dmseay

I killed him. It was years ago, back in ’72. Behind a cabin on a cliff. He got mouthy, so I killed him, he said. Lotta people wouldn’t understand that, he took a drink from a paper cup. Why you’d kill anyone? He wasn’t the first, the old man smiled. There were many others. They had it coming to them. Disrespectful mostly. Would pass me by in tight quarters and not say excuse me, pulled a cigarette and offered his friend one. A nurse lit the cancer sticks and laughed.

You sure tell some funny stories, the kid said.

True stories. You think I make these up? Some hippie in the late ’60s and some businessmen earlier that decade. A kid. About your age in the ’50s And others. For a while there, I was on a roll. I just don’t like arrogance.

They were cocky?

Yep. Terrible human beings, he took another sip of coffee. I like you. We’re going to get along just fine.

Bare walls. A rosary hangs on a door knob. Milk cartons turned upside down act as tables. There is one chair in the corner. A soft, easy chair that has been worn in. Sat in by the tennant before him and the tennant before him. A mattress lays on the floor. Stained sheets that have not been washed and a pillow case with white sweat marks on it is what he lays in at night. And, sometimes, during the day when there is no energy to move. The old man will lie there for hours before getting up and walking down the hall to fix a cup of instant coffee. His mirror has toothpaste spit on it. This has been his home for twenty years. He’s not moving.

The phone rings. It’s a landline. One of the last of its kind; a square box with a round dial on it, numbers, zero means operator. It’s his brother from California calling. His annual Christmas call. Telling the old man he’s wiring him some money Western Union. He can pick it up at the drug store on Lexington Ave. The old man listens. He smiles when he hears the amount. A hundred dollars, his brother tells him. I’m sending a hundred. Maybe you could use that money for a coat. Or, maybe a pair of pants. A couple of pairs, he laughs. The two brothers wish holiday greetings and say goodbye. They won’t talk again for another year.

He goes to the Rite Aid on Lexington to pick up his financial gift. He’s already got plans for it. The old man is dressed n his finest used suit. He can barely get the buttons to lock on the jacket. The zipper is halfway down. It is a peach suit. Bought it in the spring for Easter services. The colors are worn. It’ll have to do for Christmas. He tells the cashier his passcode. It is Simic equals Poetry. She looks at the piece of yellow paper and shakes her head, then hands over the money in twenties. Tells him Merry Christmas, and he smiles back at her.

He starts at Second Avenue Deli, where he feasts on lox and bagels. An everything bagel toasted with cream cheese, tomato, lox, a red onion, and capers sprinkled on top. The old man then walks to Washington Square Park, where he spies lovers holding hands and kissing every once in a while; remembering when he was married.

As he strolls down Lexington, there are cabs lined up in front of Indian buffets. The smells of curry flow out into the streets. The old man walks in and sees dark men praying on carpets, praying to their god. He sits and offers thanks as well. The food is good and plentiful. A mango lasse washes it down.

It is nighttime, and the holiday is completed with a drink as he watches ice skaters at Bryant Park. A seventeen dollar Manhattan. He feels a tickle in his throat as the whiskey goes down.

And now he is broke. Christmas is over. He goes back to his rented room and says, it was a very good day.

Why is there always rain on Thanksgiving day? he asked. Dark clouds. Never any snow or sun, just dark clouds and rain. Been that way since I was a kid, he told him. Dad used to smoke a turkey overnight out in the rain. He’d come inside and watch Johnny Carson. Then go back outside in his rain gear and watch that the fire wasn’t going out. The old man would stay up till three or four in the morning watching that fire. Stoking those coals and wood. Hickory. He used hickory. And it always rained, he lit a cigarette and pulled open a beer. And now here I am. Out in the rain. Smoking a turkey. Hand me another piece of wood, the son-in-law handed him another piece of cherry. That’s the difference between us, he said. The old man used hickory, and I used cherry. I think it’s a better wood to smoke with. Some would disagree. They’re entitled to their opinion, the two men smiled.

Went hunting the other day, the kid said. Didn’t get anything. But, I heard a man got shot out there a few days ago.

Oh yeah? I didn’t see it on the news.

No. I didn’t either. Friend told me. Said it was intentional. Meant to do it.

I know what intentional means.

Were you out there a couple of days ago?

Yeah. I was.

So you heard about it too?

Like I said. First, I’ve heard. Don’t know anything about it.

Took place a couple of fields over.

Yeah. Who was it that got shot?

Boy from another county.

Did he have permission to hunt in that field?

Nobody’s talking.

Bet he didn’t. That’s usually how those things go, dad said. I’m sure the boys will figure it out.

Yeah. They’ll figure it out.

Hand me another piece of wood.

You ever wanted to kill a man?

Everyday. Hand me the baster.

Have you ever killed a man?

During the war, I did. Sure, I killed a few.

What was it like?

We don’t talk about things like that. Go inside and get the oven mitts.   

I’m ready, he said. Been waiting all my life. Expecting this moment to come sooner or later, he looked up at the television. Alabama was beating some small school. The sound was down. A score of 64-7 was on the bottom of the screen. Isn’t that always the case, he smiled. Somebody bigger beating the hell out of some small guy, he laughed, began coughing, his wife handed him a glass of water. The old man drank it and wiped his mouth with his hospital gown sleeve. He cocked his head and looked at her. Thirty-five years is a long time, he said to her. She smiled.

Let’s look at some facts, Alabama scored again. I’m not going to be here much longer. We need to get some things in order, his wife placed a finger on her lips and said shhhh. First of all. No religious songs at the funeral. Now my brother is going to fight you on this. He’s going to want to have Old Rugged Cross sang. But it’s not his funeral, is it? she shook her head. Play the whole album, Aja, and then finish the ceremony off with Bad Sneakers. This is what I want. And nobody talks. No preacher, nobody. Just music. Play the whole Kind Of Blue album now that I think of it.

How long do you want the service to be?

Long enough. Music wise, that should do it. And don’t bury me. Burn me up and toss the ashes in Central Park. Spread em around. East to west, she nodded. As for my stuff. Just sell it. Keep the cash and do what you want. I would suggest a trip. Hit every Chinese restaurant from New York to San Francisco, she laughed. That’s what I would do. And honey, it’s been swell. OK. I’m ready.

What is it you can’t grasp? he asked. Very simple. A monkey could figure it out, the boy looked up at his dad. You were never one for challenges. Shy away from them. Don’t you? the boy looked at the lawn mower harder. Seemed to look inside its soul. A Briggs & Stratton, 1979. Polished and clean, but the blade wouldn’t turn.

It’s an engine problem, the young man said. Not enough juice going to it.

Well, no shit. A woman could’ve told you that. You gotta garage full of stuff out here. Most of it doesn’t work, the old man said. Hedge clippers, Weedeater, a table saw, this stuff doesn’t work. You let em get old. All these things I’ve given you over the years have become junk. You don’t take care of anything. Don’t get me started on your marriage. They say it’ll last forever, the father shook his head.

Leave her out of this.

Told you she was no good. Leaving you. What did you do to make her mad?

Things happen.

Cheat on her?

What?

Did you cheat on her?

Stop it.

You did. I can tell. Nothing wrong with getting your dick wet. Just don’t get caught.

Irreconcilable differences, dad.

What?

We couldn’t get along anymore. We fought all the time.

No kids. That’s where you went wrong. Kids keep you together. They ground you.

Dad. What the hell are you talking about? Do you even know?

Forty-five years. Yes. I know what I’m talking about.

Were you happy?

Get out of here.

You were never home, dad. Off at the bar. Playing cards. With some other woman.

Boy. I was not. I gave you and her my soul. I provided, didn’t I?

Yeah. You provided.

Some other woman?

We all knew. Mom knew. Overnights and hotel receipts. Bills from dinners out. Who holds onto that?

They were for tax purposes, boy. Your mouth is about to overload your ass.

Right.

I can still take you out, boy. I’ll give you a whole new beating.

Just leave. Just leave.

The old man spit on the garage floor. Lit a cigarette. Said nothing.

The mower never worked.

He heard voices from the vents. Warm air mixed with people talking, sometimes yelling at each other about stupid things, petty things. Accusations of cheating, lying, talk of leaving. The old man cracked open a beer and listened, sitting on a chair in the kitchen, waiting for the final blow.

You son of a bitch, she said. Always high. Can’t do anything unless you’re stoned. All our money goes towards weed and cigarettes, she opened the refrigerator door. Look. Nothing inside, she yelled. Your son hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. Proud of yourself? she asked. Huh? the old man snickered a bit, took another drink from his cold can.

Are you done? he asked. Are you through? Now the baby was crying. The child’s screams came up with the heated air. Look at you, he said. You do nothing. I bring home the paycheck, I work, and if I want to smoke a little dope, so be it, he told her. A dish was thrown across the room. Now clean that up, he yelled at her, the baby crying harder. You’re making a mess.

Go to hell, she said. Just go to hell, she began to sob. The old man stood over the vent. Had trouble making out the words.

Hey baby. Come on now, the voice said. We can work this out. Shhhhh. Come on now. You know I love you, he said. I’ll lay off the dope.

Till next time, she said. Then we’ll just fight again, the old man heard movement. I’m going to bed. Gotta boy, I have to take care of.

And then there was silence. The old man shook his head. He knew they’d be back at it tomorrow.

What is it that you want? she asked. Out of this. This thing we’re doing, she lit a cigarette, rubbed her green eyes, ran fingers through her gray hair. I mean, you come over here drunk after closing bars, and we make love, then you go home. I don’t even know if we’re making love to be honest with you, he looked up at her. Just some kind of crazy thing we do, she laughed. And, I allow it. Every weekend, I let it happen. I don’t know. Maybe we’re both living out our older days the way we did our young ones. Just messing around. No commitment. Right? she crushed out her cigarette, walked over to the kitchen counter where he was leaning. She placed her hand on his lined face. He pulled it away. Held it. Smiled at her.

You got any coffee?

You know where it’s at, he nodded. Second shelf. It’s on the second shelf, she told him. Get back. I’ll get it.

You gotta be more specific.

Specific?

Yeah.

Are we talking about coffee here?

Yeah. Point it out to me, she reached over and grabbed the Maxwell House. You could’ve just shown me.

Coffee, huh? Could’ve fooled me.

What else could I be talking about? You think this is symbolic? A can of coffee? Words we’re exchanging. Sometimes, a banana is just a banana. There’s no hidden meaning.

It’s a cigar.

What?

Oral fixation. A cigar. That crazy Austrian said cigar. Not banana.

Right. That crazy Austrian.

Yes, they both laughed. He held onto her, and she wrapped her hands around his neck. They began dancing a slow dance. No music. Just silently waltzing across the kitchen floor until morning.

Goodnight, old friend.

Goodnight.

Clear. Pure. Not tainted in any way. A purpose to be served. Driving into light on I-95. Northbound to New York. Traveling from Philadelphia. Leaving her behind. Time to be alone. Solitude. Finding peace in Manhattan. This is what mad men go in search of. To be with one’s self. Tranquility among masses of people. Herds cross streets. Eighth Avenue, Broadway, 32nd Street, up by Lincoln Center, Central Park, Columbus Circle, street vendors selling halal meats, hot dogs in dirty water, swarms of busy bees going in all directions. It is too much. Maybe not enough. Soon, the voices will stop. Soon.

Cracks in sidewalks. Uneven concrete. Weeds growing in between. A broken bottle of Wild Turkey. Cigarette butts smoked down to filters. Walking home at night to a rented room above a Polish bar; last-minute shopping before closing time.

It’s four in the morning, and the place is filled with United States postal workers, laborers, off duty cops, hard working criminals, hookers with Eastern European accents right off the boat, and old men who have seen it all. Big noses and ruddy faces. Purple lines on weathered hands. The bartender yells out, last call, in broken English. Moans across the room. Bobby Darren is cut off mid note as the jukebox is turned off. The front door is opened, and gray smoke pours outside. Six packs of Black Label sold to stragglers leaving to camp out in alleys, on sidewalks, between buildings, upstairs in bedbug rooms. Like an assembly line, they plop cash down, liquor is sold, and they walk out into early morning darkness.

The bar is given a sweep. Broken beer bottles are thrown out into dumpsters. Dollar bills picked up off the beaten wooden floor. Swivel seats lined up. The neon lights turned off.

They’ll be open in three hours. The seven o’clock crew will start their day. More of the same. Construction workers, guys on social security income, homeless men who slept in shelters on a mat sprayed with Lysol, whores still waiting for one last trick before sleeping away the day in cheap hotels, back seats of rusted out cars, pimps apartments, behind bushes in the park, bus stops along Division Street. The jukebox is turned back on, and Bobby Darren is back up to speed.

And some guy takes a swing at another. The owner named Zimski breaks it up. Drink up my friends, he tells them. Drink up. Darkness turns light. A cop car cruises by. An ambulance is chased. All in a day’s work. On Division.

People don’t change, he said. They stay primarily the same. Not growing, stagnant. You’d think we’d get better as we get older, see life differently with each year,but that’s not the way it is, he lit a cigarette, sat at the counter as the waitress poured a cup of coffee. We grow up wanting things, but we settle. Never taking that step forward. Just staying what we are.

And what’s that? she asked.

I’m sorry.

Said, what’s that?

A lot of things. Lots of different kinds of people. There’s those who take advantage of others, of situations. And there’s those who don’t. Mean people, spiteful. Folks gentle as a lamb. It all starts in childhood. Getting picked last at recess for dodge ball. The bully who wise-cracks and beats kids up. Criminals and cops. That’s what becomes of them, he munched on toast.

Where does that put you and me? she leaned on the counter, looked at the clock. We’ve always been the same? the clock said three. No cars in the parking lot. Just them and a Mexican in the back. No growth? That’s sad, she lit a cigarette. They say when you’re baptized, you change. Preachers say you come up from the water and you’re different; filled with the Holy Spirit.

And then what happens? she shook her head. We go back to our old ways. A cheater will always cheat. A thief will always steal. Sure, we’re pure and clean for a short time. But eventually, our true nature comes out. Lying, cheating, insecurities.

That’s a negative way to look at the world, the redhead smirked.

I suppose. Part of my charm, they both laughed.

You want some pie?

Sure.