dmseay

he’d spend hours by himself…away from the rest of the world…didn’t watch television…or…listen to the news on the radio…had had enough of the talking heads… pundits…politicians…salesmen pitching products in a global economy…just spent hours by himself…playing old records…Naima…Kind Of Blue…Sunday At The Village Vanguard…old songs without voices…no words just notes…just notes…

but he could hear sirens outside…cops chasin’ bad guys…ambulances carryin’ off the sick and the lame…gunshots fired throughout the neighborhood…an old dog howling for a treat…he’d turn Trane…Miles…and Bill up louder to tune the noises of the city out…but there’d still be traces…distant sounds of trains wailin’ in the night…a drunk yelling out for salvation…

and he’d look out the windows of his rented room…down alleyways…streetlights glowing in a yellowish hue…hightops flung over wires…parked trucks with flat tires…a cross atop a Catholic church…the blackness of night…no stars…no moon…dark skies…over a city where coffee is being poured by waitresses whose feet ache…taxi drivers looking for a faire…security guards asleep at desks…and bums going through garbage…in search of themselves…themselves…

hearing the sounds of Central Park West…So What…Gloria’s Step…he feels safe…locked away from the fools…madmen…whore’s temptations…junkies…freaks…spice addicts…crackheads…and the rest of whom roam these streets after midnight…vampires looking for a fix…we all have our needs…

so…he has locked himself away ’till morning…when he too will be among the living…or…are they faking it as well…the accountants…lawyers…lovers parting ways…trashmen on early dawn patrol…store owners washing down sidewalks from nighttime grime…vommit…cigarette butts…broken bottles…half eaten pizza slices…the sins of a city washed down the drain…only to be committed again…and again…and again…

he goes to the corner bodega to buy his morning coffee…does not look at, The Post…nor, The Times…merely stands there greeting the sun…being thankful to have survived another night of solitude…loneliness…locked away in his room…a self-imposed exile…

the morning brings forth another day…he will walk the city streets…spend hours with plugs in his ears…turning off the sounds of subway trains…busses going ‘cross town…the pedestrian’s on-going fight against traffic…whistles being blown…and barkers in Times Square calling out to tourists to see a show…live nude girls…Mickey Mouse…America on parade…

and he walks and he walks and he walks…’till it is time to go back to his rented room and listen to Trane…Miles…and Bill…

these days we spend…these days…

used to place everything in a book-bag and take off in the middle of the night…few clothes…some toothpaste…deodorant…a copy of, Tropic Of Capricorn…Ulysses…notepads and pens…coupons for free Big Mac’s…pictures of Paris…

and I’d get onna a Greyhound headin’ east…over the Ohio line..stops in Toledo…Cleveland…Youngstown… through Pennsylvania…eatin’ bags of pretzels inside the Pittsburgh bus terminal…sleepin’ with my head ‘gainst the window on the PA Turnpike and on into New York…lookin’ at that skyline as the bus approached the Lincoln Tunnel…walkin’ The Port Authority lookin’ at other bums stumblin’ ’round a building with it’s own zip code…

strollin’ down 8th Avenue at two in the mornin’…askin’ strangers for directions…nobody knows where they’re goin’ or how to get there…cups held out with signs sayin’, WILL WORK FOR FOOD…HELP A VET…ANYTHING WILL DO…bearded dreadlocked men mumbling to themselves…old women pushing grocery carts…coats bein’ worn in July…the mass of humanity crossin’ streets…buck slices sold on the corners…drunken Midwestern tourists singing out into the night…

in alcoves people sleep under dirty blankets…newspapers…discarded food placed before them…subway singers collectin’ cash for top forty renditions of old songs…a saxophone wails…and trains rush by…filled with graveyard shift workers…nightowls…hawks prayin’ on the few…the unlucky few…

I’d ride the train all night…from the Bronx to Brooklyn…seated next to hustlers…whores…insurance salesmen…con men…ex-cons…ex-husbands down on their luck…waitresses reading Dean Koontz novels…James Patterson books…The Post…earplugs in young black boys ears…Puerto Rican girls talkin’ smack…a junkie nodding off on my shoulder…

this town…it kicks your ass and tells you to leave on the next bus day after day after day…but you stick with it…sleeping in drop-in centers…on folding chairs…Catholic Church basements…soup lines at Apostle’s…the occasional intake at Bellevue…I know the 12th floor well…

there are those that stay and those who move-on to more peacful places…Upstate New York…Vermont…the farmlands of the Midwest…Sunday afternoon naps in rented rooms…a 99 cents slushie at the Speedway gas station…smaller piece…smaller piece…

it’s good to be back home…

kept lookin’ at the clock…midnight had passed…the old wooden gate outside was creakin’…makin’ noise…wind blowin’ it back and forth…back and forth…

saw the moon hangin’ in full…big silver circle a million miles away…wonderin’ if that American flag was still planted up there…

and these cars passin’ by out on the highway…soundin’ like waves in an ocean comin’ into shore…makin’ him think of when he was a kid…playin’ at Myrtle Beach…buildin’ sand castles…waters rushin’ in to knock ’em down…fillin’ up green buckets and startin’ over ‘gain…startin’ over ‘gain…

he was always startin’ over ‘gain…

He drove north towards the Michigan line…taking back roads and long curvy highways through hamlets and villages…small towns…went past elementary schools where kids were out on swing sets and playing kick ball…past post offices with people inside waiting to mail off letters to sons over seas…birthday cards to grand daughters…pay electric bills…

and he’d drive by these trees…tall and colorful with rust colored leaves and chipped off bark…initials carved into ’em…Patty loves Sammy…hearts with arrows through ’em…

The old man stopped at a gas station to get a Pepsi…looked at the beef jerkey selection…decided onna Slim Jim…got back in the car and kept drivin’…drove along Lake Michigan on the Blue Arrow Highway…an old Chevy truck keepin’ pace with BMW’s…Subaru’s…couple of semis comin’ up from behind…

Had the radio turned to clasical music…Schubert…Mozart…Beethoven…the hits kept comin’…he’d hum along to ’em…not knowin’ where he was gonna end up…maybe Petosky…maybe the U.P. …

Then he got this crazy notion ’bout leavin’ the country…goin’ to Canada and never comin’ back…had no wife…no kids…nothin’ to keep him in the states…he thought ’bout it…thought ’bout it…

He started laughin’ crazily…talkin’ to himself…little words like…should’ve…would’ve…could’ve…

Said his whole life was one big road trip…skippin’ from town to town…accomplishin’ nothin’…it was ’bout that time…

Got to the border and just kept drivin’…just kept drivin’…

I’m always hearin’ things…cars drivin’ by…ambulances flyin’ down streets…fire trucks racin’ to somewhere…cops always on the chase…gun shots down alleyways…

the hum of a refrigerator…air-conditioner clickin’ off and on…tv makin’ noise ‘cross the hall…old man next door talkin’ to himself…always talkin’ to himself…

these sounds…sometimes they feel like ghosts haunting throughout the night…pitch black outside…can’t see a thing…just hear ’em as you’re tucked away in bed…tryin’ to sleep with one eye open…wonderin’ if you’ll eventually dream…maybe it’s all a dream…

I remember when I lived in New York…goin’ down to the river and closin’ my mind off to everything but the sound of waves…choppy waters…boats makin’ the East River move…and I’d feel the breeze on my face…there was always a mist…it was peaceful…peaceful…

no longer do I hear the East River…no longer am I at peace…there is no water to take me away from the sirens…the yells of drunks walkin’ home at three in the mornin’…couples fightin’…air brakes on diesels…

water is needed…water is needed…

heard footsteps…boots walkin’ the halls…heavy walkin’…back and forth on hard wood…boards would creak at times…

all day long the old man would stroll up and down the hallway…not sayin’ a word…almost as if he were marchin’ to a beat inside his head…some kinda rhythm from from a fife and drum corps…like he was a Marine or somethin’…’cept no-one was givin’ orders…least none that I could hear…

he’d march up to the front of the hall…then march back to the the other end…turnin’ onna dime…his steps were crisp…gait was clean…nothin’ sloppy…or haphazard ’bout it…just a man steppin’ to a beat…

and he’d carry this American flag in his hands…pole restin’ on his shoulder…but he wouldn’t say a word…just precision in every step…

the man would march till nightfall…clear up till the Sun went down…wouldn’t hear anything up to morning at the crack of dawn…and those boots would hit the floor again…

some men never quit…

he spent all day inside his rented room…lookin’ out a window at an alleyway where kids played kick the can…bums went through garbage bins…cop cars roamed…

saw people…Mexicans goin’ into Saint Patrick’s…little girls dressed in white…dad’s with black hair slicked back…mom’s wearin’ skirts…families gettin’ out of old pick up trucks and used vans…an old woman sellin’ tamales on the sidewalk out front…

and he heard rap music booming from car speakers as they drove through stop signs…listened to black girls laughin’ as they jumped rope…their mom’s out in weedy front yards with hands on thick hips…

old boarded up houses ‘cross the street…with storefront white washed windows…for rent signs…call this number…everyone lookin’ for a buck…

he spent all day inside his rented room…

somethin’ was wrong…way off…couldn’t tell what it was…just felt different than usual…the air outside was so hot…you’d think the moon was lettin’ off heat…big silver thing in the sky…perfect round ball…we just sat there lookin’ at it…waitin’ on daylight…waitin’ on daylight…

tried to hold your hand…but you wouldn’t let me…tried to kiss you once or twice…you weren’t gonna have anything to do with it…just brushed my advances aside…didn’t say a word…silence…stillness in a quiet night…

and there was all this heat lightning…clouds would glow…it was like watchin’ a movie…pictures in the sky…colored photographs…yellowish turnin’ orange as the night wore on…was like a dream…maybe it was…

you finally spoke…said sorry…sorry that you’d have to leave me…got tired of the bills bein’ behind…tired of bein’ hungry…wanted life to be easier…I just shook my head…didn’t know what to say…I wasn’t like those other men you’d had before…didn’t know how to sell anything…had no skills…just knew how to drive a taxi from one end of town to the other…pickin’ up people at hotels…droppin’ ’em off at the airport…bus station…never made enough to keep you happy…you always wanted more…

so I used to take you on rides…long rides ’round the city…turned off the meter and we’d just drive…listenin’ to music the whole time…Bill Evans…Chet Baker…Bud Powell…we didn’t say a word back then either…didn’t have to…the songs would kinda work as a language ‘tween us…there was an understanding…

you said you wanted to leave…found some other man…some insurance salesman…said he treated you well…brought you flowers and spent money on you…perfumes…dresses…jewelry…I wondered where you got that necklace…

I watched the moon as you walked away…didn’t yell…didn’t try to keep you…just let you go…it’s strange when you know things are over…when you come to that realization that it’d run a course… and now there was nothin’ to be said…nothin’ to be done…decisions had been made…

so I watched the heat lightning…listened to Coltrane…sat there in the car listenin’ to, Lush Life…Billy Strayhorn was right…jazz and cocktails…jazz and cocktails…twelve o’clock tales…

this was one of those…

middle of the night he’d go fishin’…go out to the pier…drop a line or two…sit back in a foldin’ chair and wait…so dark out there you couldn’t even see the bobbers go down…fished by feel…start reelin’ it in the second he felt a tug…somethin’ pullin’…most of the time it’d wind up bein’ a little blue gill…or a crappie…wouldn’t keep ’em…just catch and release…catch and release…

he’d be out there with a twelve pack of beer…drink ’em down one at a time…cans of Schlitz would line up by his tackle box…sweat on the cans would stay awhile…he’d tap the top of one ‘fore he opened it…like thumpin’ a melon…never saw much sense in it…said it’d keep the beer from sprayin’ him…there’d be a slight mist every time he opened ’em…his big hands were always wet…

and he’d hum songs…old country songs…Buck Owens…Hank Williams…words would slip outta his mouth as he nodded his head…hummin’ along to tunes like, Streets Of Bakersfield…, You don’t know me you don’t like me…say you care less how I feel…,the words were sung in hushed tones…,How many of you sit and judge me…walk the streets of Bakersfield…

mornin’ would come and you could find him on the pier passed out…chin down in his chest…hat down over his eyes…momma’d go down there to wake him up…tell him breakfast was ready…help him with his tackle…poles…brought a trash bag along to put the empties in…she wound up carryin’ most of the stuff with him drapped over her shoulders…

summer time we’d sit at that breakfast table together…birds would be chirpin…bull frogs croakin’…coffee pot perculatin’…and the smell of stale beer from his breath…those sounds…those smells…feel like home…

we never talked at the table…Grandpa would still be mumblin’ songs…I’d just and eat my Frosted Flakes and listen…to a man who’d found solace in drunkeness…guess he earned it…

*Streets Of Bakersfield, by Homer Joy.

the Chevrolet station wagon was parked out in the street…it’d sat there for awhile…needed a battery…jumpin’ it just didn’t work anymore…so the old man just let it sit there…collectin’ rust from winter’s punishment and summer’s rain…all it took was a new battery…all it needed…

instead…he took the bus everywhere he went…he’d take it to the day labor place over on Calhoun…stand in line with Mexicans and Blacks…all of ’em waitin’ for some kinda job to be sent out on…some kinda hope for a paycheck at the end of the week…

some would spend that money just as soon as they’d got it…spend it on booze…crack…whores…we all have our vices…he’d spend his at the casino down South…takin’ the bus every Saturday to Anderson so he could play the slots…he’d put in a couple of bucks..hit ten and cash out…he’d do this till he hit a hundred bucks then collect his money and sit down to a buffet dinner by himself…puttin’ the rest in his pocket…he had plans…

kept workin’ and workin’ at the day labor joint…different kinds of jobs…warehouse work…assembly lines…beer trucks…separatin’ trash from recyclables…work that most men would turn their noses up at…but he took it…only twelve bucks an hour for most of the work… sometimes he’d hit it lucky on the beer trucks and drivers would tip him out for a day of liftin’ kegs and wheelin’ cases down cellar stairs…hard work was the only work he knew…

one day he counted his money that’d been savin’…from casino winnings…tips from drivers…little bit of scratch…came up with two thousand bucks…figured that was ‘nough…

and it was on one mornin’ that he didn’t go into work…didn’t show up to stand in line and wait for a job slip…he decided to sleep in…spend money onna battery for the Chevy…pack his bags…and go on a long vacation…extended out to eternity…

he crossed the Ohio line…drove through the buckeye state down towards Youngstown and on into Pennsylvania…bought a bucket of chicken and stayed up all night in a motel room watchin cable television…HBO…STARZ…ESPN…FOX news…kept lookin’ at pictures on the tv with the sound down…a soft mumble…

drove on up to Philly where he had one sandwich at Pat’s and then walked ‘cross the street to Gino’s to try their steak and cheese as well…that’s all he got outta that town…didn’t see the Liberty Bell…didn’t go to any museums…just wanted to try an authentic steak and cheese or two…

parked the wagon in Time’s Square…New York City…went and talked to a pretty girl behind glass…told her ’bout his travels…money he had on him…stories of how life had passed him by…yeah…how life had passed him by…

next mornin’ he was found dead in his car outside of Yonkers…apparently he’d fallen asleep in the wrong neighborhood…killed from a gunshot straight to his heart…killers gottaway with two hundred bucks…all he had left on him…vacations can kill a man…