dmseay

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.

Did you shoot him? Tom asked.

Yeah, Jimmy responded. I did. Right between the eyes. Blood all over the place. Got some on me.

Better wash it off. It’ll stain.

Permanently?

Permanently.

I feel like I should have given him a fighting chance, Jimmy said.

How so?

He was chained up. Didn’t seem right. He was happy to see me.

He’s happy to see anybody. Did you give him a bone?

Nah. I didn’t.

Not even a final meal?

Nope. I patted him on the head, said goodbye, and pulled the trigger. Jimmy pulled out a cigarette.  Tom lit it for him and pulled two cans of Old Style from the cooler in the front seat between them.

Probably best.

What?

No final meal. Just did it. Like in Old Yeller.

We’re talking real life here, Jimmy said. Not the movies.

Right. Tom raised his can to Jimmy. They toasted. Here’s to Floyd. 

Yeah. Here’s to Floyd. 

Different candles on the table. One is a pine scent that reminds him of Tennessee when he was a kid running through the woods. Green needles in summer turned brown in fall. Tents set up. A fire burning of logs and kindling. Coyotes howling at midnight. His dad drinking from a silver flask. Initials carved into it. Sleeping with one eye open. 

Cotton candy candle. Smells of county fairs in Texas visiting his grandparents. Walking through crowds on route to the tilt-a-whirl, Ferris wheel, a small roller coaster with metal tracks, and food alley where a foot long corn dog awaits. Walking on his own. Grandma and Granddad never held his hand. They said his claws were too sticky. Sugar on his finger tips.

Lilacs. This scent leads him to sleep and dream of his mother in the garden picking flowers. Holding out her arms with a basket in hand. Telling him it will be OK. Everything will be just fine. A scarf around her head. Hiding truth. Damn lilacs.

Nothing forced, he said. Wait for it to come. You’ve got time. What’s the rush? Worried? Thinking your mind is blank forever? It will happen.

Look at shadows on walls. Notice how black they are and what light does. The power of light. We seek it out. None of us want to live in darkness. In the land of shadows.

What is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning? he asked.

Turn on coffee, she responded.

No. Before that.

Turn on the kitchen light.

Right. Yes. Because you don’t want to be in the dark, he told her.

What about at night? she asked. When I’m sleeping? It’s dark. We want it to be dark. Well, except children.  They want a nightlight. Or the closet light on with the door cracked. They don’t like it dark.

But then we get older, she continued. And the dark becomes our friend at night. It allows us to sleep. To dream.

Yeah. We do, he said. Maybe darkness is our friend at night. We cling to it, perhaps. However, I could live in the light forever. The dark, not so sure about that. 

Suit yourself, she said. For the most part, I like the dark. I’ll stay in the dark. Less of a struggle. When there’s light, you know. You’re aware. I don’t want to be aware anymore. It’s too frightening. 

Shhh. Don’t force it. Just write.

Frank’s coming home.

How long has it been?

Seven, eight years.

Had to have changed.

Maybe. Cheaters always cheat.

Criminals always commit crimes?

Yeah. Something like that.

Wonder how he looks? He was always handsome. Always had a thing about him. He’d walk into a room, and people noticed. They’d look at him. Even stare. Jet black hair and brown eyes. Clean shaven and chiseled face. He was something.

Yeah. He was.

Where’s he been?

Didn’t say. It was a short phone call. Said he was coming home. Needed me to wire him a hundred dollars.

Same old Frank. Always borrowing money from folks. Never paid me back.

How much did you give him?

A hundred.

He always operates in hundreds. Never fifty or twenty-five. Always a hundred. There’s people all over town he owes money to.

He means well.

Does he? I don’t know. He left me a long time ago. Hard to forgive that. But, I probably will.

Where’d ya wire the money?

Lancaster. Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

So he’s been out East.

He’s been everywhere. I’m sure of it. Men like him don’t stay in one place too long. Miracle he stayed here as long as he did.

Guess so.

When did he call you?

A week ago.

He’s not coming. He would’ve jumped on the first bus he could get once you wired that money.

Maybe he’s hitchhiking.

Doubt it.

Who knows?

Right.

Let me borrow a cigarette.

Here. But you gotta give it back.

Both women laughed and then cried. Frank’s coming back to town.