dmseay

No clear water. A rusted flow. Faucet squeaks. A dim light bulb swings back and forth over the sink. She left a long time ago.

Didn’t tell him where she was going. Just took off one night in the blue Dodge; had a dent in the right quarter panel. Never had enough money to get it fixed. He just left it.

He washes dishes with a bar of hand soap in the bathtub. Set them in a rack on the linoleum floor. Bits of food, old Spam, and remnants of TV dinners still clung to the plates.

Crickets chirp outside of his front window among the tall bushes and weeds. Shut up, he yells. Had about enough, he says with his eyes closed, in and out of a dream. A dream about her. How they used to be in love. Or so he thought. Maybe she never loved me. Just took advantage of me, he laughs. Looked around the trailer. Used me for all that I have.

In this dream, they’re walking down a dirt road. Holding hands. Talking. She wanted to be somebody. An actress, a model, someone famous.  He just wanted to be with her. Was perfectly happy working at the car wash. The tips weren’t bad. Every night, he brought her home flowers. She just kissed him on the cheek and laughed. Told him he was a fool. He’d nod his head and say, yeah. For you.

And, she left. No note.  No letter. Just a picture of them leaning against the toaster. He wondered about her. Probably went to Calfornia. Los Angeles, he thought. I’ll  see her again someday. On TV or a billboard. I’ll see her.

Window open. Ceiling fan turns slowly. The cat crawls out of bed with him.

It’s two in the morning. He sits in darkness. The toilet runs.

On 24th Street, it is quiet. Some noise from 8th and 9th. Taxis. City bus. Drunks walking home. The cat purrs.

He sits at the folding card table in a metal chair, taking it all in. He takes a sip of yesterday’s coffee from a mug, which reads, I ❤️  NYC. The heavy man stirs with his finger and licks it. The cat takes a sip, too.

There’s jazz on the radio coming from New Jersey. Ramsey Lewis plays The In Crowd. He sings the words in a soft voice. I’m in with the in crowd….I’m in with the in crowd….the cat meows.

He smiles. The cat jumps on his shoulder and rubs against his gray hair. They are both happy.

I listen to no one, he said. Only Bill Evans playing piano. People just get in the way, he told her. All they want is to hear themselves.  Talk about this. Yell about that. It’s a nuisance.

That’s bleak, she told him. Sad, really. But, I do like Bill Evans.

Yes. The Bill Evans Trio with Scott LaFaro on bass and Paul Motian playing drums. That’s all I need.

Really?

Yeah. I walked out of a psychiatrist session one time when the doctor said Paul Chambers was better than LaFaro. 

You’re kidding me.

No. I never went back, he paused. And it was then. Truly then that I realized how much I hated people.

That’s crazy, she laughed.

Have you met me? He laughed.

They kissed and called it a night.

Nothing is fresh. It’s all old. Stale. Crumbles in hand. This bread has mold on it. Green turning black. An old piece of sourdough. 

He opens the door to his trailer and looks at the birds flying around. Tearing off pieces, he throws the bread in the air like they were Frisbees. Old smelly bread on the ground. Hiding in the tall grass. Weeds. Birds swoop down and carry pieces with them. Flying high with chunks of mold in their beaks. He watches.

Closing his door, he notices a pair of binoculars on the bookshelf next to Tropic of Cancer. He picks up the object and examines it. Adjusting the lenses, he focuses on the sky from his front window. The birds are gone. He zooms in. Bread is gone, too. The feast is over.

The old man laughs. Looks around the place for other food or debris to throw out to the winged creatures; hoping they come back.

A pizza box sits in the corner. He opens it and discovers crust. Stale crust. There are several pieces. He walks back out to the front porch and makes bird calls like he did when he used to hunt with his son. Throwing out the pizza crust, he thinks of him. His only kid. He pauses. Fucked that up too, he says. Could never get anything right. He drops the binoculars.  The birds return.

He wished his son would.

You’re looking the wrong way, he said. Look that way. Over there, he pointed down the street. See her? The blonde in the skirt. Walking towards us. He took his friend’s head with both hands on the cheeks. Do you recognize her?

It’s dark, Pete said. Too dark. How can you make her out? How can you see? He sipped on his soda through a straw. No idea who she is.

Come on now, Tom said to him. Look again.

She was getting closer. This tall leggy blonde was getting closer. She stood under a streetlight.  Lit a cigarette.  Standing there, she looked like a statue.

OK, Pete told him. She does look familiar.

She should.

Why’s that?

That’s your ex-wife. 

No.

Yes, Tom said. Yes.

Pete looked harder. Strained his eyes. She looks so different. She used to be fat and brunette. What happened?

She left you. That’s what happened. Always does. They change overnight as soon as the papers are signed. 

I guess so. I guess so.

She looked at the two men and crossed the street at a rapid pace. She waved and blew a kiss.

All was forgiven.

A broken clock. Hands stuck on 6.  Microwave doesn’t work. The couch has springs coming through  cushions. TV lays on its side. He takes an aluminum baseball bat and starts swinging wildly at everything in sight. Turning in circles and missing all that he tries to hit. Bat is thrown down on the floor.

He opens the refrigerator, and a loud humming noise comes from it. There is nothing inside of it. No beer. No bologna.  Not any bread. Nothing but mold encasing the walls. The young man takes his thick finger and runs it over the green and black growth. He smells it and then tries to turn on the water, which has been turned off for a month.

Goddammit,  he swears. It’s all broken. He picks up the bat and begins beating on the faucet. You sonofabitch, he says. I’ll show you. He continues hitting the water spout. Come on now, he yells. Is that all you got? He gives up.

Tired. Beat. He sits on the floor and tells himself that all is OK. All is OK, he says over and over. All is OK.

He looks up and sees a painting of an old man praying over bread. He stares at it. He gets off the kitchen floor and walks over to the painting. With his forefinger, he traces over the picture.

All is OK.

Broken glass on the floor. Busted up dishes. A twenty-four case of Old Style on the countertop. He sweeps and then drinks. Sweeps a little more and drinks a little more. He babbles about his losses.

She was a good one, he says. Would’ve hung onto her if I knew how. He takes another drink. Broom in hand, he bounces the bristles on the linoleum floor. I thought I gave her everything, he stood still. Said she wanted freedom. I gave her freedom.

The old man looks outside, and it’s  snowing. Winds shake the pines. He drinks again from his can.

We used to celebrate Christmas.  Alone. No kids. Maybe she secretly wanted kids. I don’t know. We tried in the  beginning, I guess. Just screwing all the time. And then there was nothing. He sits on the torn couch. His knees bend up to his belly.

Then there was that one I met on the road. She was really something. A real looker. Took me for all I was worth. Emotionally, that is. Thought I really loved her. Hell. Maybe I never knew what love was.

He goes back to sweep. He sings Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn.  He stops and throws the broom across the kitchen.

And then you’re alone.

A bottle of vitamin D on the coffee table. Books lined up next to it. Medicine bag filled with pills sits on the end next to a typewriter. He sits on the couch surveying the objects. Whiskey in a shot glass in hand.

The radio is turned on. It’s the birthday of Dizzy Gillespie. Twenty-four hours of the trumpet player on WKCR. A tribute to his genius.

He hums along to the music and looks through his brown bag. Ten different kinds of prescription pills ranging from medicine for mental illness to diabetes. The old man downs bottles of each. Swallows them with another shot of Sazerac, places blank paper into the typewriter, and writes, THE END.

Lawnmowers. Fathers yelling at kids. Unhappy housewives. Hummingbirds suck on sugar water.

The grills will be burning soon. Overcooked steaks. Corn on the cob. A watermelon diced. Vodka and cranberry in a tall glass.

Music plays. It’s all pretend. Dogs  barking behind fences. Swimming pools above ground. The smell of chlorine fills the air.

And, as miserable as they are, mom and dad are proud. They pulled off the American dream.

I drove out to see her. It’d been years. Saw a picture of her, a snapshot of how she used to be; tall, tanned, and blonde with green eyes. Looked like emeralds in the night. Shining under streetlights as we talked just before going back to our spouses; best kept secret in town.

She kept saying she was going to leave him. Said she was going to leave all this behind; the car, money, house, kids. Just take off. She was kind of selfish that way. Always looking out for her own interests. No matter how crazy it was. She always followed through. Nothing stopped her. I always admired that.

Annie died about a year ago. We had a proper funeral for her. Will, our son, sang her favorite song. Ginger, the youngest, said the eulogy. I walked around thanking folks for coming. Made sure the trays of beef and chicken were hot. Annie always hated a cold meal.

A few months had passed, and I heard from her. First time in twelve years. Said she got my number from a friend of ours. Told me how sorry she was about Ann’s passing. I told her thank you and pictured her in my mind how she must look now.

She said her hair was now gray. Long, but gray. No surgery, still had the same body. Maybe a sag here and there. But, pretty much the same.

I asked her if she still had green eyes? She laughed. Told me some things never change.