dmseay

Orioles dance on wet grass. Electric wires stretch across the backyard. Apple trees lined in a row. A bumble bee buzzes by, landing on black-eyed Susan.

These morning meditations, watching nature, breathing in, breathing out. Clearing the mind.

An old friend in Iowa said it’s about mindfulness. Being aware. Weeds sway in the breeze.

Somewhere, a baby cries. His tears wiped away.

Don’t let it slip past you. This moment. This hour.

In morning’s coolness, birds fly and sing. A rusted truck parked in the driveway. Branches cut from a tree. A fence made of wood.

Look around. Sunlight shines on piles of white rocks. A cactus was rained on. Soon, summer’s heat will come.

There used to be a library in town.  But nobody reads anymore. They burned it down. Replaced it with a theater that only shows superhero movies. 

An American flag waves in the breeze. It stands in front of a house on Main Street. A steel pole with a ball atop. Elephant ears planted around it. Soon, autumn will be here.

Don’t let it slip past you. This moment. This hour.

Sunlight came through the trees, shining down on leaves of gold, red, and orange. A stream trickled over rocks; branches floated. Beavers had built a dam.

The father and son set up camp under a tall pine, its needles turning brown, ground wet from the morning dew.

They worked in silence. Dad built a fire pit while the son pitched the tent, taking out pole after pole and placing them strategically, four in the corners and one in the middle.  The boy was pleased with his work.  The father remained quiet.

As the sun went down, wooden stools were placed by a fire pop made with wood the boy had gathered. Still, neither spoke.They just sat by the fire watching flames dance and sparks fly. A cup of coffee was passed back and forth.

I miss mom, the son said.

So do I.

They both looked up at the stars. 

Blankets for curtains; pink with purple hearts. Hung up with nails. Christmas lights hanging on the corners of the ceiling. Some blink on in colors of red, orange, green, and blue. While others lie dead in mid-air. Never replaced. A silver lava lamp sits on the table. There’s a crack in the glass backdoor.

Are you going to roll the dice? she asks. Take a chance? they both laugh. I’ve been waiting on you to make a move all night long. Some boys are scared. Are you scared?

He looks at her and walks around the table to her. The young man places his hand on her blonde hair  and pulls it back, kisses her, and suddenly stops.

She looks up at him. Is that all you got? Hell. I didn’t even feel it. I want something real. Something I won’t forget, she says.

The boy grabs her by the face with both hands and draws her to his lips. Their hands begin to roam each other’s bodies. She stops and begins to giggle.

What’s funny? he asks. 

Reminds me of a movie. Some Clint Eastwood Western.

He never got the girl in a Western.

Did too. Paint Your Wagon.

That’s not a Western. That’s a musical. A very bad musical.

How so?

He can’t sing. Hell, Lee Marvin can sing better than Clint Eastwood and that ain’t saying much.

Kiss me again, she tells him.

Are you going to laugh at me?

I promise I won’t. 

They stand up. He begins to hum the love song, I Still See Elisa. They hold each other and kiss. Neither laughs. They just kiss.

Piles of dirty clothes. Paper plates with pizza crusts on them. Newspapers wadded up in the trashcan. He sits in his easy chair and listens to classical music; Bach softly plays through a tinny speaker.

Noises downstairs. Fire trucks pass with sirens on. An ambulance follows. Bach is drowned out temporarily.  A pipe is lit. Prince Albert in a can.

The old man walks over to the window and looks at the porno shop across the street with its lights blinking and words saying: Peep Shows. Naked Girls. $5. It’s been a long time since he’s talked to a woman.

He looks in his wallet. Four one dollar bills. He sees quarters and nickels in an old coffee can by his cactus. Eagerly, he counts out a buck and fills his pocket with loose change. He sucks on his pipe.

Traffic barely moves. Yellow cabs and Ubers take home young drunks or dump them off at Grand Central Station. Parents in Jersey and Long Island snore loudly. Nights of waiting up are over.

With a walking stick in one hand and the other in his pocket sifting through coins, he crosses 8th Avenue. Cautiously, he opens the porn shop door and is hit with sounds of loud foreign tongues. A sitar is played in the background, and a tenor in Urdu sings out songs from Pakistan. The young dark man behind the counter nods his head to the music while counting out tokens to men in long coats. Spring has not come yet.

Asking for a token, the old man places his bills and silver on the glass case in front of him. The Pakistani scrapes it all up and hands him a token; on one side, a naked woman’s breasts and on the other a curvy ass.

He passes old movies on the shelves, size enhancers, dildos, blow-up dolls, and magazines. A green light flashes in the back where booths are lined up side by side. The floors are slick from mop water and semen.

Inside a screen separates the old man from paradise. A black phone hangs on the wall, an open slot at the bottom for tips, and a machine to place his token in sits to the side. A voice is heard.

Give me a minute, honey, she says. Just one second. He waits patiently. The Pakistani music sounds muffled now. OK baby, put that token in. The screen rises, revealing a skinny black woman in red lingerie. The more you tip, the more I take off, she yells.

The old man says, hello. I can’t tip. Could we just talk? 

How you think I make my money?

Not sure, he says.

Tips honey. You sure you ain’t got no more dollars on you?

I spent my last dollar on the token.

Damn. Well, all you can do is look. I ain’t saying a word. And I ain’t gonna strip for ya old broke ass.

I understand. I just wanted someone to say goodnight to.

Goodnight to?

Yeah. Goodnight.

That’s it? The old man nods his head. There is silence.

Well, goodnight, she says.

Goodnight.

The screen comes down.

When I got there, he was gone. He’d already left. All that remained was his body. Some hollow shell.

Everything was turned off. No  heart monitor, nor oxygen mask, just three children standing by a body once occupied by their dad.

It was strange how he went, the youngest son said. The old man said he felt dizzy and then fell into my arms.

It wasn’t that dramatic, the sister said. He just now died, said the middle child, she stared at the youngest. Just like you. Always putting yourself first.

Stop it, you two, the oldest brother told them. He’s gone. Doesn’t matter when. He’s dead, he let go of the cold hand. I told him before he died that I’d make sure you two were OK, he looked at both of them. And, what do I mean by that? I mean, to make sure there’s no ill will between you. Make sure we all get along. 

There was silence. No one spoke. They bowed their heads. The younger brother and sister stared at each other.

Lord, take our father into your arms, he said. May your love be with him for eternity, the eldest prayed. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

They walked out single-file. Each looked down at the floor. You two take care, he told them. I’ll make arrangements.

No one said, I love you. No one embraced. Just three kids leaving their dad.

We undo these things. Come neatly wrapped with a bow on it. Tear them apart, trying to find what’s inside, he said.

Boy, that’s the truth, she wiped her forehead. Never know what you’re going to find, she said. Could be evil, could be good. You have to open it and find out.

Yeah. Open it. Hard to do that, he smiled. When we’re young, we dive right in. Both feet. No fear.

Fearless.

Yes. Fearless. And as we get older, we get…

Scared. I know. You reach thirty, thirty-five, and you’re frightened, she took a drink of her coffee.

Right.

And it stays that way for a while. Then we get to be around seventy, and we’re ready to open it up again. She lifted her cup. Here’s to us.

Here’s to us. 

Truth. We act like we know the word; it’s meaning. Truth is, we don’t, he said. People don’t know the first thing about truth. We put it in a bottle and sell it on shelves in supermarkets, he said. Not knowing that it’s just one big lie, he smiled. Coke is not the real thing. We are not part of the Pepsi generation. Red Bull gives you wings.  The list goes on and on, he ran his hands through his gray hair.

And, where do we seek truth? the old man continued. In books, art, religion, spirituality, the Grand Canyon, the Hudson River, an over the shoulder caught fly ball; robbing the batter at the last second, he laughed.

We say we seek truth, but we don’t. We look for something to cover our asses. Protect and promote our stories. Our lies, he lit a cigarette.  And when our lies can no longer protect us, where do we turn to? Confession. It’s the only way we have solace. Otherwise, we are mad. Quite mad. The lunatics in Bellevue have never confessed. I know. For I am one.

Starving. A piece of bread. Glass of water. Faucet drips. Dirty floors, walls with black markings on them, a light bulb hangs from the ceiling. 

Bread is stale. He chews on it slowly. Watches two mice fornicating in the corner. He misses her.

She wasn’t anything. She was everything. They walked beside the East River. Would hold hands. Old weathered hands. They read each other’s palms. Lines cut short. Fingernails bitten. Spit out. Pigeons followed. 

The mouth he kissed was small. Thin lips. Accented by red lipstick. A mustache was powdered over. He didn’t care. Love goes beyond that.

They sat on a bench and watched boats go by. Lights blinking on them at night. Looked like moving houses in the suburbs at Christmas time. He held her hand tighter.

It’s amazing what time does. We wait for it to pass. And soon, it’s gone.

I don’t see you anymore, she said. Your curly black hair and brown eyes are gone. Erased. Freckles on your forearms no longer exist. I’m done with you, she said to the blank picture frame. Her dog cuddled up beside her.

You’re out there somewhere, the redhead looked out the window. No telling where, she closed the blinds. Could be in some bar. Drinking them down with the boys. Talking about conquests and baseball.

Might be in some whorehouse in Albuquerque. In bed with some Mexican woman for a cheap price.

Maybe at church asking for forgiveness, she looked at a spoon ring in her ashtray, mixed in with pennies and dimes.

I wonder what you look like these days. Did you get that tattoo you were always talking about ? The Irish flag on your bicep. Or was that just talk? she laughed. Poured herself a cup of coffee. 

This life is crazy. You’re gone, and I still talk to you. Can you hear me?