dmseay

He would lie in bed listening to screaming and yelling through paper thin walls; a couple next door, meth heads, bellowing out for God’s mercy. Kicking and punching each other. A child crying in the background. Rage, pure rage, and hatred thrown about along with dishes, shoes, knives, hammers, cutting boards, heavy objects, and malice. There’s no place like home, the old man would say, then go back to listening to tempers fly.

The old man was awakened the next morning by cops knocking at his door. He could see the squad car and an ambulance behind them. A young man in cuffs placed into the back of the cop car, his girlfriend on a stretcher. EMS guys closing doors.

Did you hear anything last night? the officer asked the old man. Anything? Did you see anything?

No, the old man said. No, I didn’t.

He then closed his door and went back to sleep.

Where are we at?

Highway 20. Indiana.

They all kind of run together after a while. Don’t they? In the dark, you can’t tell the difference in states or regions. Just one big dark blob that we’re driving into, he watched as headlights flew past them. Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, it’s all the same.

Midwest.

Right. In the dark, I mean. There’s no difference between any of them.

I guess, he continued driving. Lit up a cigarette.

Now, you get out East or West, and there’s a difference. It feels different. A different kind of energy.

It’s just another highway to me. Dark or light, it’s all the same. Food changes at the diners. That’s all.

Oh yeah?

You can’t get scrapple in Indiana. It’s a Pennsylvania dish.

Made out of what?

You don’t want to know. Like head cheese. You dont want to know.

Then I’m better off without it.

I suppose.

I suppose, he rested his head on the cold window. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

Where do you think he is?

Not sure. Could be in Belfast stealing pints after pubs have closed. Might be in Dublin dancing to a fiddle and a penny whistle.

You think he’s in pain?

I’d say not. He’s walking the streets of Manhattan. Sitting in Washington Square. Tickling the cheeks of college girls. Blowing kisses and bowing as they walk by.

Might be in Chicago?

Yes. Singing into microphones but no one hears. Writing poems that no one will read. Except for the lucky few. Those in the next life.

So. He’ll never rest?

Not a chance.

Darkness. No daylight. Stars are gone. Moon is hidden. Walking north on 41. Shoulders iced over. Watch your step.

Semis drive past. The Kankakee River is up. Snow spits. His backpack starts to get heavy. Kerouac, Joyce, The Bible, and Melville fill the bag with pairs of underwear and tee-shirts. One pair of socks.

He sticks his thumb out. No one stops. Midnight travelers drive by. Some going to Chicago. Others on their way to Wisconsin or Michigan. Off to Grandma’s house for warmth and holiday cheer. Presents under a tree.

It is Christmas Eve, and the vagabond hums to himself as he walks; Central Park West and On Green Dolphin Street under his breath. He is grateful to be alive. In the cold, on Christ’s birthday, he is grateful to be alive.

His car lights shined through the windows. Loud music could be heard but not made out. Just rambling voices and screeching guitars; an ongoing drum beat.

The boy had not been home for days. He had a tendency to leave in the middle of the night when all in the neighborhood were asleep. All except mom, who sat on the edge of her bed counting rosary beads. She prayed to Mary and Jesus for her son. Prayers never seemed answered.

She sat in the kitchen when he came in. Asked him where he’d been? The kid told her not to worry about it. Said it was none of her business. Told her he was going to bed. Stayed in his room for days. Listening to music, talking on the phone, plotting. Soon, he’d be gone again. Just like his dad. He’d leave in the middle of the night as well. Till one time, he never came back.

Mom would get down picture albums of the kid and look at them for hours. All the way from birth up to sixteen, she had photos of the boy. Pictures from past vacations on the coast of Maine. Instant pics of him holding fish caught in lakes and rivers. A shot of the teen shooting a rifle in the backyard, his father giving instructions. She sipped her coffee and cried.

And one night, she’d heard the door shut and the Ford start. Momma ran to the window to see the car backing out of the driveway. Music blasting, her holding onto prayers and letting go. He was gone this time for good. She knew it. The beads were placed in a drawer.

A white Dodge rolled through the neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon. Dads were raking leaves in front yards. Sweeping them into little piles picked up by their children and placed in plastic bags. Moms put out mums on front porches and walkways leading up to glass doors. Wreaths were angled just right. Autumn wreaths with fake leaves of gold, red, and rust just hanging there.

The driver of the Dodge took it all in. It smelled of suburbia. Grass still thick in October. Lawnmowers could be heard in the distance. Kids earning their keep. He watched as the postman delivered catalogs and bills to each house. Magazines subscribed to.

His radio was turned down low. Songs by Bill Evans, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, the voice of Chet Baker, listened to on the public radio station as slowly the car turned onto another street, revealing more large houses, mcmansions, all looking the same. Two car garages and shrubs. Lots of shrubs. Dogs barking.

I used to live here, he thought. It’s what she wanted, he laughed. Safety. She wanted safety. Honey, there ain’t nothing safe in this world, he remembered telling her. Nothing.

A kickball suddenly rolled out in front of the car. The fat man slammed on the brakes. A child looked up at him. The driver gave the kid permission to retrieve the red ball. He thought of years ago when his children played as well. He smiled at the boy, who turned his back and ran back to his yard. Not even a wave or a thank you.

They raise animals out here, he whispered. Animals that can’t talk or acknowledge anyone. Love Supreme came on the radio. Windows up. He listened to the saxophone. And drove out of the addition. Time passes, he said. Time passes. Ain’t no-one safe.

Cats roamed around the house. Broken couches. Styrofoam came through splits and holes. Springs rusted. Puddles of water on brown carpet. Newspapers tossed here and there. Cardboard boxes littered the room. A condemned sign hung on the front window.

No gas, he said. We used to be able to cook food, but now it’s just silence with no flames.

Try the oven, his friend said. Go on. Try it, the old man looked at his partner with a sinister eye.

I said there is no gas. No gas, nothing. No electricity. No light. We live in darkness, he said. The kid looked away. Sat down on a broken folding chair and lit a cigarette. He handed the lighter to the old man. Motioned to the stove.

I said there’s no gas. Are you deaf? again, the young man looked away. You don’t like confrontation, do you? he asked. Don’t like it when I call you out on your stupidity? a cat circled the old man’s feet.

Just trying to help.

Give me a cigarette, kid handed him the pack. Where’d you get these?

I found them.

Almost a full pack.

Yeah. Some lady dropped them on the subway. Sorry, they’re Virginia Slims.

Yeah. They’ll do. When was the last time you ate?

Yesterday. Went to the mission. Thursdays, they give away quarts of milk.

I never go there. I’d rather pick through garbage.

They have soup and bread.

No thanks, the old man told him. I can make it without charity. Don’t need anyone. Just myself. I’ve survived just fine on my own, the kid pulled out a chocolate bar. Where’d you get that?

Arab store.

Stole it? the youngster nodded. Give it to me, the old man took it from him and broke it in two. Gave the kid the smaller piece. Ate it in one bite. Nothing was savored. Share and share alike. That’s what I say. That and might makes right.

Is that so.

That’s so. It’s what this country was built on. Share and take. Taxes? That’s what taxes are. Same philosophy, the kid shook his head. Go get another chocolate bar.

With what?

Take it. Steal it like you did this one.

They’re on to me. Gotta lay low.

Go to another store. Steal some other stuff, too. Peanut butter, bread, bologna.

How?

Be inventive. Have I got to teach you everything?

The boy opened the door and looked at the dark clouds. More rain, he said. All this rain. I’ll go later.

Go now. Get it done.

Why don’t you go?

That’s what I got you for. Might makes right.

She sat on the couch, folding clothes. Old pairs of underwear with holes in them. Stains. She did the chore as if it were second nature. Kept her eyes on the television and kept folding.

He was asleep in the easy-chair. Snoring. The old woman wanted to turn up the sound but was scared it would wake him. She’d spent her whole life looking out for him. Making him meals, folding laundry, keeping the trailer clean, letting him sleep. The old man slept a lot.

The wife looked over at her husband. Sawing logs. Loud. He was always loud. When he was awake, he was loud, and when he was asleep, he was loud. Constant noise. And he had bad gas. Smelling up every room he was in with loud farts. Noises would come from the bathroom.

Jerry Springer was on. Men and women fighting over infedilities. The husband cheated on her with the babysitter, and she was screwing the whole block. Every man in sight. They hated one another but stayed together because of the kid. Or so they said. These situations are hard to figure out, the wife said as she watched the two battle it out. She crossed herself and thanked God that her husband never cheated on her. And he was thankful she was never tempted.

He kept snoring. She wondered what he dreamt about. Did he ever hope for a better life? Something besides this? She did. Kept it to herself. Took on the role of wife and let her dreams fly away.

She wanted to be a ballerina. Wanted to dance Swan Lake. When she was a kid, she watched it on PBS. She was captivated by it. And then life got in the way. Isn’t that always the case. Giving up on dreams and settling for reality. Or what we think is real.

The old lady placed a blanket on her husband and turned off the TV. She turned on the radio and listened to classical music and was taken away to another place, a beautiful place where she was dancing.

Turn that radio down, he said. She did as she was told.

They spoke in low voices. Quiet. Hushed tones. Lying in bed. A darkness filled the room. Sounds of cars passing by. Doors slammed down the hall. The time, 3:00 a.m. flashed on the clock radio. It wasn’t the time. Sun was about to come up.

He sat up on the edge of the mattress. She lay on her side. Grabbed his watch on the nightstand and looked at the engravement on the back. To my son, it read. Love Dad.

Putting on his boots, he placed a hand on her hip. She smiled. Shame you have to go, she said. Do anything to make you stay? he shook his head.

I gotta get going, he whispered. Today is a big day, the young man stood up. The sounds of garbage cans being dragged across concrete bothered her. She placed her hands over her ears. I said, today is a big day, she pointed to outside the window. Right, he said. It’s Wednesday. Trash day.

What time is the funeral? she asked.

Noon.

Are you carrying the casket? he nodded. You and your cousins, huh? he touched her face. Leaned in and kissed her.

I gotta go.

You coming here tonight? he shook his head. I mean. If you have to be with her, it’s all right.

He whispered goodbye and walked out the door. He sat in his truck and looked at the watch. He cried.

It’s three o’clock in the morning. A cold breeze blows on my ruddy face. Train cars fly by overhead. The bars let out their weary drunken souls into the night. I watch. Some laugh. Others walk along using parking meters for walking sticks. A man leaning over the curb, praying to God for mercy on his soul. An ambulance with lights on but no siren drives past.

I walk up Broadway going north. Diners filled with cops and tranny whores in heavy mascara and red lipstick, short skirts showing off those legs to junkies, thieves, crackheads, meth makers, salesmen from out of town, busboys speaking in Spanish, experimental twenty somethings, and drunks from Uptown. It really is quite a show.

I stroll by The Green Mill looking for the rest of mankind. I hear the jukebox playing Freddy the Freeloader. People are laughing inside. Soon, they’ll be kicked to the cold as well. Then it’s back home to toast and honey. Scrambled eggs and a girlfriend who cares. Or, it’s off to the apartments of new found lovers. Someone who’ll take the pain away. We’re all in need of a fix one way or another.

I sit on the stairs of St. Ita’s and take out my flask, saying cheers to God. He says, Salute. I’ll drink to that.