dmseay

Dostoyevsky sits on the table top. A lamp glows. Black and white photos nailed to walls. Even without color, you can tell she’s a blonde.

Joyce, Mailer, and Kerouac stand on a bookshelf. They look down at albums by Bill Evans, Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, and Miles Davis. A cactus is dying in the window. Too much love. Maybe, not enough.

Simic lies on the bed. He’s been read a hundred times. Still, nobody knows what he’s up to. His sentences are short, to the point. There are sweat stains on the pillow.

I sit in my easy chair, listening to a man read Bukowski. A poem about cats. Soon, it will be dark. And this world is never at peace.

I hear yelling outside. Some guy screaming at his wife or girlfriend. She yells back at him. There is not much love there; just arguing.

A child is crying. I look out my window and see the woman holding the child. She’s waving a finger in her man’s face. The man grabs her hand and swats it down to her side. She raises her hand, and he grabs her wrist. The child is squirming. She places the baby on the concrete sidewalk and then pushes the man with both arms fully extended. The child screams louder. He picks the kid up, and she tells the kid to shut up. He walks away with the child. The mother hits him in the back. He keeps walking. She follows them down the street. In the distance, you can hear nothing. Just three people walking away. Crossing at the corner. A dog barks.

The sun is going down. Remnants of snow are melting. A cop car passes by.

We ate pumpkin pie ice cream in the spring. It felt like fall. Other couples at the parlor had rocky road, pistachio, moose tracks, blueberry cheesecake.

We wanted chilled winds to blow through our town one more time. Leaves to rake. Ripples in the river. Sweaters worn.

She said, I’m not ready for summer. The heat. The violence, I nodded yes. Every summer there’s always a tragedy. Someone is killed for a stupid mistake, tornadoes rip apart towns, the war marches on, she told me. What will this season bring this year? she asked. I shrugged my shoulders.

I got a blanket from the car. We sat on a park bench, looking at cherry blossoms on trees. She placed her head on my shoulder. Let’s enjoy it while we still can, I said to her. This weather. This life. Take it in one more time, we sipped on pumpkin flavored coffee. The wind felt good.

Questions were asked. A few answers given. Really not answers. More like a response. Said something just to be saying it. Most of the time, he sat there quietly. Maybe he was plotting. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to get out of it. They’re always thinking of a way to get out of it.

Where’s your license? the detective asked. The suspect sat with his hands on the table. Don’t you have a state id? He shook his head no. No documents?

Mr. I ain’t got nothing but the clothes on my back, he told the officer. What’s all this about anyway? Have I done something wrong?

We just want to ask a few questions.

Questions?

Yeah. You know. Get to know you, the suspect went back to silence. How long you been living in that condemned house over on 85th Street?

Don’t know. Time slips by me.

Could you tell me what day it is?

Nope. I could not. They all mingle together. All of em mixed up. Saturday’s Monday and Wednesdays are Fridays. I’m very confused most of the time.

You know how old you are?

I don’t know. Forty? Forty-five? I quit counting.

Tell me how you tore your shirt. Get in a fight?

No sir. I ripped it on a nail in the house.

Is that where the blood came from? the detective pointed to the dried black stream lining his arm. I’m going to show you some pictures. You tell me if you know any of these guys. OK? he nodded his head. Brushed his red hair out of his face. He looked at the photos, mug shots. Any of them? he shook his head, no.

You ever hurt anybody?

Don’t know.

Your record says you have. Assault. That’s been a couple of times. Bar fights?

Can’t remember.

No id, huh? Just walk around New York like a ghost? he laughed. Are you a ghost? None traceable? Something that can’t be seen?

I suppose so. I suppose so.

How long you been homeless?

Not sure.

Where are you from?

I forgot. I came here on a bus. Used to sleep at The Port Authority.

That place can be a real shit hole.

Yes sir. Yes, it can.

Do you want to go back to Bellevue? Stay there till we get all this cleared up?

I guess, he said. Sir? Did you ever think you were losing your mind?

Every day. Every day.

I don’t sleep much, he told her. Dreams wake me up, he sat on the side of the bed. I close my eyes with good intentions, and then the movies start, he lit a cigarette.

What kind of movies? she asked.

All kinds. Different kinds. But, they’re all the same theme, he told her. She sat up in bed and lit a cigarette herself. They sat in the dark. Talking.

Sometimes they’re black and white. Other times in color. Vivid colors. Like a Disney movie, they laughed. In all these dreams, there’s a sense of being unprepared. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m on stage and I don’t know my lines, he blew out blue smoke into the black. It scares me. And then I realize. It’s only a dream, she placed her hand on his arm.

That’s what you dream about?

Yeah. Every night. Not knowing what to say or where to go. Lost. A sense of being lost. Always lost.

And these thoughts, dreams, wake you up?

Yeah. And my pillow is soaked like I’ve been running, he crushed his butt. Some kind of race. Running from something or to something. But, never ready. Never prepared.

She looked over at the clock. The red numerals read 3:00. Do you want some coffee?

No thanks. I’m going to go sleep on the couch till morning. You try and get some sleep.

OK. You gonna be alright?

Yeah. I’ll sleep eventually.

Goodnight.

Goodnight.

He watched her pull out of the driveway that morning. The truck stopped and turned left at the stop sign going towards the highway. From there, it was anybody’s guess.

She always said if he kept it up, she’d be gone. The young lady promised him that. Said she wouldn’t put up with his antics. The drinking, unemployment, sitting around the house while she did all the work. The skinny blonde often thanked God there weren’t any children. She prayed while they were in bed together, silently, not to let her go through that. Those prayers were answered.

It was five in the morning when he heard the truck start. He laid there for a minute, listening to the motor hum. Got up and went straight to the refrigerator where he grabbed a beer. Lit a cigarette. And watched her drive away. Bye-bye, he whispered. Bye-bye.

The young man went to his easy chair. Sat in the dark. Took another swig of beer and fell asleep. And, when he woke up, he called out her name. Mary Lynn, he yelled. Mary Lynn. There was no response. Just silence. All he could hear was his own breathing and semis running across the road. She’s gone, he mumbled. Gone. Oh, well. Here’s to being alone.

Silence. There was no sound at all. Nothing made a noise. The refrigerator did not hum. No sign that the heat was on. No air blew up from the vents. Just quiet.

The old man sat in the darkness. His eyes closed for a minute or two, then open to pitch black. The blinds were closed. The shine from the streetlights did not come through. A half moon glow laid dormant.

He walked over to the kitchen. Felt around. Opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. Kept the door on the refrigerator open and saw there were cigarettes on the metal table. The old man closed the door and took a Kool from the opened pack; stumbled around the room and felt the stove handles. He turned one to the left, and a great flame synged his gray hair. He smiled and turned the knob back to the right.

At the table, he sat. In the dark. Alone. He thought of turning on the light. But why bother? It’s in the dark that our imaginations run free, he thought. Silence let’s us hear things, he said.

The heater kicked on. Noise came through the vents. Only for a short time. Then it was back to quiet. It had been silent for a long time.

I watched him lie on the couch in peace for hours. I wondered what that was like.

You don’t know what you’re saying, he told her. Just making up stories. Lies, the refrigerator moaned. Ever think you were crazy? Something mentally wrong with you? he asked, she stared at him. Coming up with these tall tales. Accusing. Saying I did this, and I did that. You’re not right, he told her. You’re not right.

The young woman sat in the corner rocking back and forth on the linoleum floor. She kept looking down. Scared to raise her head. The woman knew how violent he could get when he came home drunk. Smelling of whiskey and perfume. He walked over to her and crouched down. The young man lifted her sharp chin with his hand.

You got no evidence, he said. All you got is a bunch of he said, she said gobboly gook. You and the girls been talking again, he lit a cigarette. Bored with your own lives, you gotta go out and ruin somebody else’s. Y’all think we’re all cheaters. Every last one of us. Men can’t keep it in their pants, he blew smoke in her sunburned face. How do I know you don’t cheat? You’re no church goer now are you. How long you been with me? How long, she held up five fingers with her right hand. Five years, he smiled. And that whole time you think I been cheating on you, he laughed. Sitting on the floor like some patient in a psych ward. That’s where I ought to take you, he crushed out his Kool. Come on now. I’m taking you to the hospital, she shook her head violently. Come on now, he bent down to lift her. Be still, he said. She kept bending her body every which way she could. He grabbed her wrists and she slipped to the floor. Banged her head on the counter. The woman laid there crying, kicking, screaming.

Shhhh, he said. Quiet down, her yelling became silence. Just stay there. He walked away from her. Went to the front door of the trailer and grabbed the keys on the hook next to it. See you around.

She heard the pickup start. Heard him drive off. The young woman remained on the floor. She sat up with her back against cabinets. Placed her head between her knees and said, He’ll come back. Always does.

Light shined in the window down the street. Was it a lamp? Or, a streetlight reflecting off glass? It was black outside. No stars were out. Moon didn’t glow. Just that light in the window; a yellowish color exposing nothing. He looked closer. A couple of dogs barked. Cars with music playing drove by; teenagers out on a school night.

He didn’t know the people at the end of the street. Nor did he want to. He kept to himself. Mowed the yard when it got high. Shoveled the driveway in the winter. Planted flowers in the spring. He did all that was required to be a homeowner. The middle-aged man had lived in Avalon for years. His neighbors waved at him; he’d wave back. But, he never talked to anyone. Sat in his front room mostly. Watched television and drank coffee. He’d go to work at the assembly line early in the morning and get off in the afternoon. Tried to sleep, but thoughts kept him awake. Questions ran through his head. Why didn’t I marry that girl from high school? Why didn’t I ever become a father? he asked himself as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The loneliness kept him awake.

And so, he stood there, looking out the window at the light shining down the street. Did somebody forget to turn it off? he slurped his coffee. The tall, lanky fellow noticed there wasn’t a car in the driveway. There usually was at this time of night. And that light was never on. There was no shining object at this time of night, he thought. Something wasn’t right, he lit a cigarette.

A woman opened the door. He’d seen her before. It was a shadow at first, and then she came into the light. She was smoking, too. Pacing back and forth on the front porch. Just this figure walking back and forth; smoking. He wondered what was going on. Maybe her husband had left her, he thought. Perhaps one of the kids never came home. He looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was two in the morning. The woman walked back into the house. The light was turned off.