dmseay

Piles of dirty clothes. Paper plates with pizza crusts on them. Newspapers wadded up in the trashcan. He sits in his easy chair and listens to classical music; Bach softly plays through a tinny speaker.

Noises downstairs. Fire trucks pass with sirens on. An ambulance follows. Bach is drowned out temporarily.  A pipe is lit. Prince Albert in a can.

The old man walks over to the window and looks at the porno shop across the street with its lights blinking and words saying: Peep Shows. Naked Girls. $5. It’s been a long time since he’s talked to a woman.

He looks in his wallet. Four one dollar bills. He sees quarters and nickels in an old coffee can by his cactus. Eagerly, he counts out a buck and fills his pocket with loose change. He sucks on his pipe.

Traffic barely moves. Yellow cabs and Ubers take home young drunks or dump them off at Grand Central Station. Parents in Jersey and Long Island snore loudly. Nights of waiting up are over.

With a walking stick in one hand and the other in his pocket sifting through coins, he crosses 8th Avenue. Cautiously, he opens the porn shop door and is hit with sounds of loud foreign tongues. A sitar is played in the background, and a tenor in Urdu sings out songs from Pakistan. The young dark man behind the counter nods his head to the music while counting out tokens to men in long coats. Spring has not come yet.

Asking for a token, the old man places his bills and silver on the glass case in front of him. The Pakistani scrapes it all up and hands him a token; on one side, a naked woman’s breasts and on the other a curvy ass.

He passes old movies on the shelves, size enhancers, dildos, blow-up dolls, and magazines. A green light flashes in the back where booths are lined up side by side. The floors are slick from mop water and semen.

Inside a screen separates the old man from paradise. A black phone hangs on the wall, an open slot at the bottom for tips, and a machine to place his token in sits to the side. A voice is heard.

Give me a minute, honey, she says. Just one second. He waits patiently. The Pakistani music sounds muffled now. OK baby, put that token in. The screen rises, revealing a skinny black woman in red lingerie. The more you tip, the more I take off, she yells.

The old man says, hello. I can’t tip. Could we just talk? 

How you think I make my money?

Not sure, he says.

Tips honey. You sure you ain’t got no more dollars on you?

I spent my last dollar on the token.

Damn. Well, all you can do is look. I ain’t saying a word. And I ain’t gonna strip for ya old broke ass.

I understand. I just wanted someone to say goodnight to.

Goodnight to?

Yeah. Goodnight.

That’s it? The old man nods his head. There is silence.

Well, goodnight, she says.

Goodnight.

The screen comes down.

When I got there, he was gone. He’d already left. All that remained was his body. Some hollow shell.

Everything was turned off. No  heart monitor, nor oxygen mask, just three children standing by a body once occupied by their dad.

It was strange how he went, the youngest son said. The old man said he felt dizzy and then fell into my arms.

It wasn’t that dramatic, the sister said. He just now died, said the middle child, she stared at the youngest. Just like you. Always putting yourself first.

Stop it, you two, the oldest brother told them. He’s gone. Doesn’t matter when. He’s dead, he let go of the cold hand. I told him before he died that I’d make sure you two were OK, he looked at both of them. And, what do I mean by that? I mean, to make sure there’s no ill will between you. Make sure we all get along. 

There was silence. No one spoke. They bowed their heads. The younger brother and sister stared at each other.

Lord, take our father into your arms, he said. May your love be with him for eternity, the eldest prayed. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

They walked out single-file. Each looked down at the floor. You two take care, he told them. I’ll make arrangements.

No one said, I love you. No one embraced. Just three kids leaving their dad.

We undo these things. Come neatly wrapped with a bow on it. Tear them apart, trying to find what’s inside, he said.

Boy, that’s the truth, she wiped her forehead. Never know what you’re going to find, she said. Could be evil, could be good. You have to open it and find out.

Yeah. Open it. Hard to do that, he smiled. When we’re young, we dive right in. Both feet. No fear.

Fearless.

Yes. Fearless. And as we get older, we get…

Scared. I know. You reach thirty, thirty-five, and you’re frightened, she took a drink of her coffee.

Right.

And it stays that way for a while. Then we get to be around seventy, and we’re ready to open it up again. She lifted her cup. Here’s to us.

Here’s to us. 

Truth. We act like we know the word; it’s meaning. Truth is, we don’t, he said. People don’t know the first thing about truth. We put it in a bottle and sell it on shelves in supermarkets, he said. Not knowing that it’s just one big lie, he smiled. Coke is not the real thing. We are not part of the Pepsi generation. Red Bull gives you wings.  The list goes on and on, he ran his hands through his gray hair.

And, where do we seek truth? the old man continued. In books, art, religion, spirituality, the Grand Canyon, the Hudson River, an over the shoulder caught fly ball; robbing the batter at the last second, he laughed.

We say we seek truth, but we don’t. We look for something to cover our asses. Protect and promote our stories. Our lies, he lit a cigarette.  And when our lies can no longer protect us, where do we turn to? Confession. It’s the only way we have solace. Otherwise, we are mad. Quite mad. The lunatics in Bellevue have never confessed. I know. For I am one.

Starving. A piece of bread. Glass of water. Faucet drips. Dirty floors, walls with black markings on them, a light bulb hangs from the ceiling. 

Bread is stale. He chews on it slowly. Watches two mice fornicating in the corner. He misses her.

She wasn’t anything. She was everything. They walked beside the East River. Would hold hands. Old weathered hands. They read each other’s palms. Lines cut short. Fingernails bitten. Spit out. Pigeons followed. 

The mouth he kissed was small. Thin lips. Accented by red lipstick. A mustache was powdered over. He didn’t care. Love goes beyond that.

They sat on a bench and watched boats go by. Lights blinking on them at night. Looked like moving houses in the suburbs at Christmas time. He held her hand tighter.

It’s amazing what time does. We wait for it to pass. And soon, it’s gone.

I don’t see you anymore, she said. Your curly black hair and brown eyes are gone. Erased. Freckles on your forearms no longer exist. I’m done with you, she said to the blank picture frame. Her dog cuddled up beside her.

You’re out there somewhere, the redhead looked out the window. No telling where, she closed the blinds. Could be in some bar. Drinking them down with the boys. Talking about conquests and baseball.

Might be in some whorehouse in Albuquerque. In bed with some Mexican woman for a cheap price.

Maybe at church asking for forgiveness, she looked at a spoon ring in her ashtray, mixed in with pennies and dimes.

I wonder what you look like these days. Did you get that tattoo you were always talking about ? The Irish flag on your bicep. Or was that just talk? she laughed. Poured herself a cup of coffee. 

This life is crazy. You’re gone, and I still talk to you. Can you hear me?

You’re drunk again, she said. Been out all night. I know where you go. Heard rumors. Stories about you. Stumbling all over town. That’s what some friends told me. Said we might have to do some intervention with you. Make you face up to your sins, she laughed. What do you think about that?

Bout what? 

Talking to us. Telling us you’re sorry for the way you been carrying on.

That so, he lit a cigarette. Way I been carrying on? I work. Bring home money. You spend it. You buy new clothes. Cosmetics. Said you want to look like one of those women on a magazine cover, he laughed. Started smoking Virginia Slims, I noticed. You’ve come a long way, baby, he began stroking her blonde hair and placed his hand under her chin. He bent down for a kiss. She slapped him. Hard. On the jaw. He just smiled.

Get out of here, she told him. You ain’t no good. Some kind of monster. What are you grinning at?

Nothing.

Go on. Get, she pulled the sheets up over her breasts. Just go.

Where you want me to go to?

I don’t care. Go back to the bar. I don’t care.

Bar’s closed, he said. She looked at the alarm clock. Closed two hours ago.

It’s four o’clock in the morning. Go get some breakfast. Get some coffee. Leave town. Just let me be. 

Alright. No loving tonight. Makes me sad. I wanted to come home and crawl in bed with you. Wanted you to hold me. Wanted to hold you, he walked to the bedroom door. Opened it. He said, Im not coming back. Once I close this door. That’s it.

She turned off the lamp. They looked at each other in the dark. Two of them could barely see. He closed the door and walked down the hall, singing a Johnny Paycheck song, Don’t take her she’s all I got. She heard the truck start. Engine barely turned over. That starter was always giving him problems.

I mistook you.

How’s that?

Thought you were somebody else. This woman I used to know.

Who’s that?

A woman. Young. Many years ago. Brunette. Vermont. Some New England state.  Could have been Maine. She had brown eyes. Used to laugh at my jokes.

Uh huh.

We’d talk for hours. Like this. In coffee shops. Bars. Parks around town. Two people sitting on a bench. Talking.

What about?

Things. Favorite movies. Books. Religion. Past lives.

Hmm.

She spoke about being an Indian princess in another life. Said she bathed in the Ganges River. Before it got dirty. She’d smile. Said her grandmother was now a cow. She was a vegetarian. 

I see.

I’d call her sometimes at midnight.  Just to see if she was dreaming. Hear her voice.

Bet she loved that.

She always told me goodnight. Said, get some sleep. I’d just lay there and think of her.

What happened to her?

Not sure. One day, she was gone. Her phone was disconnected.We no longer met in coffee shops, bars, park benches.

Sorry.

No. It’s my fault.

Sounds like you loved her too much.

Yeah. I guess so.

You saw him?

Yeah.

Say hello?

Kept walking. Went right past me. Didn’t even tip his hat. Or smile. Just strolled into church like he owned the place. Like all these people were there waiting for him.  Walked right down the aisle. Took a seat at the end of the pew. Stared straight ahead the whole time Pastor Taylor was preaching. We were led in song; he didn’t sing.

Why you think he came back?

Lord knows.

Lord knows he’s a sinner.

We’re all sinners.

Yeah, but he’s a special kind of sinner. He lied. Couldn’t confess till it was too late. Getting that girl pregnant.  Grown man? He knew better.

That’s a rumor.

She left town. Some said she went over to Johnson County for an abortion. Kill an unborn. I guess he was OK with that. People say he paid for it.

I know his wife left him.

Yeah. Don’t blame her.

No. Course not.

So you saw him?

Yeah. Went right past me.

The television was turned off. A candle burned; smelled of chocolate. Dark blood on an easy chair cushion. He sat listening to a train go by. Noises in the night. A dog howled. Opposums diging in garbage cans. Mice scurried across the kitchen floor.

The old man picked up a recorder and blew into it. A hollow sound. Haunting. Missed notes. Fingers covered holes. No song, just long stretched out sound. A cat knocked over a coffee cup.

Rain hit the tin roof of his trailer. A beat was set, and the old man smiled. Ping, ping, ping, drops fell. He blew into the recorder again. Except this time, he got out of his chair and danced a jig. The pudgy man looked in the mirror and laughed. My, how we have slipped over the years, he said, catching his breath. Oh, how we have slipped.

He went to the window and looked out at the darkness. Black. Moon covered in clouds. Why are there never stars? he asked. Why? he blew a note.

I’m tired of the dark.