dmseay

There’s not a prayer in the world that could bring you back to me, he said. Long time ago it ended, the old man pondered. Must’ve been thirty years ago when we called it quits. Two best friends turning into individuals hating each other.

Humans are cruel, he lit a cigarette, popped open a beer. We lie to one another. Cheat each other out of what true love really is. We don’t really know what true love is. Do we? he looked out the window. We just guess and go along. Guess and go along. Making mistakes along the way, children were swinging on swingsets across the street.

The old man felt his belly. It was getting big, round. His chest drooped. Skin tags were starting to appear. He watched the children play. And, he remembered what that was like. To play until sundown. Having mom call him in for dinner. Learning how to craft a sentence at school. Dealing with heart-break for the first time.

You think you’re fine, he mumbled. Think you’re on top of the world. A kiss in the hallway by the lockers, movies on Friday nights, parking under trees, all part of the process, he laughed. And then one day it’s gone. She’s gone. They’re gone. All the loves you ever had; gone. He put out his cigarette and drank his last sip of beer. Closed the shades. And turned out the lights. Another night alone.

There’s no warmth in February. The sun shines sometimes, but, the cold air takes over. Temperatures get around zero degrees and stay there for days on end. Cars drive by and exhaust pours out of their tailpipes. Snow lays frozen on the streets, turning gray and then into black; sidewalks have salt lines marked on them.

Little kids still hold hands in a line on their way to school; coats zipped up, hats stand tall with fury balls on top. Sports teams patches on the front of them; Bears, Eagles, Colts, some with Hoosiers knitted on in big red letters. They yell and laugh outside my window at seven in the morning as the light makes it’s way through. I wonder if my Christmas cactus is getting enough sun? It droops and there are leaves falling off. Some of the kids point at it as they stroll on by, looking inside my apartment; I say boo. They giggle and run along. Little feet in brown boots tied up with red laces. The Catholic church bell rings. Another day has officially begun.

The weather man says it will continue cold. No snow. Just cold. An Arctic burst of air coming down on the town we live in, covering the whole state. There is no warmth in February.

The couple stood in front of the bright shiny sculpture piece in Millennium Park on a cold winter’s day looking at themselves in various poses. They laughed and like so many Chicogoans took selfies in front of the piece everyone calls, “The Bean.” However, the actual name for the mirrored piece is, Cloud Gate, named by the artist Anish Kapoor.

This young couple was joined by many other people taking pictures and looking at themselves in the mirror. There was a diversity of folks admiring the piece, or , admiring themselves, but, the one thing that stood out was they were all American. At least the majority of them confessed to be when asked.

American. Yes, very American. We as a nation are obsessed with looking at ourselves. We pose, we smile, we cry, we look sexy in front of our phones, and we see ourselves for what we really are; self-absorbed fools. And, we can’t wait to send out pictures of ourselves to the world -wide audience we’ve created on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram and so on.

But, is this Kapoor’s fault? Did he want to show us for what we really are? Or, did he want to create a piece of art that reflects the various personalities that make up a city? Not sure. All I can say is, is this art? Yes. Do I have to like it? No.

His neighbor had hedge clippers. Long sharp scissors that cut through leaves and branches. The neighbor’s yard was neatly kept. Trees trimmed, grass cut, flowers bloomed in the spring, grew throughout summer. It was as if he was showing off; a yard, house, beautiful.

And, in the winter time the neighbor’s driveway and sidewalk was cleared of snow and ice. Rock salt was poured out onto the concrete. People could walk on the strip in front of the neighbor’s house. The old man’s sidewalk was full of frozen snow and ice. Folks walked in his yard. Footprints in straight lines till they got to the neighbor’s.

The neighbor cleaned it all with a snow blowing machine. The old man had never seen anything like it. He was reduced to a shovel which he stopped using years ago. Same was true with the hedge clippers and the lawn mower. He just didn’t care anymore. Maybe he never did.

Every year the grass would grow. Weeds reached the clouds. And the neighbor’s yard would look immaculate. The old man would sit inside his house; waiting. Just waiting. For his turn to have a mansion in the sky.

Notes laid on the wooden desk. A candle, old bus tickets to Gary, Indiana, a coffee mug with a picture of an old Victorian house on it, some torn up Gatorade bottle with water in it, a small stone he held in his right palm during times of stress, all laying out on the desk in front of him. The old man examined each object.

The candle smelled of chocolate when it burned. A Mr. Goodbar to be exact. That was his father’s favorite candy bar. He used to keep stacks of them in the desk drawer. When he died the old man found three or four of the peanut filled chocolate a quarter way eaten. The yellow wrapper torn down the sides just a bit. He sat in his office all day long drawing blueprints and eating chocolate bars; as a kid and as a young man, the old man was never allowed in his father’s office. It was a secret place. The wife was never allowed in there either. There was a sign on the door that said, DO NOT DISTURB. And he meant it.

When the old man took over the house, he did not move an item from his dad’s office. He kept it just as it was when he died on that day back in 2017. The old man kept looking at the tickets to Gary. He wondered what there was in Gary. As far as he knew his father had no connection to Gary. But then he remembered a fight his parents had one night. The dad said he was going to be gone a few days. Said he’d be back the following week. Told her it was business. Funny thing, he never took the car on these business trips. Always took the Greyhound. At least that’s what all these old tickets said. And, why would he hold onto them?

The fight between the two parents went on till three in the morning. The mother cried most of the time. She was convinced he was having an affair. And, maybe he was. All these tickets to Gary, Indiana. The old man let em sit there. Didn’t touch them. He regarded them as holy; the last thing the father was looking at before he died. The last thing he touched.

In his will, there was nothing made out to anyone from Gary. Nothing was given away to anybody outside the family. The old man got the house and all that was in it. Being the only son and the mother dying years before, it seemed like the logical thing to do. And even though the house had four rooms in it, the old man spent all his days and nights in his dad’s office; eating Mr. Goodbars and looking over tickets to Gary, Indidana.

She called herself a showgirl. Others would say she was an exotic dancer, or, a stripper. Whatever you call her, the old man was crazy about her. He’d spend all of his social security money down at Brandy’s watching her on afternoon shifts. Tipping her a dollar at a time. She’d shake her large breasts in his face and he was all smiles. Her long brunette hair would cover his gray head as she placed her tattooed arms on his shoulders. Bending over then turning around so he could see her round ass. He sat there in silence. Just looking- on. A beer in front of him that he sipped on.

When she came off stage she made it a point to talk to the old man before making her rounds. They’d talk about all kinds of things. Short conversations. She’d ask him how his boy was? Was he surviving the summer’s heat? The tall dancer would briefly play with his hair, kiss his forehead, then move on to the next table.

He kept an eye on her. Watched while she sat in men’s laps, doing back flips, grinding. The old man was real jealous of this. Wished he had the money to spend on special treatment. He’d sigh when he saw her take men back behind soft red curtains. God only knew what she was doing to em back there, he thought. Or, what they were doing to her. He knew she got completely naked. The sign outside said, All Nude. He’d like to see that.

But, he had a budget. Everyday except Sunday he’d take twenty dollars to the club. Buy one beer and the rest went to her. Used to be in his younger days he’d tip twenties for a lap dance. Go away at night leaving his wife at home to make his lunch for the next day. Leaving his son to do homework on his own. The old man would get in late back then and tell his wife he was playing poker with the boys. Or, had to work late; over time. She was not fooled. She knew he was up to no good. Found reciepts in his pockets when she did laundry. She’d laugh. Said to herself, As long as he comes home. As long as he comes home.

The old man’s wife passed away a few years back. Had the funeral out on Crescent Road. A preacher spoke and they sang The Old Rugged Cross. Then they prayed for her soul. The old man didn’t shed a tear. His mind was preoccupied. Thinking about the dancer at Brandy’s. He went there after the service. He told the dancer he’d buried his wife that day. Said, Funny thing though. I couldn’t stop thinking of you. She smiled, her orange skin filled with glitter. I know that sounds terrible, but, it’s true, he told her. The dancer kissed his forehead and moved onto the next table.

You have no business talking to me like that, the kid said. You just sit there and keep your mouth shut, he told him. I don’t need any advice from you. Your days of telling me what to do are over, the kid said to the old man. Just sit there and be quiet, he said, pointing the gun at him. Don’t get any ideas, kid looked out the trailer’s window. I’ve been onto you for a long time. My whole life, he said. I know where you’ve been. Know where you’re going at night. You thought you were smart. I knew. Mom knew. We all knew. Telling us stories the whole time. Lies. Great big whoppers. So now just sit there and be quiet.

I don’t have to take this, the old man said.

You don’t have much of a choice, the boy moved in closer with the rifle. A buckshot was in the barrel. How many times did you cheat on her?

Well…

I’ll tell you. All the time. Couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.

Now hold on a minute. That ain’t right, the old man stammered.

I said sit down.

I’m telling you. You got it all wrong. I provided for this family God damn it. Gave it everything I had….

Enough.

I’m just saying. I took my responsibilities seriously. I loved my family. Might not have shown it to you physically. But, the money was always there.

Look where we live damn you. Look. It was never there. You asked me for money. You old drunk. I should just shoot you right now.

Why don’t you?

Maybe I will. Maybe, he held the gun tighter. This some kind of joke to you? Some kind of laugh riot? he placed the gun to the old man’s head.

Now wait, dad said. Just you wait. I want to die in a state of grace. Give me that chance. Just give me that chance.

On the count of three…

Lord I am a sinner…

One…

I have sinned against you…

Two….

I have sinned against others….

Three…

He quit. Quit trying to track her down. Some said he should’ve stopped years ago; a wasted life. Others said you do what’s in your heart; she was in his.

They stopped talking a long time ago. He used to call her in the middle of the night. She said she was living in Bloomington, Illinois at the time. Then she told him she’d headed out West. Said she was living in California. Around Big Sur. Sleeping in different beds every night to make ends meet. Told him she had countless clients. Men who paid her well. Much better than what she was making on the phone. Talking to complete strangers about God knows what. These men she said knew her. Took care of her. He wished he had that opportunity in life.

So without much money in his pockets he took off for Big Sur. Had just enough cash to get him to Colorado. Lived on the streets of Denver for awhile. Waking up at four in the morning to do day labor. That’s when she told him her luck was running out in Big Sur. Said the men she was involved with were growing tired of her. And, she was getting older. Crow’s feet had set in.

The old man told her to meet him in Denver. He talked real pretty to her on the phone. Told her he’d leave tomorrow for California if she’d just tell him where. She hung up on him. He tried calling her back, but, she wouldn’t answer. Then she changed her number. That’s when he went crazy. Crazy with love.

In the middle of the night he got a phone call a couple of years later. It was her calling from Portland, Oregon. Asked if he could send her some money. Didn’t give her address. Just told him to wire it to her in Portland. He sent her a grand and kept just enough for a bus ticket out there. He knew in his heart of hearts he’d find her. Knew she’d be waiting for him; fool’s errand.

The woman took that money and bought herself a junker. An old rust bucket Ford that got her all the way to Chicago. He kept calling her from all over. Spent time in Portland, Northern California. Picked grapes with Mexicans. She continued sleeping with strange men. They were both worn out. Life played them both.

Again, one night at midnight, she called him. He was asleep with twelve other men in a tin shed. Dirt was on the floor. I need another loan, she said. I’m keeping track. Just send me five hundred, she told him. That should be enough, she begged.

Send me a picture, he said.

You don’t want to see me these days, she cried.

Send me a picture of you in a nice red dress. With flowers in your hair. Let me see you, he said. I just want to see you.

She hung up the phone and never called him again.

The blinds were drawn. It was mostly dark in the house. An overhead light in the kitchen shined, casting a shadow of the ceiling fan over the table where he sat. The old man stirred his coffee and looked through the blinds at darkness outside; pitch black. He sat quietly. Humming an old Merle Haggard song. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of coffee.

You call that coffee? he said out loud. Brown water leftover from yesterday. She’s always gotta save things. Always gotta hold onto stuff. All we have are meals from the day before. Coffee that we didn’t finish, he mumbled. Hell with this, he poured the remaining liquid in the sink and began looking for coffee grounds.

He opened the cabinets above and below; no sign of it. Just cans of beans and bags of rice. Beans and rice, he said. What’re we? Mexicans? he continued looking in the cupboard. Where the hell does she put that stuff ? She’s always hiding things from me, he said. Always trying to trick me, he opened the freezer door and moved around chicken thighs, frozen ice cubes, California Medley, peas and carrots, finally in the back a can of Bustello coffee. The old man quickly opened it and smelled the black and brown grounds. He smiled.

What’re you doing? she asked, standing there in her robe.

What does it look like I’m doing? Making coffee.

Making a fool out of yourself, she said. We have to save damn you. The apocalypse is coming and we ain’t gonna have nothing.

You think it’s gonna matter? he continued making coffee. The gray haired wife hit him in the back of the head. The old man fell to the ground. She stood over him. Looked at him.

Get up, she said. He did not move. Blood ran from his front temple. I said get up, she kicked his legs, he was out cold. She took a pitcher and poured water over his lined face. There was no movement. The old lady looked outside. The sun was coming up.

All this yelling, he said to the two of them. You gotta be so loud? the television was turned down. Think you’re the only two that live here? the old man asked his wife and son. It’s midnight, he said. White people are in bed, he lit a cigarette and sat in his recliner. You two are carrying on like I don’t know what, the mother and son stared at him.

This don’t involve you, the boy said. We’re trying to work something out here.

I’m your father. Of course it involves me.

Stay out of it, the mom said.

Listen here…

I said stay out of it.

This is my house God damn it. It’s my business to know, dad said.

Your business? mom asked. You ain’t had no business here for twenty years. Sit around drinking all day.

That’s his business, the boy said. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

That’s the problem, she said. Too much drinking in this house. I’m leaving.

Where you going? the old man asked.

I don’t know, she grabbed her coat and keys. I don’t rightfully know.

It’s midnight. White people don’t leave their house at midnight, dad said.

Goodbye, she turned and slammed the door. Walked out to her Ford and turned the ignition. The old man and his son watched from the window.

You wanna beer? the son asked. The old man nodded. They sat there in silence drinking. Gunsmoke was on the TV.