dmseay

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.

Down the street, an orange light was on. Shining through the front window, through open blinds. It looked like they had captured the sun. Just a round orange ball glowing from a house. I was drawn to it. I wanted to see it up close. Touch it.

And I saw men coming and going from the suburban home. They were loading boxes into an old van. Rust on the running boards. A cracked windshield. It was two in the morning. One streetlight shined down on the corner.

A mist was in the air. The heavy stuff was not expected until sun up. Streets were slick. I walked carefully. The men loading the van were moving faster. The orange glow got bigger as I approached. Do I dare? Do I dare?

I stood in front of the house, watching. The screen door was open. It was dark inside, except for the orange light in the living room. I thought I was invisible and moved in closer to investigate.

What are you looking at? a man asked me. Stunned, I shook my head. Said, what are you looking at? his voice was now lower, almost like a growling bear.

Nothing, I said. Couldn’t sleep. Just out for a walk. Three men behind him kept moving boxes. Happens. Can’t sleep, so I walk at night, I said.

Have you tried warm milk? Taken aback, I began to laugh. It works, he said. A cup of warm milk. That’ll do the trick.

I’ll keep that in mind.

Meanwhile, keep walking.

I’ll do that.

Do what?

Warm milk.

Yeah.

And keep walking.

The next night, there was no orange light in the window. The blinds were drawn. I sat and drank my warm milk.

You were always talking about Duluth, Minnesota. Said there were more millionaires there than any city per capita in the world. All these rich folks freezing their asses off, he laughed. They could live anywhere. But they chose Duluth, he rolled a cigarette. They could go to California or Florida somewhere warm, maybe South Carolina or Georgia, he paused and took a drink of whiskey. And they stay in a cold environment. Bunch of Vikings. Crazies, he swiveled in his chair. I’ve heard the women up there are real pretty. Blonde and blue-eyed, his friend said. And in shape. They’re all in shape. Like Playboy bunnies without the tans.

Oh no, the old man said. They have tans, took another shot, and motioned to the bartender for a beer. In the winter, they ski in bikinis. Right down the mountainside wearing string bikinis. The sun glistens on their skin, he smiled.

You sure about that?

I read it on the internet.

So, you’ve never been there.

No. No, I have not. But in my mind, I have. I’ve been to Albuquerque, too.

In your mind?

Yes. In my mind.

You’ve never been anywhere, he said. Just stayed on this barstool all your life.

I’ve been to Decatur. They got a restaurant there that serves all the fish you wish. Fried Lake Perch. With hush puppies.

I know that place. Everyone knows that place. It’s only one town over.

Yeah. I know.

Why are you always talking about Duluth?

Just seems nice. In my head, it seems nice. Not many blacks in Duluth, he sat back and watched the television in the corner. Looked up, and Burt Reynolds was on Carson. The sound was on mute. A Bob Seeger song came on the jukebox. Not many Jews either, the old man said. Actually, I’m guessing about the Jews. But the statistics show less than two percent black. Mostly white. Lutheran even. Can you imagine?

No, Adolf. I can’t. Duluth, Minnesota, huh.

Yep. I’ll go there one of these days. I’ll go.

He listened to a swing outside his trailer hanging from a tall oak in the middle of the night. Going back and forth in November’s breeze. It squeaked a soft pitch, putting him to sleep. Only to be awakened a few hours later from nightmares of his past.

Did she really exist? he thought. A short time seems like a lifetime, he whispered, shaking. The old man took a swig of brandy sitting on his end table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Cracked, chapped lips wet from the liquor. He turned on the lamp and pulled open a drawer underneath. It was a color photograph of a little blonde girl. She was five. He remembered that.

The old man held the picture tightly. I thought she’d live forever, he said out loud. He leaned back in his easy chair and held her to the light. I did my job, he whispered. I did my job.

Mother and child lived across town in a one room rental. Mom had a mental illness, heard voices inside her head. She’d leave her daughter with momma and take off for weeks at a time. Criss-crossing the nation from Indiana to New York and out to Los Angeles. The young mother sold herself on the streets for dollars and cans of beer. Her green eyes looked crazy. The young lady stared down her clients as if they were game to be hunted. She never said a word. Just gave em what they wanted and went on to the next one.

The old man would visit twice a month. Every other weekend, he’d knock on their door and wait for it to open. Sometimes, it took a while. He had to call out through the thick wood, it’s me. I wanna see Bess Ann. Mother and daughter would open the door. He’d pick her up in his fat arms and hold the child. Told her he was sorry. Bess Ann would nuzzle in his chest.

What’re you sorry about? asked his former lover. You got any money? she twisted in the doorway, took a twenty from him, and invited the young buck in. He held the kid tightly, never wanting to let go. And then, he’d leave. Just go back to his trailer and drink till he cried. Waiting and waiting for Bess Ann to grow up. Maybe come stay with him. These were all dreams. Living with a drunk would be better than living with a schizophrenic hooker, he laughed and then passed out.

He got a call from Grandma one morning. Something had been wrong with Bess Ann for a while. Said she was real sickly. Her skin was yellow, and she cried a lot. The child complained of stomach pains.

He took her to the hospital where a doctor confirmed what he thought. Bess Ann was dying from cancer. Soon, she’d be gone.

They buried her in a pine box. A pauper’s funeral. He tossed flowers into the casket before they closed the door forever. He said a prayer. She went her way, and he went his. They never saw each other again.

At night, when the wind blew the swing back and forth, the old man would look at that picture of Bess Ann. I never got to push her into the air, he said, then take another drink of brandy.

The mirror in the corner showed his age. A little round in the midsection, lines on a ruddy face, gray hair disheveled.

I’m getting old, he said. My body hurts, and every day, I feel like I’m dying, the old man looked closer in the mirror. I should have taken better care of myself, he whispered. Should’ve quit smoking and drinking long ago, a pack sat on the kitchen table. Have my eyes changed? he asked. I think they’re still the same. Just more wrinkles, he laughed.

He took down a bottle of whiskey from the top of the refrigerator. Poured himself a glass and toasted, here’s to your health, he said. Let’s make it one more year.

What are we talking about here? he asked. Some kind of new law? A new rule for the house? he lit a cigarette, took a drink from a Styrofoam cup with stick figures drawn on it. Here’s the deal. You want something new? he poked him in the shoulder with his right forefinger. I’m in charge. I’m the commander and chief, he told him. Time for new blood. Out with the old. And in with me, five men circled around the two.

Look, the ranch hand told him. You want the reigns? You wanna be in charge? he spit on the dirt floor. You gotta take it. I’m not giving it up. Savvy? Get it? the young cowboy looked at him.

This is a strange place, the old geezer said. Oklahoma is a weird state. Missouri is crazy too. And here we are right on the border where really bizarre things happen. It’s where weird meets crazy, he took a swig of cold coffee. I know these parts. Been around a long time. I know the ropes, the circle of men got smaller. You kids are just passing through on your way somewhere. Maybe onto California or Idaho. Not really sure. But I know you won’t be here come winter time, he said. Me? I’ll be here long after you’re gone. This coup attempt is about to come to a close, the old man put up his dukes. New blood? I’m the old and the new. I am the light. I’m alpha and omega kid, the circle got tighter. Boys, give us some room, the old man said. But the circle of men wouldn’t budge. I said give us some room.

Look old man, the punk said. You’re not in charge of anything. I’ve had enough of you. Men. I say crucify him. Nail him to the cross, he walked away.

Stones were thrown at him. A bull whip was used on his back. They beat him till he was on his knees, begging for the world. A crown of sticks and weeds was placed on his head as they carried the old man out to the barn yard. Laughing at him. Calling him names. Mocking him. A death sentence was carried out.

And as the sun went down, the old man looked to the heavens and said, Father. Why have you forsaken me?

Crumbs on his shirt. Donut particles. A ring on the table where a coffee cup sat. No coasters. An empty pizza box on the linoleum floor. Pieces of cheese stuck to the bottom. It is dark. And quiet.

Shadows are cast on the ceiling from the oven light. An unlit candle tempts him. He plays with the black wick and lights it with his cigarette. It smells of pumpkin pie. Cinnamon and nutmeg. The flame dances a bit.

There is not much left for him. The old man has thrown most of his possessions away over the years. Old pictures of a past life. Telephone numbers and addresses. Objects from trips out West. An arrowhead he found in the desert. Nothing meant anything anymore. He wanted to erase all memories. Thoughts of her. This life was coming to a close.

There’s only one way to forget, he thought. Move on, the old man whispered. He took a drink from the whiskey bottle on top of the refrigerator. Old Paddy’s. Screwed the top back on and licked his thin lips, walked down the hall with bare walls, and entered his room where there was a shotgun under the bed. Life compared to death for him seemed worse. He sat on his bed watching the television in silence. Johnny Carson was talking to Angie Dickinson. He could tell they were flirting with each other. He knew that John had a crush on her as he did with all his women guests. He laughed. If only he could be Johnny Carson, he thought. Life would be easy. The old man pulled the trigger.

What time did you say it was?

It’s five.

What’re you doing up?

Couldn’t sleep. Up all night. Strange dreams. Uncomfortable in my skin, he said. There’s a lot of people up at this hour, he rolled a cigarette. Factory workers, waitresses, cops working on a homicide, ambulance drivers carting off corpses, he walked over to open the blinds.

You don’t have to be anywhere, she said. Those days are over, she touched his shoulder from behind. Your days of worrying are over. They should be, he shook his head.

It’s the little things that eat me up, he told her. Worry about little things growing into big things, he laughed. Like, what if I lose my mind? Go crazy? Start forgetting things. No longer able to drive through town or on pretty country roads in autumn. It all just scares me, she wrapped her arms around his waist, kissed the back of his shirt.

We’ll be fine, his wife said. We’ll be fine.