dmseay

Chicago  changes like all cities.  What was once a parking lot turns into a department store overnight. A diner  becomes a Starbucks or Chipotle while old trains rattle above,  making it hard to sleep in summer’s heat with windows open and bedbugs biting.

He lived above a hotdog stand on  South Halsted. The smell of Polish sausages and grilled onions filled his nose; tastebuds danced. But, it was the Chicago dog that truly  aroused him. Long dill pickle, raw onions,  tomatoes, slathered in mustard and neon green relish with a touch of celery salt touching his thin lips made him  crazy with pleasure after a night of drinking. Thanking God for the 24-hour stand as he walked to Windy City Labor every day. For five bucks with a sleeve of fries. One could not ask for more. 

The old man stood in line  as the sun came up waiting to go  inside the hall and wait for a work ticket. An old fat Irish man with a tall skinny black dude named Cookie sat behind the cage, calling out names and giving assignments. White men got the best jobs, the ones that paid most, while blacks took low paying gigs across town.

Cookie laughed at his fellow brothers. Saying things like, it sucks to be you, nigger to the darker skinned while the ones with lighter skin were almost treated white.  All were hungover or addicted to something worse;  the daily paycheck spent within hours on booze, crack, smack, or weed. Something to get them through this life.

It was a far cry from the farm.But he never longed to go home. Never thought of going back to his wife and family. William believed in drunken spirituality. Thought the bottle would lead him. And it did.

Why are there so many stars in the universe? Sometimes, they’re brilliant, all aglow, while other times  hiding behind dark clouds or not out at all, leaving on any given night like preachers leaving churches, children running away, lovers parting, or folks passing on.

But, on nights when they shine, stars make you think. The moon makes you dream. Stars stir the  brain. They leave you in constant thought long after they’ve burned out. Look up in the sky. A shooting star. You know it’s doomed. Destined to die. And then there’s a million more to take its place. 

He’d look up in the sky every night from out in the garden. Boots sunk into wet dirt amongst tomato plants, squash, and peppers. No binoculars or microscope. Just the naked eye. 

John stayed out there for hours.  Never did he wish. The boy just thought a lot. Wondered if stories about his father were true;  curious as to why mom quit going to church on Sundays.

Maybe God left her, he thought. Just like the stars. Or maybe she left God. The young one wanted to know. He wanted to know a lot of things, but after Billy’s death, she quit talking. Other than arguing with William, the stern woman did not say a word. She just did her chores and remained silent.

Perhaps that’s why dad left, he told the stars.

No, the stars said. He left long before that.  

In evenings, she sat under a  tall oak filled with age and wisdom.  She spoke to leaves; green in the spring, and rusted red in autumn.  During winter, she talked to brown limbs whose coat had fallen to the ground. She never yelled or raised her voice.

Bell spoke in soft tones. When she got older, men said she had a seductive tongue. The tall  brunette cast spells on men. Or, maybe it was the other way around.

By the age of seventeen, the freckled girl got mixed in with unsavory types. Drunks, pill poppers, junkies, she knew them all. She had the reputation of comforting them with delicate tones and warm embraces. Some called it whoring, Bell referred to it as casting out demons from men’s souls.

Every night, she  walked the south side of Main Street and turned up Broadway casting spells. Johns were grateful. Her family turned a blind eye to the sins of the youngest daughter. Church folks judged. Devils laughed.

But, in the evenings, she spoke to the  tree. No one knew what they were talking about. No one ever asked, just a tall string bean talking to a tree. Asking important questions. Talking about her dad, who used to visit her at night in her room. No one knew of these nightly visits but the tree. Oaks are good at keeping secrets.

She sat in a rocking chair on the front porch, looking out at gravel,  tall grass, and sherbet sky.

All the folks in town knew her business.  Gossip.  Lies. Women telling stories.  It was all fictitious.  The only truth was that William had left town. Left her with four kids, a fallow farm, and an empty bank account. The stout woman had no idea where her next dime was coming from. Kids were growing. Empty bellies growled at night. Next year, she whispered.  Next year.

John often sat on the front porch, too.  There was a hatred for his father,  but down in his soul, he wanted to be like him. 

He had heard stories of his womanizing and drinking. The young boy saw what it was doing to his mother. But still, he had that roving eye and wandering spirit about him. And, the more he saw mom cry in silence, the more he wanted to be like him.

The boy had dreams of leaving but never could. Eddie was going to have a family of his own. Start fresh. Go off to college and find a girl. That seemed to be his major. 

Selfishly, he had plans to leave John on the farm. After all, the youngest never spoke of his dreams. As far as everyone knew, he would stay and take care of mom. It was expected. 

As for the daughters, Eddie figured they’d be married with kids  by the time they were twenty-one. One did. The other had different plans.

An arm was thrown about twenty feet, and his leg about fourteen. Crushed skull, chest caved in, blood all  over the field.

Eddie  found him.  The tractor had run out of gas in a patch of corn.  He picked up the body and carried it out to the barn. Laid it out on a table they used  to store  things on like photo albums, old bicycle parts, candles, Coleman lanterns. The high school senior knocked all of it off with one swoop of his arm. That’s where Billy rested for a short time. Eventually, mom and the kids  gathered around him to lift his spirit up to the sky.

But William Sr. wasn’t there. The mother tried to track him down. Tell him about his oldest son. But the old man laid in an alley downtown  four sheets to the wind. It wasn’t till Billy was cremated that he found out. Then, the yelling started.

Why didn’t you tell me? He asked mom. You  could’ve told me. There was a bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. Half of it was gone.

I looked everywhere for you. I called all the bars. Tried looking up a few names of women in the phone book but got too nervous. What was I gonna say. I’m the wife of the man you’re screwing? Dad turned around and walked out the door. They never saw him again.

Where’s dad going? John asked.

Off to join the circus, mom said.

What’s he going to be?

A clown. He’s always been a clown.

Will I see him again? The blue-eyed short boy asked.

Hard to say. He likes trapeze artists. She laughed. Hard to say.

A canary yellow pickup truck was parked in the gravel driveway. Motor hummed. Headlights turned off. The radio tuned to a country station. Barbara Mandrell  sang about sleeping single in a double bed. Mistakes made. William Sr. laughed at the lyrics to this song. Thinking over things I wish I’d said, the blonde kept singing through the tinny speaker.  The father of five pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey from the glove box and opened it. Took a swig. Hummed along some more. Now I’m the one sleeping all alone. He took another swig.

The house light was on. Mosquitoes danced around it along with moths. William staggered his way to the porch and sat on the concrete step. He didn’t think about his children or his wife. Didn’t think about the farm which was unkempt, weeds growing, soybeans dead, cornstalks brown. The farm his father left him was now falling apart. The house, too. Shingles missing. Porch posts knocked sideways. Busted boards. That was just the outside. Inside, his wife tried to keep up with the cleaning, but with five kids, daily tasks had taken a backseat to cooking and correcting unruly children. Diapers changed, and bottles warmed on the stove. She did not breastfeed. William said those were for him. He’d laugh and go out into the night. Leaving her behind to cope.

He laid there on the cool concrete. Watched the insects frolic in the summer’s heat. Laughed out loud, sat up, and leaned his back against the screen door. Calling out her name. Jackie. Come on, girl. Open up. Daddy’s come to see you. Drunken babble was now full-on screaming. Open up this door, woman. I’ll huff. And I’ll puff. And I’ll blow your house down, he laughed. Come on now. Open up.

Shhh. She said. Be quiet now. She giggled. William. Get up off your ass and get in here. She opened the screen door. Two drunk fools holding each other while waltzing into the front room. Breaths smelling like turpentine. Clothes came off, exposing the short redheads curvy body and his slight paunch. 

They didn’t bother to go upstairs to her bedroom. A worn-in couch suited them just fine.

The sun came through the windows shining a light on their naked bodies curled up together like a dog, and it’s owner. William began to get dressed. Noticed the bottle sitting on the coffee table  with a spider left in it. He drank down the half shot and laughed.

Where you going? Jackie asked.

Got to get home.

I’m going out tonight with my girlfriends. She stood and placed her short arms around him. 

You mean going out to get men, William said.

There’s always better prospects.

Mason jars lined up on a shelf. Lids rusty. Cobwebs strewn over them. Dust had settled. 

One by one, he took a jar and  broke it on the concrete floor. Pieces of glass mixed with mouse droppings. Tin lids tossed to the side. 

In autumn she’d can vegetables from the garden. Turnip greens, spinach, corn, tomatoes, rutabaga, and Hungarian peppers placed in jars for winter. The son remembered the taste of each. He thought of coming home from school each day and gathering goods for dinners. Down in the cold basement collecting remnants of summer. Mom yelled from the top of the stairs that she wanted this jar or that. She was always yelling.

The family was large. Three sons and two daughters. Dad had left before all reached into their teen years. Mom said he went off with some trapeze artist from the circus. His uncle later told him it was the bottle he chased.

John was the youngest. And he was left with the house and the land after mom had died. Billy, the oldest, was killed in a farming accident by way of a tractor.  Eddie got married real young and started a family of his own. Loretta took off with a Marine, and Bell was seen on the corner in town supporting her habits. God knows what she was involved with. But, it was John who took over the family farm. And now, as he stood in the basement, breaking glass, he began to laugh.

Two hundred acres. He thought. Two hundred acres are enough for a nice housing addition and a good amount of cash. I can leave all this behind, he said. Leave it all behind. His mom’s unhappiness. Daddy’s leaving. Billy dying. The rest taking off. He smiled. Why not? Everybody else was doing it. Dolan’s farm had been sold. Smitty’s, too. Now, I guess it was my turn. This, he said. This is what we leave behind.

Old mail on a tabletop. Bills, bank statements, last notices, and letters laid on the wood, some opened, and many still sealed.

A warm beer sat beside a letter in a white envelope addressed to him with no other name on it. A zip code in the left corner was un-familiar to him. Maybe from Indio, California, or Taos, New Mexico. It felt like a Western letter. A stamp with Gene Autry stuck on the right.

He took a swig of Budweiser and opened the envelope dated 2010. Inside was lined white paper with black ink on it. A few holes from where the writer made punctuation marks.

Dear Sam. The letter starts. I hope this letter finds you. You moved so much across this country, I knew I was taking a chance.

So many things I want to know about you now. How’s your knees? Are you still slightly bo-legged? Has your hair turned gray? Is it still a little on the long side? What color is the truck? You were always putting house paint on it. I remember it was green and then red. Gray and black. Maybe you drive a station wagon now with a litter of grandkids in the back. Life is funny.

I’m out here in California.  Up in the mountains. I live by myself  and hear the coyotes howl at night. They always wake me up around five in the morning. I guess you could say they’re my alarm clock.

Truth is, I was thinking of you. I think of you a lot. How we drove and drove throughout this country, listening to classic rock and roll and gospel on Sundays. Remember that time in Memphis when we stood outside Al Green’s church? That was really something. You could hear them singing out in the streets. Like heaven was on earth.

He took another drink of beer and opened a sleeve of Saltine crackers there on the table under newspaper.

I just wanted to say hello, the letter continued. I don’t think I have much more time. I’ve been really sick as of late. Coughing a lot. Losing weight. I’m not as pretty as I used to be. I guess we all change.

You take care of yourself. I never stopped loving you.

God bless,

Debra.

He took another drink of room temperature Bud and put the letter back in the envelope. He placed it in an overflowing ashtray and lit it from a matchbook that said, Meet Me at Henry’s. 

The old man watched it burn.

A mouse scurried across the linoleum floor. Moldy bread on the counter. A coffee cup hangs from a cabinet above the coffeemaker. Rusty water drips from the faucet.

He sat in the living room. A worn-out chair with tears in it, foam sneaking through holes. Brown stains.

The radio played The Texas Dough Boys. He hummed along. Honky tonk music. A Texas two-step. He got up and glided on his feet. Dancing with a ghost from long ago, a pretty blonde girl he picked up in Albuquerque. They drove to Dallas in the middle of the night. Sang songs of heartache and despair. Something about  women always leaving. Like she did once they reached Big D during the state fair. They rode the ferris wheel, and then she dwindled off in the crowd. He called for her. Hey. Hey girl. Come back here. Didn’t even know her name.

He still thinks about her from time to time. She was his one true love.

They stood in the alley. Pissing on a brick wall with the Dutch Boy Paints logo on it. That strange demented boy with the weird haircut stared down upon them as a garbage truck went by. Bums rattled through garbage. Crazies slept behind dumpsters. The circus was in town.

You finished? He asked, looking straight ahead at the building.

No. Still pissing on history. He stumbled forward a bit, then stepped back, unbalanced, drunk.

I’m going back in. Cold out here, the drunk said; a wet spot on his jeans.

Wait. Just give me a second.

There’s a beer in there with my name on it. A shot, too.

Such a hurry. You act like you never had money before. Burning through your pocket.

Been a while, he said. It’s been a while. He lit up a Lucky Strike. My dad used to drink in this bar. His dad, too. A whole family lineage of drunks has passed through and passed out in this joint. My old man told me that my great great grandpa died here. Right where we’re pissing. He was shot by some husband. Said he made his way around town. Screwed everything in sight. He smiled. Sound familiar? They both laughed.

That was a long time ago. Back when this thing was more than a rope between my legs.

Sorry about that.

Fucking cancer.

Are you done?

Takes a while these days. Used to piss hard and fast. Could hit a quarter on the floor.

He laughed. Why would you piss on money?

It’s a figure of speech.

Oh.

He zipped up. Stepped away from the wall and spit on the ground. 

You got the next round?

I always do.