dmseay

He followed her. Cross country from one state to the next. Started in the Midwest and went to New York. Then down south. Wound up in Atlanta. Watching her from a far. Not disrupting her life. Just watching her.

Never tried to contact her. He knew better. Her last words were, I can’t help you anymore, she said over the phone when he was jammed up in New England; broken down Dodge, no money, a return to the streets he belonged to. A return to nothing.

He watched her go to the office. Knew what time she got there. Knew when she’d call it a day. He saw her go to her car Monday through Friday at seven o’clock at night. She was always a late worker. Stayed when everybody left. Making final sales calls, getting caught up on paper work, ordering out Chinese.

Weeks would go by when he didn’t see her at all. Figured she was out of town on work. Or, maybe a vacation. Like they used to do. He didn’t know.

And one day he saw it. Truth stared him in the eyes. She was holding hands with a man. A tall, good looking man. He kissed her as he walked her to the office door. That’s when he knew. People move on.

He said he didn’t kill her. Sat right there in that chair and said it over and over again and again; I didn’t kill her.

The detectives had different ideas. They’d teamed up on him. Went over his story good and hard; facts and more facts. The two officers played good cop bad cop. Gave him cigarettes and coffee. He still wouldn’t confess.

The boy was sticking to his story. Some wild tale about being across town all night at his mother’s grave. Said he went there to weep. Said he couldn’t sleep. Went there to pray.

His mom had passed away a couple of days ago. She took care of him. Fed him. Put him to bed. Read stories to him about Santa Claus and wild things in the night. Said he missed her. Said one day when Jesus comes back, he’ll be with her all the time. Now, why would a boy who loved his momma so much go and do a thing like that?

Her body was found on the floor. Head was blue and green. Dried blood formed from her forehead. They showed him pictures. Said they had a bat with his prints on it. Asked why there was no alibi? He didn’t know what that was.

He just kept saying, I didn’t kill her.

He waited for a sign. Man said he’d be back. Said he’d come a second time. Gave the precise date. The very hour. Told him there were signs and symbols as to his arrival. Written on paper. In English.

The old man memorized the signs. He knew what to look for. He sat there on the front porch waiting. But, he never came. Just strong winds out of the west.

Thought he saw clouds forming. Felt like a twister was on its way. Could hear a freight train in the distance. It was getting closer. The book said nothing about a freight train. Or, strong winds.

After awhile the dark clouds parted and the sun came out. He poured another glass of tea and waited. Just waiting. He had nothing better to do.

Pictures. She spent hours looking at pictures; old black and whites drawn from a box with a red ribbon ’round it. One by one the elderly woman went over the pictures in her mind. Going back and remembering the events photographed.

There were photos of her wedding day. She wore a beautiful white dress and veil while he donned a black tuxedo complete with bow tie. Both of them were much thinner then. Not like now. Look at us, she whispered. Look at us, she picked another.

His and her parents were examined. Her father, so stoic. And mom never smiled. Not even on her daughter’s wedding day. His parents had a fake grin produced by alcohol. They both drank to forget. Maybe forget their own marriage. Their philosophy was if they weren’t happy then why should anybody else be. The old lady laughed. She remembered them well.

And she shuffled through the pile of pics. Picked out some on the bottom. Christmas’ of past. Thanksgiving dinners with cousins, aunts and uncles. Her father trimming a turkey. Everyone with a cocktail in hand. The dog sitting in the corner.

But, there were no pictures of children. Just adults drinking. They tried to have kids. It never happened. She wondered if that’s what was wrong. If that would have made everyone happy. She blamed herself.

The pictures were put away. Placed on the top shelf in her bedroom. It was the last time she looked at them. She knew something was missing.

Woods. Forest. Trees bare, naked from autumn’s winds. Brown pine needles along a path leading him to a stream. Cold, clear water running at a rapid pace. Coyotes and stray dogs drink from it. Beavers build dams. Young boys just piss in it.

Summer went into fall. And fall into winter early. Soon the stream was be frozen. Young men playing war can cross over to the other side. Going deeper into the woods. Seeing the same sites they saw last year. And, the year before that. Abandoned cars from long ago. An old horse drawn fire engine. Huts and tents left behind. The snow seeped into their shoes.

They carried guns. Men in camouflage with whiskey on their breath. Climbing trees and staying put on a strong limb. Looking for the perfect shot. Deer would walk by. They sense a human presence. The young boy would whistle loudly to drive them away from the hunters. He hid in the bushes.

And, he never thought of the danger he was in. Trying to sit still in the bush. Trying not to laugh when hunters missed their targets. But, as boys do, he moved and the hunters saw this. A shaking bush. Movement behind it. They fired.

Boys no longer go into the forest. They no longer play on mounds of dirt, red clay. Kids will remember the boy who got shot that morning in November. Learn from his folly. From then on, the woods were off limits.

Cars jockeying for position. Pedestrians dodge and run amongst cabs and cars from Jersey. Cop cars parked on side streets. Eighth Avenue, always bright and shiny.

The Port Authority building. A giant space filled with eateries, bars, newspaper racks, overflowing toilets, newcomers, and old timers. A mop is in constant use.

He got off the Greyhound in 1986. Stayed inside, didn’t leave the Port Authority for the first twenty-four hours. Walked it from bottom to top. Saw the hookers blowing men in cars from Connecticut. Watched the junkies nodding off in the bathrooms. Avoided the cops walking their beat.

The teenage boy sat in a coffee shop reading The Post. He didn’t actually read it; just looked at the big colorful pictures of crime bosses, celebrities, sports heroes, checked the daily numbers even though he had no skin in the game. Heard music playing; pop tunes lingering ’round the air. But, in his head, Rhapsody In Blue kept playing over and over. It was like a fantasy of New York coming to life.

And the heavy made up waitress asked if he wanted more coffee. She poured it into a blue and white cup with Greek letters on it. The boy smiled.

Where you from? she lit a menthol, waited for his answer. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to come off as some hick from the Midwest.

Chicago, he lied. I’m from Chicago.

Ohhhh. I know that town. Went through it on my way to Los Angeles years ago. I was going to be an actress out there. Movies. Came back here a year later. Heart broken. You an actor? He shook his head no. What are you then?

He paused. Looked at her. Nothing, he said. I’m nothing.

You just get off the bus? he nodded yes. You aren’t from Chicago are ya? Quietly he said no. She smiled. How much cash you got?

He pulled out a wad and counted it. Seventy-five bucks, he said. The bus ticket was ninety-five.

Your parents know ’bout this? He told her no. You better call them. Let them know you wanna come back.

But, I don’t want to.

You can’t make it on no seventy-five bucks.

I s’pose not.

I see your kind everyday. Breaks my heart. I don’t know what your running from, but, it can’t be worse than this. Don’t let all these lights fool ya. New York is a dark place when you don’t have money.

The kid ordered another cup of coffee. Poured cream and sugar into it. And sat there till sunrise. He offered to pay for the coffee, but, the waitress said she had it. She told him to take care. And, to come back and see her sometime.

He opened the big glass doors downstairs and walked out onto Eighth Avenue. Cars drove past. Food carts rolled down the streets. A couple argued on the corner. He walked out onto Eighth Avenue and just kept walking west. Sat by the river and contemplated. This was home, he whispered. This was his home.

The two men sat at the bar toasting to a new year. Shot for shot they’d match each other. Whiskey was their chosen salvation.

Wives were at home. It was late in the afternoon. Festivities began around 2:00. Day drinking. Just like in the old days. Just like in retirement. Nothing had changed.

Television on. Judge Judy holding court. Video poker games paying off. Pool cues clashing on balls. And on the juke box Hank Williams sang to their souls.

Here’s to those who served, the old man said. May we never see another one, he wrapped two fingers round a shot glass; ordered a short beer.

Here’s to surviving the jungle, the other old soldier said. We did it. We did it. And here’s to those that didn’t, they clanked mugs. To those who didn’t.

And these days they call it a Cold War. Another cold war, he shook his bald head. Fuck the Chinese, the old man mumbled. Ordered another shot.

What’d you say? a youngster asked.

I said fuck the Chinese.

The young man laughed. Turned his back to the two vets. Ordered a craft beer.

And fuck you buddy, the old man said. Fuck you too, they began to laugh. Soon the whole bar was laughing. They toasted one last time.

The two made it home that night. Crawled into bed while their wives watched the ball drop in Times Square. Snoring was heard down the hall. So was mumbling. Both whispering, you too buddy. You too.

He sat on the front porch each day with a rifle in his lap. The sign on the gate said, NO TRESPASSING. Another sign read, BEWARE OF DOG.

The old man would sit out there from morning to evening time. Had a big searchlight he turned on at night. Twenty four hours of protection was his goal. Kids still threw rocks at the windows as they walked by in the dark.

No one in town would talk to him. And, he didn’t talk to them. Kept to himself mostly. Never saw him at church or any bars. Wouldn’t see him at the grocery store or getting his long greasy hair cut. Never. It was just him and his dog Blue; a big old mean Doberman. The old man had trained it to be mean.

Some say they knew him in high school. Said he was picked on. Made fun of due to his small size. They called him Peewee. Boys used to taunt him on his way home from school. Girls wanted nothing to do with him. That suited him just fine.

As a boy he’d play make-believe up in his room each day. Pretended he was an astronaut. On a top secret mission to Mars.

His bed would become a space capsule and his ceiling had silver stars cut out and pasted to it. The boy would take a flashlight and hold it in his small hands and shake his body; take offs were never smooth. The kid would then take exaggerated steps out of the capsule onto his red shag carpet that his feet sank into. He was there. This was Mars. At least till his mom called him for supper.

And now he just sat there. Ready to take aim. All imagination gone. Or, was it?

Fog. He couldn’t see very well across the street. Streetlights were glowing just a bit. Cutting through thick air just enough to make out Christmas lights atop roofs down the avenue. Lights of green and red made an outline on each house. Except their’s.

He had no lights. No decorations in the yard. Just leaves of brown in piles from autumn. Occasionally a lit cigarette would be thrown to the ground, but, it would quickly burn out. That’s as festive as it got for the old man. Same as it ever was.

And each Christmas eve kids would come caroling down the avenue. They would stop at each house to sing and receive hot chocolate in Santa mugs. They’d stop at every house, except his.

They never saw the old man at any time during the year. In the summer he would not cut his lawn. Spring time never brought him flowers to tend to. Snow and ice were not shoveled in the winter. Just an old house, who like his owner was falling apart.

The old man had everything you could imagine. Heart disease, gout, diabetes, obesity, it was just a matter of time. And nobody on the block knew. They would take guesses that he was dying, but were never sure. Some said he’d live forever and so would the eyesore he called home.

But, one Christmas eve the neighbors dreams came true. The old man was carted out on a stretcher as stiff as a board. Light swirled round and round atop the ambulance. But, there was no sound.

In silence the old man was driven away as kids marched door to door. It was the end for him and a new beginning for the neighborhood.

I can’t write ’round her, he twitched. She ruins my craft, my art, he said. And for what? Why do I do this to myself? Is it that I’m scared to be alone.

Women are the death of art, his friend groaned. They make it impossible to be in the moment, he said. Everything is planned. Meals are planned, walks are planned, screwing is planned. But, writing cannot be planned, his voice shook.

They try to plan it. They try to give you instructions on your art. On your life.

You disregard those?

Yes. I have to. I would’ve killed myself along time ago if I followed her plans. Yet, I cannot leave.

Love?

No place to go. That’s when they gotcha.