You are not well. Are you? He asked. I see you sitting on this bench every day, every morning when I walk past. The young man sat next to the older fellow. Your eyes are red. Do you ever sleep? He just kept looking forward. Eyes fixated on Independence Hall. What are you looking at? The kid asked. The homeless man said nothing. Didn’t even point. Just sat there on the bench in his torn brown jacket and stained khakis. Do you want some money? The young salesman asked. Some food? A bottle of wine? You know. Jesus gave them bread and wine. Right? The long-haired man kept looking at the historic building. You look thin. He told him. Look like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Maybe months. Do you get sick a lot? Out here in the cold. I always wonder about you on my way to work. I say to myself, now there’s a man who knows freedom. He smiled at the toothless man. A man who laughs at social norms. Pigeons landed and ate stale bread crumbs.

Do you feed the birds? He asked. The birds. Do you feed them? The old man heard him. He nodded his head.

Sometimes, said the man with no bed. Sometimes I do. When I have something to give them. He went back to staring at the  brick building.

That’s all you’re going to say. Isn’t it.

He nodded.

Take this twenty. Feed the birds.

He sat quietly in thought with noise all around. Meditation. Prayer. A gathering of senses as the number 6 train ran from station to station. From the Bronx to the Brooklyn Bridge, from Pelham Bay to lower Manhattan with people boarding and people getting off. Each car was a portrait, a painting of urban decay and celebration; those who still had faith and those who did not. Some with bottles wrapped in brown bags and others carrying brief cases, wearing suits, looking like dandies. He just sat there.

In his book bag was Tropic of Cancer. The homeless man began reading silently the story of love and art mixed with freedom and what we must do to survive in America.  Nothing has changed much. He thought. You still gotta bust your ass to make a buck. Nothing is free. And life will leave you behind. He quietly laughed.

Boom boxes played rap and hip hop. Black kids nodded their heads to bass lines. White lines….pure as the driven snow…..played loudly in passengers’ ears while old ladies protected their carts of groceries and old men checked The Post for obituaries and sports scores. A Hasidic Jew sits next to a Mexican with a green teardrop under his eye. They do not speak.

Soon, it is four in the morning.  The train is never empty. He rests his head on the window, holding onto Tropic of Cancer like a teddy bear. His trip never ends.

It’s still dark, he said. Pitch black. What time is it?

Not sure, she told him. Probably around 5:00 a.m.

He pulls the curtains back and observes some more. There are headlights coming down the road.  The sound of rain hitting aluminum siding. Lightning begins to spark just a bit. Thunder rumbles.

Coffee drips in the pot. He makes her a place at the kitchen table: a fork, knife, and spoon with a Fiesta plate painted aqua green.

Have a seat, he said. Go on. Have a seat. They both smile. She sits in her chair as he ties a blindfold around her head, covering the eyes.

What’re you doing?

Just be quiet and enjoy nature’s music. The thunder gets louder. It’s God’s gift to you, he opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a Key Lime pie. He cuts her a piece and puts a candle in it, then places it in front of her. Lights it with a Zippo.

What’re you doing?

Shhhh.

He begins singing Happy Birthday to her as he unties the blindfold. Lightning streaks fill the sky, and the electricity goes out. The only light is the candle. She does not blow it out yet. They look at each other and smile. Shadows on the walls.

Make a wish, he tells her.

She blows out the candle, making it pitch black again. He holds her. She wraps her arms in his.

The clock flickers with numbers in red. The coffee begins to drip again.

I liked it better when it was dark, she states. Stay. Don’t move. He holds her tighter. They sway to the thunder.

Happy birthday,  Love.

Cracks in sidewalks. Weeds growing through. Abandoned buildings. Old brownstones in need of repair. A cobblestone street. Cars parked with multiple tickets on windshields. A bodega on the corner owned by Al and Sal. Halal meats and rice on a hot table. Cop cars cruise by.

Kids play soccer on a side street. Spanglish is spoken. Broken English. Grandmother’s lookout windows. They watched their sons grow up here on this street. Nothing has changed.

An empty ballpark. Teenagers are making out in dugouts. At night junkies leave pipes and needles behind. Teens smoking a joint and blowing smoke up into the cool autumn air. Leaves will be brown soon.

Homeless men and women stand outside a shelter with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Some are looking to score. Others trade in food stamps. Women make offers. All are trying to survive.

Silence. Dead quiet. No noise. Nothing.  No frogs or crickets. Wrong year for cicadas. Too early for semis on 41 in the darkness of morning. Soon, it will be light. 

I sit here in this men’s room at a closed gas station south of Chicago. There is shit smeared on the walls. The smell of a urine soaked floor keeps me awake. Water from a faucet slowly drips. Writing on the mirror states, Jose Was Here, in a smeared silver color. Where is he now?

I crack the door open and see the beginnings of the day. Lights on poles turned off. The sun cracks through clouds. Time eludes me. I only know night and day. Light and darkness.

Bills in my pocket are gone. Small change jingles loosely in jeans that are now too big for me. I have three cigarettes left. Body aches. Forty-five miles left on my journey. Hog butcher for the world, Sandburg said. Hog butcher for the world indeed.

A station wagon filled with junk, trash, and various items pulls up. He rolls down his window and sees me leaning on a parking post. It’s an old man with a white  beard and red suspenders. Wire frame glasses on the tip of his nose.

Where you heading? He asks.

Chicago. 

I can drop you on the Southside, he tells me. Over by back of the yards. Is that cool?

Yeah. Sure. Thanks.

You wouldn’t have any gas money, would you? I move my head from side to side. I see. Well. Get in.

I open the door and place my feet among crushed beer cans. Plastic Pepsi bottles. Cartons of cigarettes.

You smoke? He asks.

Yeah. I got three left. Trying to save them.

Open up that carton of Viceroys and take a pack. Go on. I know what it’s like to be broke.

Thanks.

What’s in Chicago?

Poetry, I tell him.

Hog butcher for the world, he says. Hog butcher for the world. We both laughed. Read a lot of Sandburg?

Some. When I was in college. Mostly stick with the Beats these days.

Ginsberg. Kerouac. Gary Snyder.

Yeah.

I dig them, too.

The old man dropped me off at a gas station on the far Southside. I’ll be damned if he didn’t give me a twenty.

Spend it wisely

I saluted him as he drove off. Stuffed the green in my pocket. Lit a smoke and began my walk up Halsted. Past Canaryville. Past Bridgeport. Past Maxwell Street. Past Greektown. Past sins I’ve committed. Welcome to Chicago.  Hog butcher for the world.

Flowers on curtains. Sunlight coming through blinds. A wooden mantle with framed pictures on it; some in color, others black and white. The air-conditioner whines.

I sit here staring out the window in the late month of August, hoping October comes soon. Green. It is too green. What was fresh in April is now dull to the senses.

Give me death. Orange, rust, and yellow with reds turning brown, withering, falling to the ground. Kids marching through piles of nature on their way home from school. Jackets buttoned. Noses running. Lips chapped. Summer has left us.

I wait for the dying months. The frozen ground. Ice on wires. Salt on sidewalks. Winter’s seasoning. Every year, the same great flavor. Death  never disappoints.

Things never go according to plan, he said. You can try. Try all you want. You’ll still get stuck in the middle.

Right, Junior said. Truest words you’ve ever spoken.  Seems like everything up to this point has been a lie, he stirred his coffee. Like when we were kids. You said there was no Santa Claus. Well, I wasn’t ready to hear that just then. It angered me.

Santa Claus angered you? Some fictional character’s non-existentence angered you? Said the old man.

And that time you told me the dog ran away.

Right.

You killed it, dad. Shot it out in the woods.

So what if I did? You weren’t taking care of it.

The son took a sip of coffee. He lit a cigarette. Pointed to his father lying in bed. It’ll catch up with you. It’ll all some day catch up with you.

You think so?

Yeah.

We’ll see.

You’re an evil man, pop. Just plain evil. The devil made you in his own image.

They both laughed.  Maybe so, dad said. Maybe so.

Let me ask you something. You ever cheated on mom?

I’ve cheated on everyone. 

The old man closed his eyes. He did not wake up.

There’s no directions on how to do this, he said. No map charting out the territory. Not even a compass. We just go. Travel out of instinct.  Follow our guts, Denny told him.

Guts, huh? You’ve done this before? Right? Tom lit a cigarette. 

Don’t smoke.

What?

No smoking for right now. They’ll smell it on you, Denny turned the ignition. Gotta go in there clean. No smells. No food or alcohol. No smoking. Nothing. Hear me?

Yeah. I hear you. Loud and clear, boss.

Hey. You don’t have to do this. I can find someone else, Denny said. You weren’t my first pick.

Hmmm. I see.

You weren’t even my second.

Got desperate, did you? Tom laughed.

Right.

They drove down the street in the Dodge Dart. The dice wrapped around the mirror bounced as they went over potholes.

Did you ever read Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky? Denny asked Tom.

Who? What?

A book by Dostoyevsky. A Russian. Went off to Siberia under arrest. They were going to kill him. His life was spared. Anyway. Long story short. He wrote Crime and Punishment. About this kid who kills an old woman. Think it takes place in St. Petersburg, Denny paused. There’s this detective in it. Kind of like a Columbo character.  He’s investigating this Crime. He keeps going back. Asking questions.  Denny laughed. You should read it.

Tom pulled his gun out. Placed an unlit cigarette to his lips. Made sure the clip was in the firing arm. I don’t read, he said.

No? What are you? Some kind of Neanderthal?

I’ve had enough of you. Pull over.

What?

I said, pull over.

Fine.

Look. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. Let’s just get this done. OK?

Yeah.

Right?

Sure.

Tom placed the gun back in his pants and accidentally pulled the trigger.

Jesus, Denny yelled. Jesus H. Christ. Your fucking nuts are blown off.

Tom’s head leaned against the window. He shrieked in pain. Crying. Yelling.

We gotta get you to a doctor. An emergency room.

And tell them what?

Good point.

Just shoot me, Tom told him. Put the gun to my head and shoot me.

Denny did as requested.

I tried to tell you, he said to her. Tried to tell you all about it, she blew smoke in his face. This is truth. And truth scares people. Makes them run away.

I’m not going anywhere, she told him. Why should I? ‘Sides, I got no place to run.

Right. We both burned bridges a long time ago. Can’t go to Philly or D.C. Baltimore is out of the question.  Hell, there’s folks looking for us in Chicago, too.

She took a drink of her whiskey.  Well, she said. We’re running low.

Yeah.

Gotta figure something out.

Right, he scratched his forehead.

How much money you got? She asked with a smile.

Hundred bucks.

That’ll get one of us to New York. She put her head in her hand with her elbow bent.

What’re you saying?

Put me on a Greyhound to New York. You can hitchhike. Here’s fifty. Keep it. You’ll need it. We’ll meet in Washington Square a week from today. At noon.

You sure about this? The kid asked.

We’re in a jam. Get to New York and start all over again.

He slid the hundred over to her.

You’ll see. Everything will work out fine.

Washington Square? He asked.

Yeah. She kissed him. We’re going back there. This time, it’ll be different.

I hope so.

Trust me.

OK.

Make sure your phone is charged. I’ll text you on the way. She got off the barstool. Bye for now.

Washington Square?

Yeah. Everything will be fine.

OK. I love you.

I love you, too.

What were you going to tell me?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

They sit on a leather couch with holes in it, burn marks from cigarettes. The television is a small black and white with rabbit ears pointed up towards the ceiling. Orange and white Christmas lights blink on an old plastic tree in the corner. It is August.

The Andy Griffith Show is on. This is the one where Jack Nicholson is being framed for a crime. Andy knows he’s innocent.

Sheriff Taylor is a very wise man, he says. He’s a fair man. One who stands with the law. Beers were popped open. The old man offered her one. The young lady took a drink and placed it on the hardwood floor in front of them. He held his. Felt the coldness of the can in his hand and wiped his forehead with the condensation.

I’m glad you could come over, the fat man says. Nobody ever comes anymore. Not my kids. Or my cousins. Nobody. I don’t even know who my next-door neighbor is. He laughed. But I’m glad you stopped by.

My pleasure, she told him. The chubby brunette lit a smoke as well. Jack Nicholson behind bars. Behind bars. Ain’t that something. 

Yeah. This must’ve been way before Easy Rider.

Easy what?

Easy Rider, he said. Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Nicholson, who plays George Hanson, ride motorcycles across the United States. The old man took another swig of beer. Fonda’s character is called Captain America. Can’t tell you how it ends. Heartbreaking.  The end of the American dream.

That so?

Yeah. He walked over to the TV and turned the sound down. Looked at the clock. Well. I guess it’s about that time. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out four twenty dollar bills. Here, he tells her. Take it.

You don’t want me to do anything?

Oh, honey. You’ve done enough.

OK. Call me again sometime. My number’s in the book.

The old man nodded and opened the door for her. He turned up the television set. It was The Twilight Zone. Jack Klugman was a trumpet player who pawned his horn. He sat and watched. Drank his beer. And thought about her.