dmseay

Come here, he said. Get over here. Nervously, she walked over to him. Did anyone ever tell you you’re really pretty. She smiled. Blushed a little.  I mean it. Pretty black hair. It shines. Pretty brown eyes. Really something. He swiveled on his barstool. Bartender. Set em up. What are you drinking, honey?

Ohhhh. I’m OK. She pulled out a cigarette. 

Rejecting me? My feelings are hurt, he told her. I thought we had something.  I looked at you across the bar. You looked back. You walked over here to me for Christ’s sake.

I just want a Coke. I don’t drink. I can’t drink.

Why’s that?

I get crazy.

Crazy is good.

No. Crazy is bad. She laughed.

How so?

I’d start around noon. Drink into the evening. Wake up the next morning on a bus leaving town. Going out west. Or up to Canada. She shook her head.

Shouldn’t be in a bar. He said. False advertising.

I like bars. She looked around. Like seeing what I’ve accomplished. Seeing if I can get through the night without a drink. Testing myself. 

I see. Is that what I am? A test?

The brunette shook her head. No. She said. You’re like candy.

How so?

I want to taste your lips. But I’m scared to. Cavities. Holes in your soul. Bad for you. Next thing you know, I’m back on the bus. Or, in your arms with a bottle beside me. 

Yeah. I suppose so. I never met any woman like you. Especially in a bar. You’re a rare breed. He said, placing his hand on her shoulder.  She nodded. If you ever want to take a bus trip, let me know. He laughed.

I’ll do that.  Yes, sir. I’ll do that.

You got kids? She asked. Mine are grown. Eighteen and twenty-one. Yours?

I don’t have any, he told her. Got lucky.

Yep. Sounds like you did. I got pictures. Want to see? She pulled out two grade school photos with a background of orange and yellow leaves. Front teeth missing on the little blonde girl. The boy had his hair combed to the side.

Good-looking kids, he told her as he lit a cigarette. They grow up fast.

How would you know?

Well. I assume they do. That’s what people say.

You know who says that? He shook his head. Parents who missed their kid’s childhood, she said. Hand me that whiskey.

She got up from sitting on the bed and walked over to the window that overlooked 24th Street. She saw taxis pass by. Cop cruisers. A neon sign on the corner flashing red and green. Pizza Slices seventy-five cents, it said.

He went to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. The water was always cold.

You gotta cigarette? She asked.

This is my last one.

Give me a drag, she told him.

You gotta hundred bucks. Go get your own.

You want me to leave?

That’s what I’m paying you for. He laughed. Just. Yeah. I have to sleep.

Gotta big day tomorrow? Representing someone in court? Have to teach a class? Wife to go home to?

Just leave. He opened the door for her.

She turned around in the hallway to say something.  She could hear a deadbolt locking.

Would you sell your soul for a sandwich? I asked. A bed? How about a coat just to keep you warm as you lie on a park bench?

What I wouldn’t give for a car. Just an old four-door with an engine that wouldn’t quit. Ford. Chevy. Some old Dodge. Maybe a station wagon so I could stretch out at night. Let the back seat down and just lie there; resting. My own space. My own place.

I’d drive it up and down I-95 a few times. Stopping in New York, Philly, D.C., make my way down to Florida for the winter. Sleep at rest areas under blue lights. The tranquil sounds of diesels humming. My own Valhalla.

Maybe get on 80 and head west. Go through Iowa and The Plains. Nebraska, Wyoming. Park it in San Francisco and start my way back east to Teaneck, New Jersey. I don’t know. No particular place to call home. Just stretched out land.  This whole country is mine for the taking.

I dreamt the other night that a woman would be my co-pilot. Travel with me. Then I woke up. It was just a dream.  

Over, he said. This is done. He answers the final clue on the crossword puzzle, places his pen on the nightstand, and turns off the lamp.

He lays there with a blanket over him and a soft pillow beneath his head. The pillow is too soft. He bends it and lies on his side, closes his eyes, but he can not sleep.

A small television sits on an end table between the bed and wall. He sits up and turns it on. Charlie Rose is interviewing Lauren Bacall. He’s practically blushing through the interview. Even in black and white, his face turns red. Shuts it off. The boy goes to the sink in his room and splashes water on his eyes, cheeks, and forehead. It’s two in the morning.

Kid goes outside and sits on the stoop. Up on 8th Avenue busses are going by. Taxis stop for drunks. The sound of Mexican music plays loudly from a restaurant on the corner. Hookers stroll by and ask if he wants a date. He points at his pockets and shakes his head. Creatures of Manhattan in ’87.

A cigarette is lit. He inhales and blows out smoke into the cold morning air. Watches as the sun rises. Tomorrow, he’ll do the same.

Pictures of windmills. An old well pump. Photos of parents and grandparents.  A red barn in a wooden frame.

Candles burn, giving off an autumn scent of pumpkins and pine cones. He swirls red wine in a plastic cup. Lights a cigarette. Looks out the window. A giant blow-up turkey in a front yard. The sun sets. Light turns black. There is nothing more to see.

The fireplace does not work. Nothing in this house does. Electric and gas have been shut off. A blanket with flowers on it covers the old man. He can see his breath. The wine burns as it goes down his throat. Cigarette butts on a wooden floor.

She comes in and sits on the couch. Too dark to knit. His wife wears a coat. When does the social security check come? She asks.

The first. He tells her.

What day is it?

Not sure. They just kind of run together. He takes a last drag and crushes the cancer stick. Places his hands in his pants. I remember when you kept me warm. He tells her.

Yeah. I remember, too. We’re getting old. Too old to fool around, she says. Too old to not have heat or light. She lies down. That wine is going to kill us.

Hopefully.

Pour me a cup.

A cup of death, he laughs.

Just what the doctor ordered.

This isn’t what I ordered. He said. This ain’t it at all. Jr. looks at the sunny side eggs. I ordered over-easy with pancakes and got sunnys with hashbrowns. Toast? I didn’t order toast.

Tell her they got it wrong. Mike said.

And risk the Mexicans spitting on it? No thank you. I’ll eat it.

Then don’t complain, Mike said, stirring sugar into his coffee. Too many people complain in this country.

They should complain if they didn’t get what they wanted. Jr. looks at the waitress pass by.

Everything alright? She asked.

He didn’t get what he…

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Jr. interrupted. Just fine. In fact, you could say dandy. Just dandy. The brunette shook her head and poured more coffee into cups that were half filled and walked to the next table.

They always do that, Jr. said.

What’s that?

Fill your cup when you just got it right. The exact amount of cream. The exact measurement of sugar. Jr. whispered. Mike began to laugh. You think it’s funny? Mike nodded his head. You like doing things over and over again? Mike laughed harder, crying.

Just eat your breakfast. Mike suggested. You’re really something. Paranoid of Mexican cooks. Complain yet you say nothing. Coffee? Really? Coffee? Next, you’re going to say something about the waitress.

She’s not my type.

This is autumn? Right? Edward asked. Summer went by so quickly. One day, you’re shooting fireworks, and the next raking the front yard. Too much to think about. Too many changes.

I like it. Tom said. It gives me hope. Tells me the earth is still spinning, he said. One day, it’ll stand still. One day. Then we’re in trouble.

It’s all an illusion. Edward told Tom. One big trick. He lit a cigarette and threw the match on the ground. Just like us. Are we really here? He asked. How do we know?

Tom took out a pocket knife and rolled up his sleeve. There were tracks on his arm. Probably the other one, too. He took the point of the blade and poked the skin, which began to bleed. Looked up at Harold. That’s real. See that. The way it moves down my arm. Like a slow flowing river. Drying up like a riverbed during a drought. He picked at the black blood. Placed some in his mouth. That’s real, Harold. We’re real.

That proves nothing. Harold said.

Pain proves everything.

Brown spots on yellow tiles. Coffee stains on white counters. Rips in leather seats. Foam coming out. Sign says OPEN.

The waitress walks the floor, going from table to table with a coffee pot in one hand and her black hair up in a bun. An ink pen runs through it. She hands the gringo a menu and asks if he wants water. He says coffee will do.

Tortillas, tamales,  enchiladas, chorizo and eggs, eggs Ranchero style, caldo, menudo, and many other hangover options on the plastic sheet. He rubs his eyes.

Are you ready? The short waitress asks.

Yeah. Ready for what?

Ohhhh. Not feeling well this morning? What got you last night?

Tequila. He tells her. Tequila. Then I switched countries and went to Ireland. Whiskey. I had whiskey.

On no. She said. Don’t ever do that.

I’m a pro. Used to be a pro. Now I’m just a drunk with a headache. Tired. In need of grease.

Chorizo and eggs?

Yes, please. Corn tortillas.

Sí.

He watched her as she walked away. That woman is a goddess, he says. A true goddess.

A thin mattress on the floor. The tag on it says Beautyrest. Blood stains and brown spots cover it.

He lies down, resting his head on a folded Carhartt jacket, smelling of smoke, and cigarettes. Work boots remain on. Soles worn thin. His feet sweat in unwashed wool socks his parents gave him for Christmas one year. A picture of them folded in his wallet.

The toilet down the hall runs all night. No one bothers to shake the handle. Smells of dead rats in the walls permeate the building. After a while, you get used to it, he writes down on a legal pad next to the bed; trying to capture the real America. Leaving suburbia behind. The smell of burning charcoal replaced with that of shit. He stares up at the cracked ceiling. Smiles and waits for more observations.

Snow is piling up outside. Plows scrape steel on streets. The flashing neon sign that reads, The Tiny Tap Two blinks on and off, glowing under streetlights on Dearborn. It’s four in the morning.  Drunks yelling out for forgiveness ring throughout the city. He lights a candle.

What is true? He ponders. What is real? Maybe the affairs and quiet alcoholism of Hinsdale are more American than the brutal honesty of Chicago. Perhaps. He picks up his pencil and writes, This country is one big lie. 

I told him to come in. He didn’t listen. Never listens. Didn’t even look at me. Just kept on walking. Colder than a well diggers ass out there. I wasn’t going to chase him.

Two days had passed. Hadn’t heard from him. Ma waited by the phone. Said he’d be calling any minute. Phone never rang. Actually, it did ring once. Berniece called to see what Ma was bringing to the church potluck Saturday night. Ma told her she didn’t have time for that and hung up quickly. Made some coffee and went right back to sitting by the phone. Silence weakens the heart.

Sit down over here, I told her. Come on. Have a seat. She walked over to the couch and sat on the opposite end.

It’s your fault, she said. Shouldn’t have been so hard on the boy. He can’t help it. 

He’s a fancy boy, Ma. Walks and talks like a girl. Soon he’ll be wearing dresses and getting his ears pierced.

So what. Ma said. So what. He’s still your son. 

Son. Daughter.  I don’t know.

Well. He’s gone now.

Probably caught a bus to San Francisco or New York. Some big city.

Ain’t you worried? She asked.

Of course. Everybody worries about their children.