? Huh?

No. I do not. I just regret the man who gave him to me.

Hmm. He lit a cigarette.

No smoking in here, she said. He continued blowing smoke.

I said no smoking, she grabbed his arm. He laughed.

You gonna stop me? Should have done that six years ago. She pulled out a gun from her purse. A short snub revolver. You serious? Gonna kill me over a cigarette? she nodded.

This aint about no cigarette.

What’re you saying?

You know God damn well what I’m saying.

Alright. Alright. I’ll leave. Don’t go shooting me in the back now. Hear? she nodded. He closed the door behind him.

Where are all the gifts?

What gifts?

It’s Christmas. No tree, no gifts, no lights. Seems like just another day.

As we get older, we don’t need them. It’s a child’s time. We grow up and leave fairytales behind, he laughed.

So sad. Why? she asked.

Money. Belief. No more magic. All that wonderment is gone. I’d just as soon have a tuna casserole than a turkey, he opened a beer. Well, here’s to Christmas, he raised his can of Budweiser. Here’s to another year.

What did you do with him?

Dropped him off up the road.

Highway or the backroad?

What difference does it make?

Highway, he’s got a fighting chance. Backroads. He’ll be lost forever. Just tell me where you dropped him off at.

We been over this, he said. Told you I wasn’t going to tell you. Told you it was none of your business. That’s a deal he and I worked out. You’re not going to go looking for him. He’ll make it back here, one of these days. Could be a week. Could be a month. Just like tossing them in a swimming pool. They either sink or swim, now don’t they? He lit a cigarette. Poured himself a cup of coffee.

It’s still dark outside. Should have been in the light. Let him out in the light. What if somebody hits him? What if they find him in a ditch?

He’ll be fine, the father turned on Good Morning America. The hosts were talking about Sunday’s football games. Who won and who lost. Dad slurrped his coffee. This’ll make him tough, he said. He’ll find out how to survive.

How much money did you give him?

Couple of twenties.

That’s all? He’ll spend that in a day.

Not if he’s smart. He’ll come back when it’s gone. Probably spend it on some whore downtown. That’s what I should have done; just taken him to a whorehouse.

That’s not the way you make a man.

You know the Jews are smart about it. They make their boys learn Hebrew. God’s laws. Some kind of social order. Morals. We don’t do any of that. We just dunk them under water in a tank. Hope they come out OK.

He should’ve been baptized.

He is. That’s what this whole trip is about. He’ll either come back a man, or he won’t. You’ll see.

Dust on tables. Television screens need to be wiped. Dead flowers left on the floor. Wilted, shriveled up. The carpet hasnt been vacuumed in years. Various spots on it. Blood stains from cuts. A dark blob in front of the bathroom door. His wrists black and blue. Stitch marks, going up veins. He sits on the floor Indian style and rocks back and forth. Laughing out loud to himself. Mumbling incoherently. Talking about some kind of doomsday. He dreams of it at night time and fears it during the day. The old man often yells out, where are you now God? My father, why have you forsaken me?

As a young man, people would cast stones at him. Throwing rocks at his head and body as he went through town carrying a cross made of metal. It was an old TV antenae he’d found in the junk yard. He yelled out, the end is soon. Repent you sinners. Have faith in the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. A petite black whore from the mission would wash his feet and perfume them with bottles of Polo cologne. Anything she found on sale at the local Walmart. She wiped his tears with paper towels.

The gangs of Chicago had it with him. Said he was a fake. A fraud. Told the people of 95th Street that his days were numbered. Mocked him. Told him, if you are the son of God, then turn this water from the river into wine. He could not. There were no miracles that he could perform. Just talk. That’s all he did was talk.

And so they locked him away in a room above a liquor store over by Austin. That’s when he went really crazy. That’s when the cutting began. The whore would never lose faith in him. She tended to his needs until she died. Mary was her name. She did as she was asked. A true servant.

This old man has not ascended to Heaven yet. He still cries out for the sins of mankind. This old crazy man. This old crazy man. He waits to be called.

She sent me a letter, he said. Written in red ink. Signed with hearts and arrows. Said she was somewhere out East. Wanted to know if I would come join her. Haven’t written back to her yet. The return address was a town in New York, he lit a cigarette. I looked it up. Way up there by Syracuse.

What’s she doing up there?

Said she was dancing at a club. She always wanted to do that. Have men looking at her. Giving her money for shaking her ass.

She mention the kids?

Nope. She did not. I’ll bet her mom’s taking care of them, he sipped on coffee. George Jones was playing in the background. A waitress walked by.

You thinking about going out there to see her? Maybe try to get back together with her? he shook his head.

That girl’s trouble. She has been ever since high school. Making up wild stories. Always running away, he laughed. She sent me pictures. Some naked, some not. Still looks good.

Don’t you want to see your kids? he shook his head. What kind of a dad doesn’t want to see his kids?

The kind that’s given up. I can barely take care of myself. How am I going to take care of kids? Sides, they’d probably break my heart too, he blew out white smoke. Everything I always wanted in a family is gone. I should’ve known better. Known what she was capable of. She’s very good at leaving. Very good.

He would lie in bed listening to screaming and yelling through paper thin walls; a couple next door, meth heads, bellowing out for God’s mercy. Kicking and punching each other. A child crying in the background. Rage, pure rage, and hatred thrown about along with dishes, shoes, knives, hammers, cutting boards, heavy objects, and malice. There’s no place like home, the old man would say, then go back to listening to tempers fly.

The old man was awakened the next morning by cops knocking at his door. He could see the squad car and an ambulance behind them. A young man in cuffs placed into the back of the cop car, his girlfriend on a stretcher. EMS guys closing doors.

Did you hear anything last night? the officer asked the old man. Anything? Did you see anything?

No, the old man said. No, I didn’t.

He then closed his door and went back to sleep.

Where are we at?

Highway 20. Indiana.

They all kind of run together after a while. Don’t they? In the dark, you can’t tell the difference in states or regions. Just one big dark blob that we’re driving into, he watched as headlights flew past them. Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, it’s all the same.

Midwest.

Right. In the dark, I mean. There’s no difference between any of them.

I guess, he continued driving. Lit up a cigarette.

Now, you get out East or West, and there’s a difference. It feels different. A different kind of energy.

It’s just another highway to me. Dark or light, it’s all the same. Food changes at the diners. That’s all.

Oh yeah?

You can’t get scrapple in Indiana. It’s a Pennsylvania dish.

Made out of what?

You don’t want to know. Like head cheese. You dont want to know.

Then I’m better off without it.

I suppose.

I suppose, he rested his head on the cold window. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

Where do you think he is?

Not sure. Could be in Belfast stealing pints after pubs have closed. Might be in Dublin dancing to a fiddle and a penny whistle.

You think he’s in pain?

I’d say not. He’s walking the streets of Manhattan. Sitting in Washington Square. Tickling the cheeks of college girls. Blowing kisses and bowing as they walk by.

Might be in Chicago?

Yes. Singing into microphones but no one hears. Writing poems that no one will read. Except for the lucky few. Those in the next life.

So. He’ll never rest?

Not a chance.

Darkness. No daylight. Stars are gone. Moon is hidden. Walking north on 41. Shoulders iced over. Watch your step.

Semis drive past. The Kankakee River is up. Snow spits. His backpack starts to get heavy. Kerouac, Joyce, The Bible, and Melville fill the bag with pairs of underwear and tee-shirts. One pair of socks.

He sticks his thumb out. No one stops. Midnight travelers drive by. Some going to Chicago. Others on their way to Wisconsin or Michigan. Off to Grandma’s house for warmth and holiday cheer. Presents under a tree.

It is Christmas Eve, and the vagabond hums to himself as he walks; Central Park West and On Green Dolphin Street under his breath. He is grateful to be alive. In the cold, on Christ’s birthday, he is grateful to be alive.