dmseay

A candle burns. I light a cigarette from the flame. Black smoke quickly disappears.

Cans of beer are opened by the two of us. Together, we sit on a busted old couch with springs exposed, holes in cushions, and tiny cigarette burns. A small transistor radio plays bop jazz into the night.

We sit there listening to Ornette Coleman play a long disconnected song with high notes and screechers, low tones driving home a message in the language of avant garde. He reaches into the Styrofoam cooler and grabs two more Black Label beers. The red cans are still cold. Ice is beginning to melt.

Is this heaven? I ask. Or are we in some kind of hell? My friend looks at me.

Shhhh. I’m listening, Paul says. Please be quiet. I know this song. I’ve heard it before.

Sounds like a mess to me, I tell him. A wonderfully satisfying mess.

Shhhh.

The song ends, and Mingus begins Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. Horns slather over the small room. Even on a small radio, the sound is big.

No, Paul says. This is as close to paradise as we’ll ever get.

Smoke rises, and the candle becomes a pile of orange wax. It is dark. A college kid’s voice comes over the air, saying, That  was Charles Mingus with Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. And before that was Ornette Coleman playing Focus on Sanity. Time is 2:43 in the A.M.

A cigarette glows in the dark. Men talking in an alleyway. Trucks parked off to the side. Old broken down Fords on their last leg, rusted Chevys waiting for scrap, filled with junk, busted televisions, soiled mattresses, torn lampshades. Voices are heard from a small group of Mexicans, drinking beer and laughing at jokes in Spanish. A voice from a window above tells them to pipe down. It’s four o’clock in the morning.

A gun is pulled. Again, Spanish is spoken. Something like, I’ll kill you, he says. The window is shut.

He points the gun up at the window and shoots. Glass breaks. The three Mexicans laugh harder, cheering him on. 

Shoot again, amigo. Let him have it. They don’t want us here. Fire again.

The old man comes to the window frame. Yells, I’m calling the cops. Get out of here. Better yet, I’ll kill you myself, he says.

Within seconds, the old man is back at the busted out window, aiming a shot gun at the three down below. They hide behind their pickups. The old man reloads and shoots again. Sirens are heard. Lights shine in the other windows. Nighttime is over.

Dad drove me around at night after dinner. It was the same course every evening; took Broadway into town past the  Kroger store, fire station, used car lots, banks, Long John Silver’s, McDonald’s, and a law firm with a sign that said Lowmer and Green.

He’d turn onto Main Street and head downtown, where there was a couple of whore houses with names like Kings Manner and The Doll House at one end of the street heading into town and the other leaving town. Cars were always parked in back. Neon signs fluttered, open 24 Hours on both. My dad would say the devil lived in there as we drove on. I suppose he was right.

We always wound up at the liquor store out by the highway. Old vagabonds asked for change. Women in dark glasses went inside quickly. My dad rolled up the windows and told me to stay right there. I’ll be out in a bit, he said. Just wait.

I sat there humming along with songs. Old jazz on the public radio station. Coltrane, Joe Henderson, McCoy Tyner, Bill Evans, they played all the greats from the past, making me wish I was born in another time. Maybe another place.

He’d walk out, holding onto a brown bag at the top. Placed it between us. It was always between us. And drove back home without a word. Just jazz playing. Under streetlights and stars.

Rusted Ford out front up on blocks. Grass is yellow from winter’s anger. Piles of leaves with frost on them.

I heard you come in the front door, she said. Usually, come in the back.

Felt like mixing it up a bit, he told her.

Did you wipe your feet?

Everything is frozen out there. No need.

Well, take your boots off.

Too cold. My socks are thin. I don’t have those wool ones like you got, he looked at her.

Right. Always complaining. You want coffee?

Sure. He reached up in the cabinet and got out a bottle of whiskey. The kind with the turkey on it. Gobble gobble, he said.

Too early for that, she said.

Never too early. It’s almost noon. 

A loud siren blasted throughout the village, signaling that it was 12:00. They both covered their ears.

The wife poured him a half filled cup of coffee. He topped it off with the Wild Turkey.

You haven’t even gotten dressed yet, he said, looking at her in her robe with yellow chicks on it. It’s noon for Christ’s sake. I’ve already put in a day’s work.

What have you done?

Raked the yard.

Why?

Cause that’s what people do.

That so?

Yeah.

People live normal lives. They have jobs. They don’t live off the government.

I earned that money.

Right.

I can’t help it if my back is messed up. Not my fault I slipped.

I suppose.

Why are you like this? Angry all the time. Mad at the world. Pissed at me.

Tired of being poor, Ronny. This ain’t what I signed up for.

What did you sign up for?

I don’t know. Not this.

To have and to hold. Till death do us part. We agreed to that.

You were drunk.

Still meant it. Didn’t you?

At the time. Yes. Things change.  You’ve changed.

I’ve always been like this.

A drunk?

Don’t criticize my endeavors. You sit around here all day in that robe. Doing nothing. I at least go into town.

You go to the bar. Drink up your disability check at the first of the month, and then we ain’t got nothing for thirty days.

Do you eat?

Barely.

Looks to me you eat quite a bit.

Sonofabitch.

There’s people in China starving.

Silence.

He sat at the table, drinking his coffee and whiskey while she walked down the hall and slammed the door shut to their bedroom.

Young couples jogging. An old man walking a small dog. Violins play.

Snow falls over upper Manhattan.  Kids make angels with spread arms and legs. Horse-drawn carriages pass by.

The Dakota looms over the park. Tourists take pictures of where a man was killed. Strawberry fields forever.

I sit and watch as the sun comes out. Clouds part. This bench was dedicated to Ethel Goldberg by her late husband Samuel.

My rent is free.

You never cared, did you? he asked. Whether I survived or not. Keep on living or die on the spot, he told her.

That’s not true, she told him. I cared plenty. Watching you go through that was not easy. There were times when I had to step away.

You stepped away a lot. Went to the bar and kept on stepping, he laughed. You never came back.

I wanted to. Doesn’t that count for something?

The ghost shook his head. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold-chain watch. The face had big Roman numerals on it. It ticked every second.

See this? her husband asked. Peter gave me this when I walked up to  the pearly gates. The saint  said to keep this on me. Told me to keep track of time. Minutes, hours, spent walking this earth until it ends. The days will get shorter, Peter said. Time will run out. Before it does, make amends. Then you’ll have peace.

I see. You’ve come to say you’re sorry? she asked. What for?

There were times when I could have stayed with you as well. Times when I just left.

I appreciate that. I didn’t want to leave you there alone. With all the drugs I thought you wouldn’t notice.

No. I felt your presence and your absence.

I came back, and you were dead, she said. Came back, and you were gone. Wasn’t fair. I just needed a break.

Shhhh. It’s OK. I forgive you.

The watch kept on ticking.

I wonder where she is. Last heard, she ran off  with some insurance salesman to Buffalo. He left his wife and kids to be with her. But Buffalo? Why Buffalo?

Of all the places they could have gone, they chose a dreary town like that. Why not some place exotic like Vermont or New Hampshire? Who knows?

She was always on the move. She probably chose to settle down to a miserable life like most Americans. These dreams we have. And we wind up settling for Buffalo.

The whole country is Buffalo if you think about it; a falling down city surrounded by suburban dreams. And we think we’ve made it. Thinking we live in the greatest country on earth. Yes, one big Buffalo.

We shared a small room in the Bronx. Walls were dingy from cigarette smoke. Pull tab beer cans in an overflowing trashcan. A coffee maker you had to jiggle a bit.

I wrote poetry. She was a hooker. Often at night, I would roam the city while old men undressed her. She left money around the room just to tease me. Didn’t bother me. She earned it.

At the end of the month, I’d take her out for a meal and a movie with royalty checks from book sales. These payments didn’t amount to much. Fifty here and sometimes seventy there. I never had rent. I made up for it in other ways. I listened to her. She always said I was the only person who listened to her. I was happy to oblige.

And then, one day, it was over. Came back to the room, and she was gone. Wrote a note saying she took off for Buffalo with an insurance salesman.

Damn. I hate insurance salesmen. And I hate Buffalo.

He looks at life. Every season of the year. Mornings, seated on a park bench as the sun comes up, he is out there. Watching light glaze tree leaves of green or gold, with a cup of coffee in hand, feeling morning on his face. Smiling as rain drops fall, snow lingers, and grass sparkling from dew. He lights a cigarette and prays to his god. God answers.

Take it in, the almighty says to the old man. Your journey is almost complete. Soon, you’ll be home.

The old man laughs. I’m already home, he says. I’ve journeyed long enough in life. This is my home.

Yes, God says. You have had a long, hard trip from Arkansas to Indiana.  Ohio to New York. Vermont and Canada. Midwest to California on busses filled with vagabonds and villains. There is a better place for you, his lord said. A place where there is no more pain. No more wicked thoughts.

I appreciate the offer. But I’m good right here.

He sipped his coffee, took a drag on his cigarette, and looked at the leaves.

A water heater hums.

It keeps me company.

He did not attend his wife’s funeral. She was buried with plenty of loving friends and family, praying and singing for her soul, but not him.

When the old man was told about her death, he simply said, ohhhh. He told me he couldn’t remember who she was. Wasn’t sure who I was for that matter.

I asked him if he remembered trips to Dallas when we were all younger; him and mom in the front seat, eating roast beef sandwiches while I sat in back watching America go by. We passed rivers, lakes, small towns, and diesel drivers honked at us when I gave them the signal, forearm, and fist pulling straight down. That always made us laugh.

But no, he did not attend mom’s funeral. We went fishing instead on the banks of the Ouachita River. He always loved going there, never caught anything, just sat in the sun for hours humming Glenn Campbell songs. Wichita Lineman and By The Time I Get To Phoenix, were his favorites.

He sat there pondering. Did someone die? he asked.

Yes, dad. Someone died. 

Someone I knew?

Yes. Your wife.

Huh. How strange. Did we love each other?

Yeah.

That’s good. You never know.