dmseay

Fritos in the cupboard. Coffee on the counter. Toast with marmalade. No cream in the fridge. Not even the powdered stuff. Bare bones.

Cigarette butts in a plastic cup. He pulls them out one at a time. Some of the filters have red lipstick on em; a whore who was there the night before. No money in his dresser. Just an old Eagle Scout badge left behind by his dad. There’s a hole in his sole.

He opens the window and lets in the cold winter air. Christmas has passed. It’s a lonely Valentine’s Day. An old card sits on his nightstand. See you soon, it says. Love, Hazel. 

A candle is lit. Pictures of naked women nailed to the walls. All twelve months are represented.  He has a fondness for Ms. November. He lights another butt. Turns on the radio and listens to 24 hours of Coltrane on WKCR. India plays.

The song ends. Another begins. A Love Supreme. He listens in a trance. It is healing. Souls need nourishment. Feed me, he says quietly.

Happy Valentine’s Day, John.

She used to sit on his lap as they drove through town. Honking the horn and waving at people. Folks waved back.

Little girl would place her hands on the big steering wheel with her father’s over them. They’d turn it loosely, nothing sharp. Laughed as the Dodge spit and spattered, made noises, nothing quiet about it. 

They’d pull up and park it at Dog N Suds. Daddy placed the speaker on the half rowed down window. He let his little girl place the order.

We want two dogs with no ketchup and two root beers. She looked up at Dad.

Go on. Tell him what else you want, Daddy said.

Two bags of barbecue potato chips.

Well that be all Miss? The voice asked.

His daughter leaned towards the speaker and said that’ll do it. The kid with pigtails looked up at her parent for his approval. He nodded. Smiled. Used shirt sleeves for napkins. Crusty mustard on flannel.

They drove back through town. His hands on hers. Drove past the barber shop and Jewel grocery store. Went around the corner where Paddy’s Pub stood. Mom was out on the sidewalk spraying off chalk drawings.

There you go, kid. Dad said as he leaned over to open her door. I’ll see you real soon.

I love you, Daddy.

I love you too, squirt.

She hugged him sideways.

He drove off. Heading West.

Standing at the jukebox and there are three renditions of Vernon Duke’s Autumn in New York.

One done by Oscar Peterson. Another played by Bill Charlap. And a third selection by Bill Evans Trio, including Scott LaFaro on bass and Paul Motian playing drums. I take a sip of whiskey and decide to go with Bill Evans. I place my last quarter in the record machine and watch the 45 start to spin. I think of you.

We used to sit in Washington Square Park eating popcorn and feeding pigeons. Leaves of rust, yellow, gold, and red. You placed your cheek on my chest. Blonde hair surfing an overcoat.

That was years ago when we were young and poor. Hungry for new experiences.  The only thing that changed was you.

And I held a transistor radio in my hand. Listening to WKCR. Listening to Autumn in New York by Bill Evans. Squirrels danced slowly. Couples walked by. Smiled. We laughed.

I sit here drinking whiskey. Remembering. I’m stuck in remembering. Autumn in New York.

Mountain tops in West Virginia. Deer on the side of the road; killed by carelessness in Pennsylvania. The Ohio River churns.

I drive throughout the night. Hours in the dark, thinking of you, feeling your touch on my face like a ghost reaching out. Spirits on 40.

Driving past St. Louis and over the Mississippi with its muddy banks and casino boats. Money floating on brown water that Huck and Jim paddled upon. An arch overlooking all of us.

All alone in this world, this country since you’ve been gone. Drive, drive, drive from one end to the other. From West to East and North to South. In search of something to keep me going.

And there’s that touch again. Your spirit trying to break through; a sign that it’s alright. I’m not alone.

But, I keep driving. Past Joplin, Carthage, Oklahoma, down into Dallas over to Amarillo where they have steaks big as your head.

Stay with me. Don’t go away. We’ll be there soon.

Windows were open. Cold air came into the rented room. A mug of coffee on his desk; an electric typewriter, stacks of blank paper, a picture of a woman in a gold frame bought at a dime store.

He looked at the photograph every day before sitting down to write. Occasionally, the old man would kiss it and place his wrinkled fingers on her blonde feathered hair. She looked like one of Charlie’s Angels; the blonde one who married The Six Million Dollar Man. A bird sat on the window frame.

The old man started to write a sentence but kept staring at his muse. He picked up the picture and held it close to his heart.

I miss you, he said. More than anything, I miss you. The frame was placed next to the typewriter.  He took out a tissue and wiped his eyes. Just ’cause we never met don’t mean I don’t love you.

They talked into the night. Spoke about different things. Chased the moon.

He picked up the youngster at a diner in Topeka. Said he was heading west. Going out to Colorado. Spend some time in Denver like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. Eventually, wind up in San Francisco. Buy a book at City Lights.

Ever heard of Kerouac and Cassady? He asked the runaway. The teenage boy with a ring in his left ear shook his head, no. That’s a shame. Full of adventure and longing. Longing to discover America. No telling what those two were gonna do next. Had to turn the page, said the bearded old dude. You don’t talk much.

Just along for the ride, the kid said.

Aren’t we all. Maybe the days of discovery are over.

Sure.

They rode along in the dark with the radio turned down low. Picked up static in the middle of nowhere. The hum kept them awake.

What do you want to be when you grow up? The old man asked. The boy didn’t respond. He acted like he was asleep at times. In and out of dreams. Mumbling something about mom and dad. Talking in soft tones of girls in his high school.

I know, the hippie said. I still ain’t figured it out. He laughed. Ain’t that funny. Grown man still ain’t figured it out. Oh. I do odd jobs here and there. Guess I’m just a traveling fool. He looked at the boy. The sun was coming up. An orange haze filled the sky.

You can let me out at the truck stop, the teen said.

You sure?

Yeah.

OK.

You gotta five spot on you? I’m hungry.

Yeah. I can do that.

The old man pulled out a wad of cash. Handed the kid a twenty. Said, today’s your lucky day.

The boy didn’t even say thanks. He just went from truck to truck looking for his next ride.

Brick walls chipped. Mortar cracked. Pipes hang from the ceiling. A fireplace burned wood. Candles flickered.

You want some? He asked.

What is it?.

Coffee with cream and sugar.

The friend took the large paper cup and wrapped his hands around it. He drank some and passed it back to Henry.

That is some damn fine coffee, Dale told him. Thanks.

It’s Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Not that Starbucks shit. They don’t burn their beans. Slow roasted. Nothing bitter about it. Here. Have some more, Henry hands it back to Dale.  Henry starts drawing figures on the dirt floor. Ancient Egyptian symbols, Aztec too.

What are those?

Nothing, Henry said. Just chicken scratch. They were in books I read during college. Drawings from way back. Different cultures. Hand me that coffee.

Did you graduate? Dale handed him the coffee.

Yeah. Henry laughed. Got a degree in English.

Which means what? They both laughed. Not much of anything, Henry said. I’ve read a lot of books. Written a lot of stories. Wound up being poor and drinking coffee with you. He smiled.

Not a bad life, Dale told him.

No. Not bad at all.

Any regrets?

Never got married. Henry said. I would have been awful at it. He laughed. But I would have liked to have tried.

Yeah. I married. And, I wasn’t good at it. Just got in my way. Woke up one night and just left. Just took off. Got on a Greyhound to Joplin.

Why Joplin? Henry asked.

Far away from Buffalo. Just had enough money to get me there.

Yeah. How’d you wind up in Texas? Henry took a swig of coffee.

Worked my way down here. Farms, labor jobs, shoveled shit.

We’ve all done that.

Yep. We have.

The two men stretched out in the dirt. Wood burning. Coats for blankets.

Goodnight, Dale.

Goodnight, Henry.

There’s nothing worse than spending the night with you, he said. Reminds me of old times. The fighting and fussing. Plates and pictures thrown against walls. A table turned over.

We were young, she said. Mistakes were made.

Yes.

Snow had turned to ice. Salt trucks would not be out until morning. Their teenage son slept down the hall.

You  could’ve left earlier, she told him. Just drop him off and go.

The storm was coming, he quietly yelled. I should’ve waited till tomorrow.

You get him for a weekend.  That’s what you get. She put coffee in the filter and added water.

I’m sorry.

Don’t let it happen again.

I can’t control the weather, he said to her as he lit a cigarette. Do you mind?

Help yourself. She pushed away smoke.

I forgot.  You quit.

Yeah.

Quit drinking, too?

I have. One day at a time.

Nobody likes a quitter. He smiled.

There’s blankets in the hall closet and a pillow on the couch. If you wanna stay up and have coffee, go ahead. I’m going to bed. She poured a glass of water and looked for aspirin in the cabinets. Don’t expect breakfast. I suspect you’ll be gone when he wakes up. No school tomorrow, probably.

Right. You take care. See you next Friday.

Don’t forget to lock the door.

Dark and empty. Two men asleep on the ground. Empty vodka bottles. Crushed beer cans. Cars and semis hover above. A fire in a rusted barrel.

They dream of the first of the month. SSI checks cashed and spent.  Living like kings for a day or two. Booze in dive bars. Food from a restaurant. A cheap hotel room for a night. They never had it so good.

And then the money’s gone. No more loot. Disappeared from their pockets in a twenty-four hour stretch. Dimes and quarters left.

They beg in Times Square. Frightened Midwesterners give them a buck or two. Enough for a pint. Passing out back under the bridge or sleeping in subway cars. Trains travel into night. The long wait begins.

Thirty or thirty-one days, depending on the month. December has a hundred.

They sat in a booth at the diner. They faced each other. He read the menu while she played with sugar packets, artificial sweetners, powdered cream.

I think I’ll have the sunrise special, he said. She nodded and took a sip of coffee. Two eggs, bacon, home fries, and toast. I’ll get my eggs sunny side up, he told her.

That’s good, dear. I’ll have a grapefruit.

That’s it? He asked.

Yeah. Just a grapefruit. 

Are we getting old? He looked at her. I mean. I’m ordering the sunrise special, and you’re having grapefruit. That’s what old people eat.

I suppose so, she laughed. I like grapefruit.

I’ve never seen you order it. He shook his head. Never. Maybe a poached egg or a danish. But, never a grapefruit.

Does it really matter?

I guess not. Just curious.

OK.

Yesterday, I noticed my teeth are yellowing. He said. My hair is totally gray. I think I’m shorter. He got quiet. Damndest thing. It just snuck up on me.

What’s that, dear?

Age. Life.

Yes. It’ll do that. She said.

Don’t leave me.

I won’t.