dmseay

Couldn’t quite make out her face, although I’d seen it several times before. A soft face, with brown eyes and a rounded nose. She had ruddy cheeks and her chin was like a cushion. Still couldn’t make her out.

Was she from church? Maybe the pastor’s daughter. Thought I saw her on the front row one day. Listening to her daddy preach. He was talking about all the sins we commit. How as humans we are bound for error. I left about midway through. Before the offering.

I might’ve ran into her at the bar on a Saturday night. Maybe I danced with her. No. I think I’d remember that. Was that her in the corner drinking shots of tequila? Speaking Spanish in a drunken tone? Laughing with the others? I wondered.

And now she sits in a pickup at a red-light. Singing along to some song. Her thick lips move, but, there’s no sound. The windows are down.

She drives through town and I decide to follow her. She takes the main street out to 30. Then I see her waving goodbye in the mirror. Just waving.

Her truck sped up. She was gone.

Sunlight came in through the blinds. Shining on a clear bottle of canola oil, jug of soy sauce, a pack of smokes. Shadows were cast on the counters. Lines of yellow and black, dark and light.

She moved across the kitchen to the pot of coffee by the sink. Old. It’d been there for three days. Time to make a fresh cup. She thought about it. Let the water run cold down the drain as she stared out the window. Looking at the house next door. The blue house. Windows boarded up, no trespassing sign, a Ford upon concrete blocks in the front yard. No one went in. And no one came out.

The water was turned off. She had forgotten what she turned it on for. Off in the distance there was the sounds of sirens drawing near. Getting closer and closer. There were gunshots. People, a man and a woman ran from the cellar next door. No one chased em. They just ran into the morning sun. More gunshots were fired. And more people, this time a family of three came running out. Again, no one followed em.

Cop cars parked outside on the street, some up in the yard. A megaphone was used. The plainclothes policeman asked if he were alone? Anymore hostages? Was he by himself?

A voice responded, I’m always by myself. And one last shot was fired.

An old man had been abandoned by his son. This happened years ago. The kid put him in the nursing home and forgot all about him. Moved to Saint Louis, or, Kansas City. Wasn’t sure where he was going. Just getting away from the old man.

He talked nonsense all day long and into the night. Said God was punishing him. Getting back at him for all the sins he’d committed over the years. Drinking, cheating, stealing, lying, just had no moral compass whatsoever . His mom knew this. So did he. And now he wanted everybody to feel sorry for him. Sorry that his wife had died, a mistress passed on, broke, living on social security. These were his crimes. This was his sentence.

The son got a call late one night that the old man had died. Heart failure. The thing finally gave out on him. He had no last words. Died in his sleep.

Well, that’s justice, the son whispered. He didn’t get the last word, he laughed. That’s a nice way to go, he told the nurse on the phone. In silence. He probably didn’t appreciate that.

We don’t have any money, the kid said. Just give him a poor man’s burial. Hell, donate the body to science, he said. Just get rid of it. Will ya?

That was a few years ago. Son doesn’t know where his father is buried. A part of his life cut off. He did not look back.

What is this thing? Who does it belong to? People leave their trash all over the place. One boy I know travels ‘cross country and leaves items in every state.

He placed a Thermos underneath a grapefruit tree in Arizona. Put a book, Shepard’s True West below a girl’s dorm bed in California. Tucked away a whole salami in Central Park. He thought he’d come back and get em all someday, but, he never did.

Just kept taking Greyhounds everywhere. Dropping more shit off as he traveled on. Left a bunch of underwear in Pennsylvania. Hocked a wedding ring in Ohio. It was white gold. Got a grand for it. That was enough for awhile.

But, this thing. What’d you call it? Rusted. Holes in it. Some kind of saw. Sharp teeth. He must’ve been by. Left it here then went on his way. He does that. He thinks he’s Santa Claus.

He heard the train running through town. Sounded like a thunder storm. Snow was flying. Kids waited at the corner bus stop. Same thing every morning; traffic backed up as the train rolled on.

These sounds, noises he heard. Water heater turning up. Dishwasher going. Birds outside looking for crumbs of bread. He didn’t look out his windows. Just sat there listening. It had become his pass time.

The arms were rising and bells rang. The train had moved on. The humming of diesels and old pickups starting up. All this noise outside. These sounds inside. All while humming along to Stars Fell On Alabama by Coltrane ran through his head.

Then everything stopped. There were no more noises. He didn’t hear anything. That was twenty-five years ago. He remembered hearing on that last day. Then gone.

Life changes. It changes us, he whispered. What I wouldn’t do to hear Coltrane one more time.

He woke up from a dream. She was in it again. Same dream every night. Some brunette beauty dressed in white calling for him. Wanting the old man to come with her to some secret island where it’d be just the two of em.

Each night he’d get closer and closer to going with her. And then he’d wake up. Always in a cold sweat. Always crying out for a nurse.

She came to me again, he told the attendant. She looked right at me, the patient said, And told me to come with her, the young lady nodded her head. One of these days I’m gonna go with her.

You aren’t going anywhere, she adjusted his bed. Not on my watch, she said. Never had one die on me yet, she knocked three times on his linoleum counter.

You think someone’s coming to take me?

Shhh. You just rest. Get some sleep. You want the TV on? he shook his head. Alright then. Call if you need me, he nodded.

Again she came to him in his sleep. And he was young. They ran down green hills into streams of crystal blue water. They were lovers. What a way to spend eternity. Finally, mystery solved.

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.