dmseay

His hands were as hard as the jawbone of an ass. He had this rhythm when he punched. Danced around the ring, too; an unstoppable force.

I would watch him destroy opponents on Friday nights at the armory. Amongst the cigar smoke, cans of beer, cigarette butts on the floor, the cursing, and the screaming, I cheered him on.

Come on, Joe. Knock him out, I yelled. Get him. Get him, I screamed over fat men talking trash. Kill him.

The armory was no place for a twelve year old boy to be. My dad knew where I was, but mom didn’t have a clue. It’s our secret, Dad said. If mom asks where you were, tell her you were doing homework at a friend’s house. He laughed and gave me a ten spot. Years later, I wound up paying it all back when I took care of him in his final days. Life comes full circle.

Joe was undefeated. No one was even in the same class as him. The heavyweight was in a league of his own. Except one night, he didn’t look so hot. Fast Eddie was giving him a beating. I remember watching in horror as a childhood hero went down in the ring, bleeding, slow moving, holding onto the ropes till the towel was thrown in. It was not Joe’s night.

I told Pop about it later. He told me that some nights are like that. In life, eventually, you lose. But if you get back up and prepare for the next match, you’ll be fine. He patted me on the back and drank his Schlitz.

Joe never fought again after that night. He never got back up. A few years later, I found out that big Joe had passed. Got shot in a liquor store by some punk who was holding up the place. Joe was just an innocent bystander. Died with a bottle of Colt 45 in his hand that was as hard as the jawbone of an ass.

Cigarette butts piled in an ashtray.  Crushed beer cans on the floor. Rain comes through unsealed windows. He places towels at the bottoms of the frames.

Water damage on the ceiling. Big brown circles mark spots. The dry wall is tearing apart. Photographs of naked women thumbtacked over holes. The old man sits in a recliner with foam padding pushing through the arms and seat. Springs are coming through the cushion. A bucket catches rain.

He’s reading Ralph Ellison’s  Invisible Man. Reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He lights a cigarette with a match and shakes it, throws it on the floor. Shakes the box in his ear. A few left, he says.

The old man remembers reading Ellison the first time. Race, politics, a country gone mad. Not far from what it is today, he laughs. Pages yellowing.

I wanted to be a communist when I was younger, he says to himself. I thought that was the best way. The romantic way, he laughs. He adjusts himself in the chair. Puts the book down. Lights another cigarette. 

He’ll be coming for me soon, he says. Maybe a year or two is all I have left. You never know. He stares at the damaged books stacked in milk crates. Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Miller, Ginsberg, Kerouac, to name a few. Yeah. He’ll come to take me soon. The old man coughs. And then all this will be gone. Dumped out in the street. Just like all the books in America right now, he sips on his Old Milwaukee.  We are done.

I took him fishing. He used to enjoy that. There, he sat on the river bank casting his line into the muddy water. A can of Pepsi in a holder on his folding chair. 

Do you remember when we used to fish? Dad  nodded. He pulled his line a little tighter.

Yeah. He said. We rarely caught anything when we moved north.

That’s right, I told him. In Arkansas, we got those big catfish and bass. Few  buffalo, too. But they were always so boney.

Must have been a million bones in those dudes. You could pick your teeth with them. He took a sip of his cold drink and reeled his line in.

Yeah.

I miss your mother.

I know. I know.

You never loved her. He cast  back out into the Kankakee.

What do you mean?

I could always tell. That’s why you left home so young.

Don’t start, Dad.

It’s true.

You’re all about truth, are you?

Let’s just fish. Shouldn’t have brought it up.

There was silence between us for a long time. An hour of quiet. Squirrels jumped out of trees. Birds flew over. Storm clouds approached.

We better get going, Dad.

I suppose so.

We did not talk on the ride back to town. I opened the door for him, and he got out, not saying a word. Fell asleep in the recliner. I placed a blanket over him and turned out the light.

He never woke up.

He carries a two by four. Swings  wildly. Talks to himself. Mumbles and shouts. Opens dumpsters while walking down alleys in South St. Louis. Looks on the ground for cigarette butts. His tee shirt says, Freedom Ain’t Free. A hawk soars above. Rats scurry.

Give me a twenty, the tall blonde kid asks the short fat black hooker hiding under the fire escape. Come on now, he threatens. I know you just got paid.

I ain’t giving you shit, she says as she swallows mouthwash. Go on. Get out of here. I’m trying to do business.

He laughs and unzips his shitstained pants. Go on. Take care of this business I got. He drops the two by four to his side.

Go on, Billy. Leave me alone.

Come on now. Give me a twenty. That’s all I want. I’m sure you got more than that, he shifts back and forth, side to side. What the fuck? I ain’t got all day.

What you got? A business lunch downtown? You a C.E.O. or something. Shit. Go on. The hooker begins to walk away.

Come back here, the junkie picks up his board. I said, come back here.

Fuck you.

You ain’t so important. You just like the rest of us out here, Billy yelled. He wants to run. Chase the girl down. But he’s too tired. Too weak.

More than you, she yells back. 

He spies an open dumpster across the alley. There’s no garbage in it. This will be his home for the night while whores walk Grand Avenue and cars drive by slowly.

There is music coming from the bars. All kinds of music. From hip-hop to soul and some old Lynyrd Skynyrd as well. Billy lies in the dumpster with his piece of wood. He sings along. Oooo that smell….Can’t you smell that smell…he closes his eyes and waits until morning.

They sat on the couch watching Shark Week. Seven whole days and nights of nothing but sharks on television.  She didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Blankets were wrapped around her and a bowl of popcorn at her side; her left hand was greasy from the butter and salt. Her other hand held the remote. She would not let go of it; like some life line. The tall brunette needed it to exist. 

He looked at his phone every once in a while to see what the time was. Every fifteen minutes, he checked it. Nine o’clock. Quarter past ten. Eleven o’clock. Two hours had passed. And still, it was nothing but sharks. People in search of sharks. Divers in cages teasing sharks. There were even people dancing with sharks. It would not stop.

He grabbed some kernels, which stuck to his teeth. Tried to hold her hand like in the old days. Her eyes remained transfixed on the deep blue and its predators.

Isn’t this fascinating? She asked. I love Shark Week. Tomorrow night, a whole new show. I can’t wait.

Yes. Yes, it is true. Of all the cable channels we have, which cost over a hundred a month, we’re watching sharks. Yes. It is truly fascinating. I must admit, he looked at her. My interest in TV was starting to dissolve. But those sharks. Drew me back into a whole new world. 

Stop.

No. Really. Fascinating.

We could learn something from sharks.

Oh, I’m sure.

Yes. We can.

Like, how they mate?

We’re going to find out this week.

I can’t wait. 

A rusted pickup truck in the driveway. Bumperstickers on it that read, DON’T TREAD ON ME, and LIVE FREE OR DIE. A step ladder hangs off the tail with a DIXIE flag tied to it.

He sits on his riding lawnmower with a beer in his hand, steering with the other. The middle-aged man cuts the grass in a circular fashion, going back and forth across the front yard. Brown needles under a Pine tree.

The boy, not quite six, sits on the front porch, playing make-believe with his toy firetruck and Army soldiers. He points at his dad, laughs, and runs after him. The father scoops the boy up into his arms and continues mowing the yard. Rocks from a gravel driveway tossed aside by mud-caked blades of steel.

The mowing stops. He lets his foot off the gas and coasts like an airplane into the garage. The boy is laughing and smiling as Dad lifts him off his lap and tells the kid to grab him another beer.

Daddy is so proud of him. Ready for Kenny to grow up. But not too fast. He goes inside with his shadow following him. Sits down at the table. And calls his ex-wife. 

Yeah. We’re done. I’ll drop him off in a while. I said a while. Father looks at his son. Takes out a cigarette and lights it.

You shouldn’t do this, the father says.

I won’t.

Promise.

I promise.

Pinky promise? He asks the boy. Kenny nods his head. They lock fingers together. He downs another swig of Schlitz.

Let’s go.

The moon is yellow tonight, she said. Kind of hazy. Wonder what they’re doing up there? She looked at him. You ever think about that?

I look at the sun, he told her. Big burning ball, both laughed. Think about who is burning there. Robbers, murderers, rapists, C.E.O.’s, criminals of  all kinds. Probably me some day. When it’s all over.

Really?

Yep. That’s where Hell is. A constant fire that never goes out. He drank from his Coke can and threw it in the trash.

I don’t believe you, the wife said. She moved in closer to her lover’s side. None of us are going to Hell. Or, we’ve already gone through it here on earth.

Her side piece laughed. Is that what you think?

Yes. She put her arms around him. Kissed him. That’s what I think. She pouted.

You don’t know what hell is. You think this life is hell. He squeezed her. It’s not. I mean, terrible things can happen. In this life. Horrible. But, it’s not Hell.

It’s the sun?

Afraid so. A constant reminder from God to be good. Or, you’ll burn for eternity.

On the sun?

Yeah.

You think we’re going to Hell?

I think we all are. Name one good person.

I think we’re good people.

We cheat on our spouses, Joan. How’s that good?

I don’t know. We’re both giving something to each other.

Sex, Joan. Pure fornication, he laughed. She smiled. Held him closer.

Let’s go back to the hotel and make love.

OK.

They walked off the beach. Hand in hand. The moon was fading away. The two stopped in the parking lot and watched the sunrise. 

Grace. The father bowed his head. Who would like to say grace? His wife, children, nobody responded. They all sat there in silence while the roast beef and mashed potatoes got cold.

Nobody? Dad asked. Nobody is thankful? Am I the only one? All kept their heads down as the old man spoke. Fine. I’ll pray, he proclaimed. He let out a heavy sigh of disappointment. 

Our Father in heaven. Thank you for this meal before us. We pray that it goes to the  nourishment of our bodies so that we can serve you here on earth. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

Please pass the vegetables. The insurance salesman asked his son. A bowl was handed to him. It was not the mixed vegetables. It was a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Remember, dear. We pass from left to right. Eventually, it’ll get to you, the thin wife said.

Sorry, honey. I forgot. The brother and sister smiled at each other. Missy, the Retriever, circled the table. Missy, the father said. Go on. Get.

Paul. Go get a Milk Bone and let Missy out in the backyard, please. The son folded his napkin and led the dog outside. There you go, Robert. He’s outside now. Dad stared down at his plate.

It was quiet while they ate. Only the sounds of forks and knives sawing on Fiesta Ware could be heard.

Nice meal, dear, Robert said. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

Everything alright?

Yes.

In the garage was an old piece of rope in Robert’s Craftsman tool chest. He knew exactly what drawer it was in. He looked at it every day after work. 

Holding the rope in his hands, he made a noose with a tight knot, flung the rope over the garage beam, as the father of two sat on the backend of his Dodge Ram pickup. All was set. The rope scratched his throat. He held his  breath and jumped off the truck.

Birds eat stale bread on the ground. Tortillas, potato  chips, and a half torn pita lie in the grass as well. They are picky; leaving a lot behind as they fly away in the evening. Maybe they just like the bread. Perhaps they’re saving for tomorrow.  The alley cats know.

I sit here on the fire escape, watching, waiting for the sun to go down; the streetlights to come on. Night is round the corner.

Opossums scurry below. Dumpster divers. I light a cigarette and wait to see what their meal is tonight; a quarter of a Quarter Pounder left behind by some drunk earlier in the day? A piece of lettuce? Maybe apples brown and rotting. Time passes.

Pulling a beer from my cooler, I notice the ice is melting. Cold, cold water. I plunge my face into it. The freezing temperature feels good. Like the pool at the Russian/Turkish baths on Division where fat men go and yell, more heat, more heat, just before plunging into bliss or pain. No one cries out. They are stoic like statues of Stalin and Lenin.

I pour the cold liquid over my head and laugh. Another Friday evening. I am alone. 

Fake flowers on the fireplace mantle. Christmas lights glow on the plastic tree. A dead poinsettia sits in the corner. It is July.

He comes home to no one and grabs a beer from the mini-fridge. Foam sprays him when the top is popped.

God damn it, he mumbles, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing his tee-shirt. The old man slurps it down till it’s empty. He crushes the can with his right hand and throws it towards the garbage; he misses.

Outside, the streetlights are coming on. The red neon in the bar across the street shines brighter. He opens a window and leans on the frame.

Cars drive up and down Broadway.  The fat man remembers when he had a car. Used to drive all over this country. North, South, East, and West. Made it all the way to California one time. Swam in the ocean. Dug shells in the sand.

One time, he drove all the way to Philadelphia just to try a Philly steak sandwich. He was disappointed. Turned around and drove home.

He opens another beer, which sprays him too. God damn it, he says. God damn it.