dmseay

There’s a few of us he watches, he said. Up there, the old man pointed. Up there, the kid looked up in the sky. He sees it all. The goodness, greatness, horrible things we do to each other. Dark clouds moved in. A floodlight shined down.

He knows, the old prisoner said. Your thoughts, the next move you’ll make, he knows. He knows all the days we count down to freedom. The markings on our walls. There are no secrets, he lit two cigarettes and handed one to the kid.

You say you’re innocent? We all do, he stated. We try to forget our sins. But he knows. See that barbed wire? That’s a reminder. Telling us there is no escape. Some  have tried, he blew smoke into the air. But there’s only so far you can get. He’ll strike you down.

And all the men we’ve murdered, stole from, women we’ve raped, our time is coming. Judgment. He knows. He knows.

Guns cocked. Men walking in circles. A voice over a loud speaker. Saying, line up. Blindfolds are tied. Guards take aim. The man in the sky looks on. He knows.

When I was a kid, I used to smell cut grass in the summertime.  The taste of it filled the air of Southern suburbs where charcoal grills blazed into evening.

A radio played the sounds of the season out in the garage where dad parked his ’78 Chevrolet Cowboys Classic station wagon. He was so proud. A car with the colors of the Dallas Cowboys uniforms; blue and silver with white doors. It was hideous. But he washed it once a week, changed the oil every three thousand miles, and made the tires shine like new. He loved three things: God, family, and the Cowboys. He tried to pass those values down to me, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to smell cut grass and drink Pepsi. The love of soda, I did get that from the old man. Dad would go through a six-pack a day. Some fathers drink alcohol. Dad drank sugar and caffeine. That’s what the radio in the garage told us to do; Join the Pepsi people. Feeling free. Feeling free. All across the nation. It’s a Pepsi generation. Here today. Here to stay. Feeling free. We did as we were told.

Summers in the South. Hot, humid, sticky summers in the South. Even the nighttime was hot. Windows open, and a warm breeze blew throughout the house.  Who needs air-conditioning, my dad said. This climate is good for you, he told me. It’ll make a man out of you. Teach you to endure, he’d laugh. Eventually, he went high-tech and bought fans for the bedrooms. He had this crazy idea about placing ice bags in front of the fans to cool us off. It was then that I realized my father was insane. I would wind up putting the ice on my forehead and waking up to a wet pillow. Fond memories. 

But, it was the cut grass that saved my soul. I could always count on that smell. You remember bits of childhood, and as one gets older, there are memories you want to forget. It is the beginning of spring. Soon, I will be a child again. 

This is what it comes to, he said. Black coffee. Unable to afford cream, poured a cup. Used to get the fancy stuff; Irish cream, cinnamon, and French vanilla. Now, it’s just black coffee. And, it’s cheap coffee. Bought it on special at the dollar store, the man said to his overnight guest. She smiled.

It’s OK, she told him. I like my coffee black. Like it strong, she ran her fingers through her gray hair.

I’m learning to adjust, he laughed.

So, you’re a writer. What kind of stories do you write?

Short fiction. I’m actually nothing.  Just a guy who has to get things off his chest. I write because I have to, he slurped his coffee. Besides, it’s no longer about writing in America anymore. It’s about self-promotion.  Feeding the ego. Nobody really has anything to say except, look at me.

That’s rather cynical.

Stick around, kid. It gets worse. I write short pieces every day. Have been for the last nine years. It keeps me sane. Put out a few books. Some money, not much. This is not a get rich business.  You wanna make money? Sell insurance, they laughed.

I see. I have a romantic poet on my hands. Beats salesmen. Talk about self-absorbed.  And they always have gold bracelets on their wrist. Gawdy necklaces. Class rings, she smirked.

I get that. Always trying to impress; very American.  Selling yourself.  Whatever that means. Fucking Dale Carnegie.

They looked at one another. Drank their coffee. Put on some Miles Davis. And went back to bed.

He looked across the street through his window; rain spattered, the blinds halfway opened. The old man looked at buildings in disarray, a cobblestone street falling apart, the drugstore on the corner where black and brown men gathered each morning; drinking their coffee, smoking cigarettes, scratch offs in one hand, a penny in the other. No one ever wins.

Cars drove by, made a clippity cloppity sound with tires running over potholes. A STOP sign bent. Children crossed the street. That damn guard blew her whistle. The sound pierced his ears.

The old man closed his blinds. He was done looking. Maybe it was too much to see; the Rust Belt, cities America forgot.

I look at cacti in the windows. Pink and white blooms. Delicate flowers. It is spring. They haven’t bloomed since Christmas. Colors. There was no need for lights.

The sun shines on them, and I am struck by the contrast; plants suited for the desert growing, flourishing safely indoors, cars driving by, and shanties falling apart brick by brick, as the cacti live. It’s a beautiful picture for those walking by on uneven sidewalks.

I keep the shades open as a gift to the neighborhood.  Light on green leaves never looked so spectacular. People point at them. They stare at the beauty. I wonder if they’re just looking into my apartment. 

Seated in my easy chair, listening to Bill Evans, and waving at the passersby. I am happy with this.

I remember seeing her. The last time I saw her. She was dancing in the front yard; had a stick with a flag attached to it. It was silver and purple. Shiny. She’d jumped up in the air and landed, doing the splits. Her hair was blonde, he smiled. And she was wearing this one-piece suit that glittered in gold. Like a majorette or something. Marching up and down the yard. People honked as they drove by. Boys whistled, ran his hand through his greasy hair. Seems like years ago. I don’t know how long, he lit a cigarette. Folks miss her. I miss her. It’s a shame what happened. I didn’t mean to. Things just got out of control. Next thing, she was dead. I woke up beside her. There. In the front yard. Traffic going by. Nighttime. No more honking.

Guilt.  It’s the guilt that gets me, he said. Stealing, lying, cheating, conning people. These sins. This is what keeps me up at night, he lit a cigarette. I’ve never been square. Forthright. Ducking and dodging. That’s what I do. And it’s on my mind constantly. Never ends. Crimes committed years ago are still haunting me, he took a drink of scotch.

Have you confessed these sins? To a priest? Or a counselor of some kind? he asked.

No. I keep it to myself. 

Probably best. You say sins. How bad could they be? These crimes you’ve committed. Have you ever killed anyone? he swerved back and forth, side to side in his chair.

No.

Are you sure of that?

Yes. My crimes involve theft, stealing, lying to people to get ahead.

Yes.

And what has it got me?

What?

Nothing. It was all for nothing.

Do you give to people?

The poor? When I can.

You make that sacrifice?

Yes.

The past is the past. Have you tried to right your wrongs?

Yes. I guess.

And you give to those down on their luck?

I do.

Life is over in the blink of an eye. You can only do so much. Forgive yourself.  Soon, it will be over.

That’s what I’m scared of .

They say there’s a light. A brilliant shining at the end. Warm and glowing. Inviting, he said. Like a rebirth. Moving from one life to the next. That is what they say.

Brilliant shining, huh?

That’s what they say.

Who’s they?

Those that have started to go to the other side. Heart attacks, car wrecks, stroke. A life altering event. Taking you just to the brink. And then pulling you back. Letting you see just enough, he told him. It’s called a near death experience. Saw it on some news program. People talked about the warmth they felt. This unconditional love.

The love of who? Jesus? Vishnu? Mohammed? Peter standing at the gate, passing out fliers?

Not sure. They all had the same story. A glowing light. A presence, he sipped his coffee; ate his donut.

I’m not ready to die. Or, almost die.

But doesn’t that comfort you? These stories?

Why did they come back?

Wasn’t their time.

And if they proceeded?

God bless.

I don’t know. Pretty strange.

Do you believe in an afterlife?

I believe I’ll have another donut.

Tonight, he’s talking to her. Sweetheart this and honey that. Lighting her cigarette and pouring a beer. Asking her, do you want a blanket? Could I turn the heat up for you? Kissing her on the forehead and rubbing her feet. Chet Baker sings in the background.

Last night, the two yelled at each other till sun-up. Harsh words were said. You son of a bitch, she screamed. You’re a whore, he told her. All this ranting about being drunks and having their child taken away. It’s your fault, she said. All of it. You left bruises on my baby. You hit my kid, she said.

What about you? he asked. The bath water was too hot. Skin burnt. Always crying. Did you ever wash his clothes? he pulled a gun out. This time, I’m going to do it. I’m going to rid myself of this problem for good, he laughed, pointing the gun at her.

Don’t.  Just put the gun down, she said. Please. Don’t do this, a window opened. Down below traffic drove down 1st Avenue. The bars were closing. Men lined up for day labor. The sun rose over the Hudson. He put the gun away. They held each other. Sorry, never sounded so sweet.

Tonight, he’s talking to her. Sweetheart this and honey that. Chet Baker sings in the background.

It’s a square. Four walls, he said. Containing us. Keeping us from getting out. No doors. Nor windows. Just walls.

I do like the color. It’s cheery. Very nice indeed. A beautiful room, he said. Better than being out there, I’ll tell you that.

Do you miss it?

Miss what?

Freedom. The ability to go anywhere.

Those days have passed me by. Used to be, I could travel anywhere I wanted. Now, I don’t have any gumption. I’m happy how it all turned out, he told him.

Not me. I still have the wandering ways. Out West. Sleep in the desert. Walk into a bar and order a shot. A cold beer. A woman’s touch. You don’t miss that?

I’m glad it’s all over. Eternity with you. Not a bad deal. We can talk about old times. Remember when we headed south to Arkansas.  Up in the Ozarks. What beauty. And it got cool at night. Winds came through the trees. Made you feel alive, he reminisced.

Never again. We’ll never see that again. Never feel that. Or smell it. It’s over. This is how it ends.

You think the box will fill up?

Hard to say. I don’t know what’s in store for us. This could be just a holding place. A room to wait in till he makes up his mind.

Which list do you think we’re on?

I don’t know. Nobody knows. Out there, I kept a Bible on me.

Yes. Yes, you did.

I never read it. Too complex. Didn’t understand the writing.  I just carried it with me. Like a rabbit’s foot. For luck.

Did it serve you well?

It was given to me by my grandmother. It had pictures in it. And maps. I looked at the pictures of Jesus performing miracles. Hanging on the cross. I don’t know what happened for him to get crucified.  Don’t know the whole story. Pictures only tell you so much.