dmseay

We deteriorate, he said. We get older, and we get fatter. No longer thin. Our good looks leave us. Fleeting moments. Years go by. We’re not what we used to be. Ben lit a cigarette that he rolled. You think you’re the same as when I met you?

I don’t know, she said. When I met you, I was a kid.

You’re still a kid.

Where the hell is Frank?

He’s gone. You know Frank. He won’t be back for days.

He said he’d be back….

Says one thing. Does another.

I need my shit.

You got money. Go get some.

Right. I should.

What do you want Meg?

Don’t know anymore. I’ll do anything just not to feel. To be numb. I just want to be numb.

When we met, you had higher aspirations. You wanted to be a Rockette, he laughed. You’re five foot nothing.

Five foot one asshole.

Watch your mouth. I know how to keep you in line. Respect . Huh? You respect me? I took you out of that town to here. You owe me.

I know, Ben. I know.

You don’t know when you got a good thing. You’re like that Greek. What’s his name? The one who flew to close to the sun.

Do you know what you’re talking about?

Ben gets up from sitting on his milk crate. He confronts Meg and grabs her by the throat.

What did I just tell you?

She can’t talk. Her face turns red. Ben laughs. He lets go and pushes her into a wall. She falls to the floor.

Icarus. The boys name was Icarus. I knew I knew it. Don’t fly to close to the sun, Meg. It’ll burn you every time.

Semis lined up. Smells of diesel and gasoline. The hum of big rigs. Motors going past midnight. Women in tight sweaters and short skirts travel from truck to truck. Some looking for a buck or two while others ask for a ride heading east or west. Some have visions of New York, and then there are those with hearts set on Hollywood. They want to be movie stars. But not Meg. She had dreams of being a Rockette. Her mother took her to see the high kicking ladies when she was a sixth grader; that’s when her dream started.

The young girl practiced kicks in front of a mirror every night in her room. She’d extend both arms as if around another dancer’s shoulders and kick until she could kick no more. Truth is, she could barely raise her legs in the air. But that did not stop the five foot one inch girl from wanting to pursue her dream. A dream that was her mother’s as well.

I wanted to be a Rockette,her mom told her when drinking in the afternoon.  But I met your father, and the next thing you know, you were born, mom said in anger. I take the blame for it. No one’s fault but mine, she cried, pouring another glass of cheap red. No one’s fault but mine.

Meg sat in the diner of the truck stop. Remembered the words her momma said. Go fetch your dream, mom told her before she left. Go fetch your dream.

Alone. Broke. Waiting for a miracle at the edge of town. Waiting for a ride to take her away. And that’s when he sat down beside her at the counter. A tall, skinny man much older. Old enough to have spawned her. 

My name’s Ben. You want a cup of coffee?

Where’s Frank?

You told him to leave.

Right. I don’t remember.  Ain’t that funny? I don’t even remember my name.

Meg. Your name is Meg.

I know that. Just kidding. But one of these days I won’t. Someday, I’ll forget everything.  My name. Where I come from. Why I’m here. I mean, how I got here. In this place.

Yeah. I suppose.

Where’s Frank?

Probably ran into the city. Probably sleeping in some other crack house. Maybe behind a dumpster. Could be still awake. Running around town on the subway. Going back and forth on the 6. Who knows. It’s Frank. He might show up. He might not.

I remember now. I told him to bring me back something.

What?

Anything. I’m starting to feel sick. Need something to calm me down. Make me feel better. 

You never feel better. Not really. Junk gets in you. You don’t feel anything, period. At least I don’t. I haven’t felt anything in years.

Yeah. Me neither.

You’re still young.

How old am I?

You’re young.

OK. I’m twenty-something. I think. Never had a birthday party.

Ben rubs his thumb and pointer finger together. You know what that is? he asked. Meg looks at him, puzzled. That’s the world’s smallest violin. Playing just for you. What do you want? A medal? He looks at her. Listen. All of us are broken. We’re the land of misfit toys. We’ve been broke for quite some time. Since we were kids, Ben said. You got nothing. I got nothing. Frank never has anything. And yet, we’re still alive.

I don’t understand a word you just said. Tiny violins. Land of misfit toys. Broken since childhood.

Think about it. We all left home early. Ran away from something to something. Wound up here. And this is where we’ll stay.

I guess.

Go make some money for us. Go on now. Bring something home. Don’t be a Frank.

At first, she was scared. Frightened by the man next to her. I won’t bite, he said. Roll over on your side. She turned her blonde hair away from him. Now scoot next to me, he told her. At first, she resisted. Frank placed his arms around Meg, and both laid there straight as a board. Loosen up. Come on now. Make me feel like you care.

Meg stared at the wall. She could feel him unbutton her jeans. She continued staring.

I’m not going to hurt you, Frank said. Not in a million years. All you gotta do is just lie there next to me. I just want to feel your skin, he said, pulling on her sweater. There you go. There you go.

Got anything for me? she asked.

Like what?

Smoke. Crack. Some brown shit. Maybe some wine.

Let me lie here with you, and when we wake up, I’ll get you something.

So, no. You don’t have anything.

I got some food. Unless Ben ate it all.

Get out of here, she started kicking like a mule. Go on. Get.

I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get some sleep.

You know the rules.

Yeah. I know the rules. I’m short this month.

What? You gotta mortgage to pay? Get out and don’t come back until you get something.

Frank got off the mattress. He looked at her back. Her neck, in particular.

Whatcha looking at?

Nothing. Just nothing.

A broom and dustpan leaning against a wall. Shattered glass on the floor. Broken windows.

He examines the scene. Looks at stones in the corner of the living room. Stares at the broken window. Somebody did this, he says. Sonofabitch. Can’t have anything nice.

A cat meows. The house is drafty. Rooms down the hall with no doors. She sleeps in one of them on an old mattress they found in a dumpster. He walks down the hall to check on her. She’s out. Snoring. Nothing wakes her.

Meg, he says. Wake up, Meg. He wants to shake her but remembers the rule; no touching.

Come on now, Ben says in a loud tone. She continues to sleep and rolls over on her side. He quietly walks back to the front room. All that glass waiting to be swept. She should help, he mumbles. She should help.

Ben begins sweeping the glass into a pile. He tries to bend over to sweep all of it into the dustpan. He catches his breath. The fat man can’t bend. He sits in a torn, easy chair facing a radio. He sighs.

You’d think people would leave us well enough alone, he says.

The front door opens. Its a young man, Frank. He’s been up all night on a crack high. Running around the city, collecting food in trashcans along Seventh Avenue and other streets where restaurants throw away leftovers from patrons, scraps of steaks, rolls half eaten, wilting Caesar salads.

Did you score? Ben asks.

Yeah. Got all kinds of shit.

Did you smoke all the crack?

Well….

You did, or you didn’t.  Which is it?

I did, he says.

Sonofabitch. Get out of here. Get out.

What?

There’s a price to pay for being here.

That price is crack?

In this case, yes.

I got food. Look. He opens a plastic bag with his stash inside of it. Ben examines the goods and grabs a half eaten  loaf  of French bread.

Got any butter? he asks.

No.

What’s bread without butter?

Be happy with what you have. I always say.

Ben grabs the bag from Frank. He sits back in the easy chair. Eating the three course meal.

Is she here?

Yeah.

I don’t have any money.

No money. No crack. She’s not going to be happy.

What if I just lay next to her? Feel her beside me. Hear her breathing.

That’s gonna cost you.

You’ll get your crack when I wake up.

How? You got no money.

I have ways. I have ways.

Right. We all do.

Frank lays beside the thin woman on the dirty mattress. He holds Meg and hears Ben humming a song by Lou Reed. Ben mumbles the words. Sweet Jane….sweet Jane….till he dozes off.

The morning breeze blows through broken windows.

It goes on, he said. The week ends. The week begins. A new year. Forget about the old one. All those mistakes. That is, you try and forget, but you can’t.  It’s impossible. 

They say you learn from your past experiences. Your faults. Wise men do. How many of us are wise? he asked.

It goes on, he said. This blundering through life. Do you have all the answers? I sure as hell don’t. I thought I had it figured out. But, something would come along and bite me in the ass. Story of my life.

I’m not making excuses. My sins are great. Lies. A life of lies. God told Moses not to lie. Moses told all of us. On stones. Written out. Don’t lie, don’t steal, no adultery, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Just a few of them. There were ten. You know that, he laughs. Yes, Father. You know that. The priest nods  his head.

I’m not even Catholic. I just like the fancy clothes the cardinals wear. The bishops. Priests on Sundays. I like the candles.

I was raised Protestant. My mom and dad would have a shit fit if they knew I was talking to you. He smiles.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

You are forgiven.

That’s good to hear. I was worried I was going to Hell tonight. As soon as they hit that switch, I’ll be gone to be with Jesus. Ain’t that right, Father?

Yes, my son.

A lava lamp giving off a blue and green light sits on an empty bookshelf . A small black and white TV with rabbit ears on top is turned on, but there is no sound; just people moving their lips. A weatherman points at maps and cold fronts. He chews tobacco and watches while he spits black liquid into a Styrofoam cup with the letters JL written on it.

The old man sits in a metal chair with his sock feet resting on a milk crate. He continues chewing and spitting  while he now watches a brunette in a sweater deliver the news. His eyes are glued to the set as lines run across the screen. He hits the television with the palm of his hand.

I’ll bitch slap you, he says. Come on now. The lines go away. A commercial for a Ford truck comes on, riding over rough terrain, a man and a woman in the front seat, looking for adventure.

Wish I had one of those trucks, he says after he spits. I’d do anything for one of them. He takes the wad of chewing tobacco out of his mouth and places it in the cup. Goddamn I wish I had a truck. 

Next, a commercial for Miller beer comes on. People living the high life. Champagne of beers, he says, checking his pockets for money, only pulling out a quarter. Can’t have no Miller with this, he states. Never enough. 

He starts looking around the room  for change and bills. He finds pennies and  nickels under the bookshelf.

How’d you get there? He starts counting the copper and silver. Three dollars. That’s it? You can’t get anything for three bucks these days, he tells himself. Maybe a forty ounce. Maybe.

Another wad of Red Man goes into his mouth up against his right jaw. He sucks on the juices. Spits. And notices the television is on the fritz again. He kicks the side of it. He kicks again. And again. He is fighting the TV set. He starts to punch it. The old man hits the screen with his fist. The screen shatters. Broken pieces of glass on the carpeted floor.

Well, ain’t that something, he says. Nothing ever works. Nothing ever works.

Potted plants, some growing wildly, out of control, are aligned in front of windows and glass sliding doors.

The couple, man and woman, sleep on a hideaway bed with no sheets, no blankets. They use their coats for covers. Metal springs poke through a yellow foam mattress with  brown stains on it in the middle. No pillows. Man and woman use a stack of jeans piled and wadded up to rest their heads on.

Outside, it’s thundering. A shade of  blue light from lightning flickers off and on in the room. The couple wakes as rainwater drips from the ceiling.

Grab a bucket, she says.

We don’t have a bucket. We have an old Folgers can.

Well, get that.

He tiptoes over a water soaked  green dingy rug. It’s dark.

Where’s that can? he asks himself.

What?

No one’s talking to you. Turn the lamp on, he yells.

With water everywhere? That’s smart. Why don’t we just light a match and set the whole fucking place on fire.

He smiles. Yeah. Why don’t we?

Did you check the bathroom?

Not yet. I’ve been talking to you.

Well, I think it’s in the bathroom.

Why would a Folgers can be in the bathroom?

That’s where it leaked last time, she tells him.

Well, it’s probably leaking there again.

You think so?

Don’t get smart. You know, you could look too.

Right. But I’m having too much fun watching you.

More blue light from the lightning comes into the room. The man’s now down on his hands and knees crawling on the wet tile floor.

I think it’s time we moved, he says. Someplace dry. Arizona. West Texas.  New Mexico. Maybe we could cross the river and live in Mexico. It doesn’t rain there.

Sure it does.

Rarely. Mostly dry.

Where are we going to live?

I don’t know. I don’t know. Just an idea, he laughs.

You and your ideas. It was your idea to live in this place.

We don’t pay rent now, do we?

This is not what I wanted, she says. I had bigger dreams when I was a kid. Aspirations. 

Like what?

Be a movie star. Live in Hollywood. 

That town is dry.

Sure. Are you listening to me? You don’t hear. Do you? I had dreams. Visions. I tried to manifest that shit and it never worked out. Now, here I am. Wet and hungry. Tired.  Poor. Did you find the can yet?

She hears the doors slide open. Sees his outline stepping outside. It has stopped raining. 

An old alarm clock radio with flashing red numbers sits on the nightstand. Electricity went out a few weeks ago. He can’t figure out how to reset the time.

Music plays from a tinny speaker; overnight jazz on WKCR. He lights a cigarette and listens to Coltrane play Central Park West. The song reminds him of living in his Dodge when he first got to town; parking his car under streetlights, locking the door, reclining in the front seat, and sleeping with one eye open as vultures and vampires pass-by.

His Bronx room cost $700 a month, taking most of his SSI. He is forced to sell his food stamps at the bodega on the corner at Hunts Point. Two hundred in stamps gets you $120. The skinny vagabond figures cash in pocket is better. You can’t buy booze with a Snap card.

He sits on his bed listening as now the music has switched to Monk playing Round Midnight. He opens a warm beer and laughs. This is living, he says. No wife, no family, just books and WKCR. It’s all he ever wanted.

Love soured her. She thought she had him. But she didn’t. He led her on. That’s what she thought. And then left her; went back to his wife, his kids, a house in the suburbs. These things always go that way.

He told her he loved her. So many times, he told her that. Like a broken record. His voice even skipped when he said it. With crackles and pops. Scratches. He said his word was true, and she believed him. They always do. And then it’s too late. Hearts are broken. Threats are made.  Damaging words. 

The woman refused to let him go. She tried everything to keep him. Told him she was pregnant. She was going to have his child. He gave her money. Some things can’t be bought.

But there was no child. She lied. Imagine that. A scorned woman lying.

He never saw it coming. Cheaters cheat and liars lie. Both will do whatever it takes to win. Love becomes a competition. Man and woman becoming fierce rivals. Till one day, it’s over. And people do what they gotta do.

The body was found in a pile of ash. Two bullet holes in her chest. He thought he could make it go away by burning the evidence. He thought.

And now he sits in this bar telling me this story. They never go away, he said. They never go away.

She haunts you?

Yeah. She haunts me.