dmseay

The cacti are dying. Some say they can live forever without any water. That’s not true. Depends on the type.

A Christmas cactus needs water every four to six weeks.  Touch the soil. If it’s dry, water it. Use the tips of your fingers and place them in the dirt. Does the soil stick? If yes, then let it go a while longer without water. Do you hear me? he asked.

Yes. I’m listening, she said.

Go on. Touch the black soil.

I don’t want to. You do it.

Why won’t you?

Because. I’m tired of being told what to do. Tired of completing your tasks, she lit a cigarette.

That’s not good for the cacti.

It’s not good for me either. She blew out smoke. You care more about them than you do me. You got me coming and going.

Don’t argue around the plants. They don’t like that. They like classical music. Bach. Mozart.  Music from a different time.

They don’t like country western?

You’re stereotyping. Gabe and Grace like classical. I raised them on it.

She laughed and picked up Gabe and threw him against the wall. There. I killed him. I killed one of your cacti. Watch this. She picked up Grace, opened the door, and tossed her outside in the cold snow.

She’ll die out there. Murderer. I’m calling the police.

Why? Cuz I killed your plants.

They’ll come back. They’ll come back and haunt you the rest of your days.

Right.

He put on his coat. Picked up Gabe and walked out the door.

Where you going?

To bury them.

Bury?

They were living creatures. Never harmed anyone. And you killed them.

You’re fucking crazy.

Yes. That has been established.  But in the spring, they’ll return. You watch. It’ll be curtains for you.

You’re nuts.

Spring time. Spring time.

Are you scared? Afraid? she asked. I look at you, and I see fear. Maybe it’s an anxiety you got. It’s like you don’t want to be here. You want to be somewhere else. A thousand miles away. Maybe Texas or Pennsylvania. You’re just not here, Paula looked at Mike, his head down, looking at the metal table. She pushed a coffee cup towards him. He pushed it back. You don’t want any? he shook his head; gray hair tossed. I don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know what to do. She buttoned her morning coat. Limped over to the counter and poured another cup of coffee. Sure you don’t want any?

No.

Go get some sleep.

Can’t.

Why?

Not tired.

Paula took a sip and added cream.  The paper should be here. That boy comes later and later, it seems.

I like to read the obituaries, Mike said. See whose ahead of me. Or, maybe I’m ahead of them. They both laughed. I’ll take that coffee now.

I don’t think we go anywhere, he said. Heaven. Hell. These places don’t exist. They were made up by people in order to keep them on their best behavior. But apparently, that hasn’t worked, the drunk said to the young man beside him. Everybody is out to get you. Catch you in the act.  Lying, cheating, killing, fornicating, these are all human acts. By and large, we’re a terrible species.

So you have no faith? he asked, swiveling on the leather barstool.

Sure, I do.

In what? Not God. That is obvious.

I have faith in my cat. His name is Ted. He comforts me on this long walk through life.

One day, he will die.

The old drunk took a sip of his beer. He rolled a cigarette on the wooden bar top with initials carved into it. Hearts with arrows in them. And the name, Ted. The drunk pointed to it. The young buck laughed.

See, he said. Ted will live forever. Like the David or Mona Lisa. He’ll always be there for me. He’s there for all of us.

Waking up to Charlie Parker on WKCR. Heating up cold coffee in a microwave. Marmalade spread on a stale piece of bread.

Above is a shelf of books; Ulysses,  Moby Dick, On The Road, Tropic of Cancer and Capricorn, The Air-conditioned Nightmare, with some Joan Didion leaning on her side. I’ve read all of these twenty times and then some. Torn pages, yellowing covers, bent and shuffled like a deck of cards, too far gone for a used book store to take. Wishing I had some money, honey.

There is quiet in the morning. The screaming and yelling from last night has stopped. There is no change on the nightstand. Rent’s been paid. Let’s see what Ishmael is up to. Moby Dick; it’s not about a fish.

I read under lamplight. Morning sun rises over the Bronx. My stomach growls. Coffee tastes like diseased piss and mold discovered on my bread. How desperate am I? Throw the piece of wheat out the window for the pigeons down below.

Now Joe Henderson is blowing magic. I keep it turned down, wondering what Ishmael’s tattoos look like. The hunger presses on.

Nothing under the bed. Not a dollar nor a penny. Empty bottles from weeks ago lie there with caps off.

A pen and paper sit on the desk next to a wax candle, rosary beads, pull tabs from beer cans, and a five dollar bill hiding underneath Mamet. My day can begin with an egg sandwich.

I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Tomorrow begins winter. Leaves are gone. Bare tree limbs crackle in cold winds, snap off, and kids use them for swords to defeat dragons.

I watch passers-by. Old and young couples holding gloved hands. Some are smiling. Others march forward into snow; wishing they were in Florida.

Birds eat stale bread lying on brown grass. Outdated hamburger buns and pieces of pita with mold on them are swallowed bit by bit. They fly off in a flutter.

Winter comes tomorrow. It’s time for a long nap.

Watch where you walk, he said. The cats aren’t trained. They just go wherever they want; do whatever they want. One of them, I think it was the brown and white one, pissed on my pillow. He and I had some words, he told his guest.

Boxes were all over the old man’s trailer. Cardboard boxes containing Christmas lights, old 45’s, albums, Hustler magazines, pots, and pans. He’d never put things away since he moved into the trailer park some ten years ago. He just let things stack up. Piles of unpaid bills on the coffee table. A rusted coffee maker. Plastic cups with piss in them.

Maybe I should keep a tidier ship, he said while wiping his nose on his sleeve. I can’t be held responsible for what these cats have done, he said.

Folks from the church want to help you. Your boys said you needed some help. Do you? she asked.

My boys?

Yes. They go to our church. They said you needed help.

What kind of church?

Evangelical. Christian.

Evangelical? Those boys were raised Catholics. Evangelical?

Yes. Your boys have been born again.

Born again? What was wrong with the first time?

She laughed. I’ll send some men from the church over to help you clean the place. Make it better for you. Would you like that?

Born again?

Yes. They are Christians. And they are fine boys. Good men.

I never see them anymore. They never come by. Not since I moved in here. Used to come by the old place. When their mom was alive. That was a while ago. He sat in his easy chair. Born again? People do that, huh?

Everyday. Every day, they come to Christ.

I think I’ll stay home. You got a cigarette?

I don’t smoke.

I sure could use one. Take all this in. My boys are born again?

Yes sir. 

Well, I’ll be.

Is that the best you can come up with? he asked. This story about being in love and then out of love; unable to make up your mind. Your teen years have long passed you by, he told her. We’re of that age where we know. Right? We’re sure of these things.

I don’t know, she said. I feel for you, I really do. But I don’t know. My mind wanders. One day, all is good, next I’m thinking of hopping on a bus and getting out of here, she said.

Where to?

Don’t know.

You keep saying that.

What?

Don’t know. What do you know? The waitress brought over a pot of coffee. She filled both cups. Let’s look at some facts. You’re over fifty. At thirty, you can take on anything. Fifty? Different ball game. Number two. What’re you going to do for money? You can’t hustle anymore. I mean, you could, but who’d want you. You’re chasing a dream, dear. All your life you been chasing dreams. Time to stay put.

I hear this voice telling me to get on that bus. Saying, pick a place, and go.

Be careful. Those voices will kill you.

And you won’t?

The pimp laughed. He reached out for her hand. Stick with me. Stick with me. Haven’t I always taken care of you? She nodded her head. Damn right I have. He checked his watch. Drink up. We gotta get going. Jeopardy’s coming on.

Dog shit on the sidewalk. Hookers walking the streets. Dealers dealing. Thieves stealing. Mothers mugging. A cruiser passes by.

A kid stands on the corner smoking cigarettes and drinking a Yahoo. Summer was done hours ago. Maybe autumn will change our tune.

There used to be peace in the city come fall. With changing of  leaves, people’s attitudes changed as well.

A beauty was all over town. Suddenly, the guy who was going to kill you in August now wants to be your best friend in October. Count your blessings.

The kid crushes his smoke with his boot and throws the glass bottle to the concrete, breaking it into bits. He pulls out a bottle of cough syrup and downs it in one continuous gulp. Steady, boy. Steady.

Now it’s summer all the time in New York. The heat and the smell are too much to stand. Everyone is angry. It’s a high of 65 round Thanksgiving. Christmas will soon be here. Don’t look for any brotherly love or good tidings. Those days are gone.

The kid jumps the subway turnstile while a cop takes a nap. He examines a pocket knife his father gave him. Looks around the platform and sees an old lady who reminds him of his mother. The knife goes back into his pocket. 

Autumn will end soon.

She doesn’t know, he said. She thinks she does, but she doesn’t.

You keep secrets? Jimmy asked.

How do you mean?

Secrets. Not fully exposing yourself.  She sees only skin. Not the bone or muscle, just skin. Jimmy drank his whiskey shot down. He ordered two more. Drink, he said. Go on. You’re wasting good alcohol. Robert Paul looked at him.

You think she sees right through me?

They all do. It’s their job. Like a detective on a case, Jimmy drank down another shot.  I’m two ahead of you. Come on now.

So, she knows.

Yes. Them, she, they know everything.  You can only hide for so long.

And then? Robert Paul asked.

They make a choice. They decide. Your two cents ain’t worth much.

Robert Paul put his jacket on. Drank down a shot, then the other. Shook Jimmy’s hand and wished him goodnight.

Where you going?

Not sure. Scared to go home.

Cause of what I said?

Yeah.

Robert Paul. There are always exceptions.

A pickup starts across the street. Engine has trouble turning. Smoke coming out of the tailpipe.

He scrapes frost off the windshield and side windows. It makes a crackling sound. There are voices.

Just bring him out, the kid says to his partner. We’ll put him here in the back. You got him covered? The young man nods his head and goes back inside the trailer. Morning sunlight peeks through clouds. The kid places his hands inside pockets and waits.

Could you give me a hand? his partner says, struggling with the body over his shoulder. The kid starts to laugh.

He don’t weigh nothing but a buck and a quarter, the kid says. A line of blood appears from the door to the snow-covered gravel driveway. The kid kicks the snow and tries to make blood disappear. Black and white mixed with traces of red.

The two boys throw the old man’s body in the bed of the pickup. They cover the bed and body with a yellow plastic tarp. They jump in the front seat of the Ford. The kid shifts into drive, and back tires begin to spin.

Come on now, kid says. Damn it. Get a shovel and dig us out, he tells his partner. Go on now. We gotta get out of here.

Kid puts all he’s got to the pedal. The other boy digs around the wheel. Snow and mud kick up in his face.

The wheel now moves with traction. He throws the shovel to the side and jumps back in the truck; blowing on his raw red hands.

I close the curtains.