dmseay

Lexington Avenue slopes up hill. It’s a climb. Past the Greek diners, pizza places, Indian buffets, onto hotels where business executives have their affairs, you keep climbing and climbing and climbing. But, it doesn’t necessarily feel like a hill until you turn around and walk down it. Either way, the legs get a workout. Living in Manhattan is a workout.

The stress of thousands of people coming at you. Bumping into you. Running in front of taxi’s, disregarding red lights, everyone asking for a buck at 8th and 32nd. It’s exciting for the first few weeks, then it becomes routine. Every man for himself.

I lived at a homeless drop in center for a year at 32nd and Lexington. The first few nights spent sleeping on a metal chair, television blasting, always an argument, or, a fight. Everyone is hungry, tired, and broke; financially, spiritually, and mentally. I was no exception. There is a game to be played. Just like in every boardroom and bar. You have to bend to their rules.

It felt like the wind was knocked out of him. Shortness of breath. He could only walk a few steps ‘fore he had to sit down. Carried a cane. Autumn was his favorite season.

He’d sit in the park downtown on a bench watching people stroll by. Some were in a hurry while others took their time. Mail carriers, dog walkers, young professionals, lawyers on their way to make a case for someone; always an argument. Always.

The fat man liked to watch the wind blowing leaves as well. Golden colored with twinges of rust and red fell from the tall oaks and Japanese maples. He wished he could dance in the piles of them. Soon they’d be swept away by uniformed men carrying brooms. The old man feared so would he.

I’m too tired for this, he whispered. I just want to sit here till I die, he thought. And then a young woman sat down next to him with two coffees in her hands. She nodded to him. He smiled at her. The pretty girl offered him a cup.

It’s got cream and sugar in it, she said. I assumed. My mother says I shouldn’t assume, but, I always do. I’m pretty spot-on, they laughed. I see you out here all the time. Always wanted to talk to you, she extended her hand. Patty, she said. My name is Patty. The old man shook her hand and said his name was Patrick, as in St. Patrick. Her green eyes got big. Were you born on St. Pat’s too? he nodded with a smile. They said a toast and clinked their cups together.

I was born in 1942, he said. I’ve seen a lot. Too much. I get tired of the news, Patrick pulled out a pipe. I just like to come here and look at things…people, buildings, trees. No one’s ever bought me coffee before. Thank you. Patty told him he was welcome.

They sat side by side in silence drinking coffee. Just smiling at each other as the wind blushed their faces.

Before she left, the teenage girl gave Patrick a kiss on his cheek. I’ll see you tomorrow, she said. He smiled.

Tomorrow, he was not there.

He kept looking at his coffee mug with tractors on it; a quote, Nothing Runs Like A Deere. It was an old cup with chips and scrapes on it. Scratches on the bottom.

His father had the complete set; mugs, dishes,bowls, all with the John Deere logo on em; painted white, green, and yellow. His grandfather had the set before. He handed them down.

Grandad used to take the boy for rides on the tractor out in the cornfields. He learned how to shift gears while seated on Grandpa’s lap. The two of em would stay out there riding round for hours in the winter’s light. An empty field with brown stalks severed to the ground. Spring would come soon. That’s when the real work began. Work that the boy would not pursue. He had other ideas.

The boy went on to college to study law. He’d be the first generation not to follow the family pride. Paid for school by working summers on the farm. His father was proud.

And he kept looking at that coffee mug. His father and grandfather were long gone. All he had left of the family was the John Deere set. The plates and silverware took him back each day. Almost like a meditation.

There would be no one to pass them onto. He never married. Never had kids. Lived alone in the city. Generations change. Boy, do they change.

The poinsettias had died. Turned brown. Maybe she didn’t water em enough. Just brown stems sticking out of a big orange pot with a ribbon wrapped around it was all that was left. She’d look at it and shake her head.

Her Christmas tree was out by the curb waiting to be taken away. Men in garbage trucks would soon fight January’s winds and collect em all. There were other brown trees out by the curb along her street. The City was way behind.

All the decorations had been put away. When her husband was alive he used to put them up in the attic. Now she just left em downstairs in the hall closet. It’d been five years since he passed. She missed him so. Each year since his death, she replaced the angel with a picture of him atop the pine. Said, he’s my angel. That’s how she felt.

In his office, she kept everything in tact. Kept his file cabinets unopened, his desk drawers closed, kept the door shut. She wanted to preserve his memory. Even though she heard noises in there, she did not look. Sounded like the shuffling of papers. Still, she did not look.

Curiosity gets the best of us. And, she was no exception. She opened the door to his office. Sure enough, there he was. Sitting at his desk going through bills and income taxes.

Her jaw dropped. She reached out for him, but, couldn’t touch him. Then he whispered with a grin, welcome to my Hell.

He was always asking what day it was? Curious if it was his birthday, or, Valentine’s Day, or, maybe Saint Patrick’s. He never knew. The days just all became one. One huddled mass of hours. Hiding underneath covers in his bed. A constant state of darkness.

At night time he’d go downtown and sit in the square. Just him and a statue. A bronze man on a horse. He’d touch it’s legs. Felt the smoothness of the material. He never touched anything else.

Some folks called him the village idiot. They’d laugh at him as he walked around at night. Eating Mr. Goodbars. One after another. He was real careful to throw the wrappers away. In fact, he used to throw away debris that he’d find all over town. Old newspapers, paper cups, tin cans, all sorts of things. He’d pick up quarters too that people had dropped while rummaging through their pockets. He saved em.

In his room was a giant glass jar that he kept the quarters in. He made a promise to himself. When it was full, he’d cash em in. And leave. Just get on a bus and head anywhere. Whatever town had the prettiest poster at the Greyhound station.

There were pictures of the desert. Tall buildings in Los Angeles. The Golden Gate Bridge. He’d look at em in the early hours of morn before he went home to crawl into bed.

He’d whisper to himself, Someday. Someday.

He was never sure. How can you be? Trying your best isn’t always a sure bet. There’s obstacles. Something to be said for coming in second. Too much pressure on first prize. All his trophies were runners up. Second to the best. He’d always be one of the groomsmen never the groom.

And she knew this about him. Some said she settled. Could’ve done better if she’d just hung in there. She knew it. He knew it. The whole town knew it. Her patience wore thin. Went with the cowboy. The Saturday night special. She thought she could change him. They all think that.

It was hard when the truth came out. No love between em. Just two people who got lonely and took the next in line. They’d had their hearts broken before. They wanted low risk. Little investment. Just someone to keep em warm at night. Guess they were no different than most couples. America breeds mediocrity.

Today he buried her. After thirty-two years of marriage and two kids, she was gone. He did not cry at the funeral. Looked relieved. Finally. The contract was over.

The kids were upset. They knew. They always knew. That there was no love. Just two people playing house.

The news hit him hard. He told the boy to be careful. Said the roads were slick that night. Ice storm during the day. Highway was black and shiny.

Should’ve made him stay home, the father said. It’s hard to tell a young man what to do. They never listen. Do what they want. When they want. Ain’t no stopping em, took a swig of beer.

Like getting thar girl pregnant in his last year of school, he went on. Dumb mistake. Spend the rest of his life sacking groceries, he took another drink.

Now he’s gone. Just like that, the old man snapped his fingers. You tell em and you tell em to be careful. They think they know everything, he whispered. They never listen.

Stacks and stacks of letters piled in a box. Unopened notes from former lovers, old friends, enemies, the gas company. Here’s a Christmas card from a relative trying to save my soul. Reminding me that Jesus is the reason for the season. It’s cold outside.

I read through some of the old mail, finding it to be quite boring. An ex-wife threatening me for leaving her, ex-girlfriends telling me they think they’re pregnant, notes from mechanics saying I owe them. The wind blows through cracks.

You’re better off alone. Solitude is the answer. I gave up on mankind years ago. What good are other people? Always wanting. Always in need of. And then you yourself becomes needy. You’re just following suit. You’ve become a lemming. A whole country of sheep. Where’s the originality? Where’s the authentic? The real deal. Frozen rain hits the windows.

I take the box of stuffed envelopes and burn it outside. Some type of altar. The past is the past and you can’t keep living in the past. Burn baby burn. The flames are blue and orange, yellow. It’s dark. Three in the afternoon and it’s dark.

The letters are blackened now. Ashes. Too much energy spent on history. My history. If only I could burn my brain, my soul. The moon hangs in the sky.

Sitting like Buddha

legs crossed

arms at side.

Trying to conjure peace.

Windows wet from morning rain

the hum of nothing

a car drives by.

Wheels sound like ocean waves

hitting the shores

rolling in.

On the chair next to my bed sits Lolita

she was wise beyond her years

what trickery.

I place a mask over the book

covering her legs

then pray.

Sitting like Buddha

legs crossed

arms at side.

I wonder.

Did Nabokov ever know peace?

The sensitive kind. She had feelings. Most women do. Her’s was close to the skin. Like a raw nerve twitching involuntarily. Something she couldn’t control. She’d break down crying when she heard some silly song on the radio. The young woman would get angry when love didn’t go her way; disagreements.

The redhead was up and down. One minute she’d be calm as a summer breeze. Then the girl would turn on you. Call you names you’d never heard before. At least you’d never hear em from a woman.

One night she got really crazy. Stood outside in the front yard naked, throwing rocks at his truck, picking up pieces of brick. And she was yelling. Saying she couldn’t trust men. Saying the opposite sex was no good. She’d done this several times. He always came back for more.

The young man loved her. Despite all her tantrums and carrying on. He loved her. But, he was dying inside. Couldn’t take it anymore. Decided he’d leave her. Just abandon her.

So, without saying a word, he left. Just poof. Gone. In a matter of minutes he was on the highway heading out of town. He felt free. Felt sad as well. Sad that his love was over.

He drove into the night. His phone kept ringing. It was her. Leaving all kinds of desperate messages. Then the voice-mails got angry. She was threatening to kill him if he didn’t turn around. Said she’d find him. Slit his throat.

The kid pulled his truck over on the shoulder. Threw his phone down. Started hitting the steering wheel with both hands. He knew he’d never be done with her. Just knew it. Turned the truck around.