dmseay

Blank walls. White.  There are no pictures on them. Lamps cast a light.

Coffee maker pisses black liquid into a pot. Makes a gurgling sound as if someone was choking it. A cup and a spoon sit on the counter. Stolen sugar packets and cream; Irish flavored, French cream, hazelnut.

The radio is turned to WKCR. Twenty-four hours of Thelonius Monk. His birthday is being celebrated. Straight No Chaser.

I pour my coffee and open a window, sit on the ledge, and crawl out to the fire escape. Down below morning traffic begins. Busses, taxis, kids laughing and cursing, all of it makes a symphony.  The streets; one great concert hall.

It is beginning to rain. An autumn shower. Morning in New York.

Blankets were piled neatly in the corner. Different kinds of blankets; cotton, wool, electric with the cord attached, and plug hanging by a wire. Some were just plain white. Others had knitting on them of lambs jumping over the moon, red barns, outlines of blue skies. Grandma stitched em together years ago. She said my dad used to play camp out in the front room, using blankets, drooping over chairs as a roof, and another on the green shag carpet he pretended was grass.

Grandma said he died over in Vietnam. Told me he was a Marine. She said he wasn’t over there, no more than six months, and they were shipping him back with a flag across his casket. I never believed her. I knew Dad was out there, somewhere.

Funny thing about Dad. There was no headstone for him. No final place of rest. Grandma said the old man was cremated, and a twister one night scattered his ashes all around town. She told this story with fake tears streaming down her face. And that’s when I started looking.

I packed a duffel bag and swung it over my shoulder. Decided I’d head out West. As west as you could get. As far North too. Went to Alaska in the spring. Almost all the snow had melted. Flowers in yellows and whites with some reds were beginning to bloom. Needles on pines were green.

It was there in Anchorage, Alaska, that my travels ended. Seated at a bar on a wooden stool was my old man with long brown hair and a wild beard drinking whiskey. I imagined him shaved and with a short cut. He looked just like me. Brown eyes and all. Even had a gut like me.

I sat down next to him and ordered a whiskey as well. Turned to him and toasted. He lifted his glass. We sat in silence.

Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. The air-conditioner and fans turned on high. It is October. She counts her blessings.

The leaves have not changed yet. Grass is still green and in need of a cut. Sun and rain. Sun and rain.

He sits on the pier with a fishing pole in hand. Nothing has hit his line all day. He wonders if autumn will ever come.

They used to call this Indian summer. Now it’s just summer extended. Eighty-three degrees in Northern Indiana. The fat man drips sweat. He curses God.

Nothing is biting. At least the days are getting shorter. Soon, the darkness will come. He says. A good excuse to sleep early.

These days are numbered.

Porchlight gives off a yellow color. He sits in the morning darkness with a cup of coffee, listening to frogs croak and crickets laugh. Two feral cats hiss at each other. There’s going to be a fight. Over what? Stale bread? A dead bird? Popcorn thrown out in the yard? He takes another swig of coffee and wipes his mouth on his long sleeve. Lights a cigarette.

Semis go up and down 41. Some go north to Chicago while others head south to Terre Haute. Air-brakes and engines. Tires roll. Headlights shine.

The old man remembers when he used to ride across country in big rigs. Drivers picking up teenagers, runaways at truck stops down the road, heading to New York, New Orleans,  Los Angeles,  Seattle, any place, but far, far away. 

The fat man laughed as he sat in a trance, thinking about his youth. He wished he could do it again.

Never live with past regrets, he whispered. I should have stayed in Albuquerque.

I sat on the couch in early morning hours, listening to Kathleen’s Theme and thinking of her, my adventures. And dear old Quebec.

Montréal can be filthy with debris on the sidewalks, boarded buildings, hookers and hobos walking the streets asking for money in French and English. Bars with bars on windows. Yet charming.

Her dark hair looked as though blue jays nested in it. Her face was dirty, and skirt ripped. She sat on the curb with legs open for business.

Hey you, she said to me as I walked by. Hey! I’ll do anything for a beer, she whispered loudly. Anything.

I looked at her and thought, what would Christ do? I’ll buy you a beer, I said. A tall boy. The coldest we can find. 

Alright. Now you’re talking. 

She started to come to her feet like a rocky first-born calf. I gave her my hand and held it into the liquor store where a Japanese lady behind the counter looked at us with great disdain as she skipped to the cooler to make her selection.

Michelob. My daddy used to drink this back in Calgary. He’d stay up all night watching hockey and drinking this stuff. When he fell asleep, I’d steal a couple and sit outside on the curb, drinking them and watching stars fall.

That’s the one you want?

Yes. She grabbed a six-pack. I laughed. I reminded  her she said just one. 

What good does one do me?

OK. 

We marched up to the woman at the cash register, and I got out my card to pay for it.

Cash only, she said.

I only have American.

Fine. You pay $15. That good deal.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Do you have a car?

Yeah. But, let’s sit here.

Here?

Yeah. And just talk.

That’s all you want is to talk?

Yeah. I’ll listen. You talk. Tell me about yourself.

I’m a schizophrenic from Calgary.

I see.

I’m an alcoholic.

OK.

And I have a son that was taken from me. She drank her ale quickly. Opened another bottle. That’s all. What about you?

I’m a bipolar divorced man driving a Dodge around North America. I laughed. I sleep in my car. I eat in my car. I pray in my car.

She twisted another cap. I’m sorry, she said. Truly. I’m sorry.  Sounds like we have a lot in common.

Yes. I would say so.

She downed the last beer and stood up to kiss me on the cheek.

What is your name? I asked.

Kathleen.

Kathleen. You take care, Kathleen.

You, too.

Tall weeds in the front yard. A porchlight with moths flying around it. Rusted Chrysler LeBaron sits on gravel. White wall tires. Sun is coming up. Men trace tracks with guns in their hands. A deer behind a bush.

It is November. He drinks coffee and eats dry toast. White bread. Nothing fancy. He hears a gunshot in the distance. Early bird gets the worm. He says. The straight lined man picks up another piece of toast, holding it between his teeth as he pours more coffee. Leaves fall from oaks.

He opens the front door of the trailer and stands on its porch, runs his hand over splinters and nails coming loose. He can see his breath. Another gunshot. This time, it’s closer. Too close.

Sun has risen completely now. Another shot is fired. The wiry dude goes back inside and gets his shotgun. He loads it with buckshot.

As he closes the door, he hears a scratchy voice. A fat man spitting tobacco. Red Man Chew. Put the gun down, the hunter says. I said, put the gun down.

The man does as he is told. What’s this about?

Shhhh. You’ll scare away the deer. The fat man laughs. Got any money? Any rare coins?

He shakes his head, no.

What have you got?

I got that LeBaron.

Go get the keys.

Here, pulls them from his pocket. He tosses them to the bearded slob.

Don’t you call nobody. You hear?

Deer run as the engine turns. Loud music plays when he takes off. The crunching of dead leaves.

 

Know what time it is? He asked.

Four, she said, looking at her watch on the nightstand.

Red numbers on the alarm clock kept flashing 12:00 a.m. He sat up and placed his bare feet on the cold wood floor. Cars were heard driving by. An ambulance siren in the distance got closer. He rubbed his eyes.

Sun will be up in an hour.

Uh huh. Yep. About an hour, she yawned. You always get up at this time, she said. And you have to ask what time it is. The young woman laughed. Either get up or come back to bed. She rolled over on her side. Actually, go turn the coffee on. I’ll be up in a minute.

It ain’t easy, he mumbled. You ain’t easy. He walked down the hall naked. Looked out a kitchen window. Noticed how pitch black it was. No light. Nothing. Just black. The city had not been turned on yet.

Morning, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her silk robe felt good on his skin. The girlfriend reached up and kissed the back of her lover’s neck.

You want coffee? Or….

We got awhile till it’s brewed. She twisted her long blonde hair.

I see. We do. They laughed as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. 

You think anyone knows?

About us? He asked. Not sure. Hard to say. Secrets are hard to figure out. He dropped her on the bed.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I love you, William Bennett.

Let’s not ruin it.

It’s cold, he said. Too cold.

Shut off the air-conditioner, she responded.

Then it’ll be too warm.

You’re never happy. Always having to complain. She opened a window and turned off the air. Maybe some fresh air would help.

Perhaps. Maybe. He sat quietly after that. Didn’t say a word. Closed his eyes for a bit. listened as she spoke.

You should get out more. She told him. You stay inside all day and night. That’s not good for you. She placed her hands on her hips and walked away. I’m going out for a while. Do you want to come? He sat still and silent. Suit yourself. She opened the door. See you later.

He got out of the chair and looked out the window. All those buildings, he whispered. All those people. Who would want to be a part of that? He continued looking down on the sidewalk. Children drawing with chalk. Bright colors of pink and orange. They drew blue clouds.

The kids know. He said. They know what’s real and what is not. Like monsters under our beds, in our closets. That’s real. He lit a cigarette. They know truth. I don’t think I ever did. Not sure.

He stuck half of his body out the window. Placed his foot on the frame. And, then he jumped.

The door was left unlocked overnight. Waited for her to come home. Fell asleep in the La-Z-Boy with a rifle cross his lap. Television was on. Sound down to a murmur. Hushed tones while news headlines ran at the bottom of the screen.

In his sleep, he gasped for air, tossed and turned, and held onto his gun tightly as if he were out in the bush waiting for Pol Pot. His fingers sweat, wrists itched from a red rash. A half filled beer can was placed on the side table. Warm beer. Saved to finish later.

Around three a.m. she came through the door. Silently. He was talking in his sleep. Something about going on, moving out, finished. She quietly locked the door and took off her shoes.

She awoke in the afternoon. Cats down below fighting. Hissing at each other. The blonde haired woman opened the window and let in a cold breeze, some fresh air.

Everything seems so stagnant, she said. Nothing new. Same old story. She quietly dressed. Put on her coat and shoes. Walked over to her sleeping husband. Kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye, Don McNally.

Head by the toilet bowl; the cool, cool toilet bowl. A small trashcan, rusted on the bottom, a quarter way filled with vomit, stands beside him. A can of Lysol in his hand.

There’s shit on the floor from not making it in time. Underwear soiled. Tee-shirt dripping with sweat. It is two o’clock in the morning. Drinks had three hours before now flushed away. He wipes his mouth with his forearm and runs his hand through greasy hair. Shakily, he stands like a newborn colt.

He stammers down the hall, back to his rented room. Wind from the fan hits his face. Windows are open. Half a warm beer in a can. He smells it and pours the Schlitz down below onto the sidewalk, past other windows, and a green neon sign that reads, Paddy’s Pub.  Damn Irish, he mumbles and turns on the music. Joe Henderson plays sax out of a tinny transistor radio. Goddammit still sounds good, he whispers.

Falling into bed, he turns over on his side and looks for a matchbook on the nightstand. He sits up with his back against the wall and lights a Viceroy.  Smoke hovers above him.

Where are you, honey? I miss you.