dmseay

Everyone’s scared of death, he said. It’s natural to be afraid of the unknown. We go through life listening to mystics or mistakes. Those that know and those that don’t. We make our choices, the fat man lit a cigarette and handed one to me. We lit them both with the same flame from a Zippo. The lighter closed with a snap. He nodded his head to the music playing. John Coltrane dishing it out with Central Park West. I want this played at my funeral, he told me. Followed by Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus, he smiled, stuck the cigarette between two teeth.

The Bible says praise him with song, I whispered, taking a drink from my pint glass.

I think that’s what Coltrane and Mingus, all those cats did. Praised him with song, he held his rocks glass to the ceiling. They knew. They weren’t scared. But, they were prophets. We’re just simpletons trying to stay on a path. Some path through Chicago, New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, Paris, into the heartland of Iowa where the children cry at night, St. Louis cats jumping to rhythms laid down years ago and muted trumpets playing in bars across this land, all over, all over. This is the gospel my son, he said. This is the gospel.

There was a cricket in the house. It chirped from a corner, though nobody ever saw it. All night long, he’d sing. Sometimes, in a fast rhythm, and then slow down as if he were performing a ballad. The high-pitched noise drove the old man crazy at first. He ripped out desk drawers, turned over the trashcan, and checked behind potted plants, all in an effort for peace and quiet. Slept with one eye opened and a shotgun on his lap in his easy chair. The old man was convinced the cricket was a monster. An invisible monster that would one day appear in front of him. He was prepared.

Days were quiet. No noise from the cricket. Just a low hum of television talk shows. Shows about cheating spouses, obese children, pregnant daughters, and fights between siblings. The old man just sat there with the gun cocked over his shoulder. His fingers sweated from the summer heat. Felt a tension on the trigger. Dreaded nightfall.

One night, as the cricket serenaded him, he had a dream. In this dream, he awoke to the smell of fried bacon in the skillet, eggs seasoned, buttered tortillas and coffee brewing. The cricket was standing upright in this vision with an apron around his waist, speaking Spansh. He placed breakfast on a table for the old man and began to sing an old traditional Mexican mariachi song of love and despair. The old man smiled as he rolled his eggs in the corn tortilla. Clapped his hands while the cricket swayed back and forth. There was no anger in him. Just peace. He tipped the cricket a ten spot. The insect smiled and bowed, then walked out the door, closing it softly with a turn of the knob.

The old man awoke to silence. No longer was there noise. No more singing. Just quiet.

Leaves fled from trees.

Christmas lights in September. A wreath is still on the front door. Leaves have yet to change.

It is morning. The old man sits on steps made of concrete; cold, wet from last night’s rain. A cup of coffee beside him, cigarette dangles from his lips. School children line up at the bus stop.

Inside the trailer, mom is making breakfast; fried eggs, fried bacon, fried potatoes, everything fried with buttered white toast. She hums along to a Dottie West song. Windows are open. He can hear her. The smell of bacon drippings linger.

He takes one last drag off his Marlboro and stomps it out in the dirt. Throws the butt in a coffee can. The old man opens the door and sees breakfast laid out on the table for him. He does not smile at her or say thank you. He simply sits and begins to eat.

Gotta go to the grocery today, she says. Want anything special? he continues shoveling the food in front of him into his small mouth. We need more bacon, she tells him. More eggs. Maybe a chicken. Sound good? he does not respond.

Being finished, she grabs his yellow stained plate. Takes it to the sink and rinses it off. Again, he does not say thank you. The old man goes back outside and sits with a half filled cup and lights his cigarette. He stares into space, mumbles to himself, and then falls over against the rail.

She walks down the steps past him. Pats the old man on the shoulder. There is no response.

Instructions were wrongly read. Should’ve been simple. An easy reading of a goes to b goes to c. But you had to put your own twist on it. Adding elements that just didn’t fit. A bit of this. A bit of that. Some mess was made. You’re accountable for this. You have to take responsibility. Has anyone told you that? the old man acknowledged his son. You got all these minions following you. Agreeing with every word you say. It’s as if a spell was cast, the son lit a cigarette. It all could have been so simple. But you had to go for style.

I did what I thought was right, the father stood up. Sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t always pay off. Any smart man will tell you that. Kissinger would tell you that. The truth is hard. Not everyone wants to hear it.

People died pop. They’re gone because of you not following directions. Moms and dads are missing sons and daughters. All because you thought you were doing the right thing. You can’t think in these situations, dad. You have to know. Every little detail has to be followed.

It’s not my fault. Things got messed up out there. Couldn’t see straight. It’s hard to work in the dark.

You were not in the dark. The man before you left instructions. All you had to do was follow them, the son left the room, slamming the door behind him. The father picked up a newspaper, read the headline, and softly placed it in the trash can. His time was over.

Imagination had gotten the best of him. Long drawn-out thoughts of death kept him awake. His eyes open, laying there next to his wife, in and out of a dreamlike state, pictures in his mind of leaving this earth, this life, and moving onto nothing; a blank space. No god nor angels greeting him at pearly gates. No streets of gold. Just a cold, empty space where he would dwell forever. Completely contrary to promises made by preachers in his youth. Tales of Heaven and Hell told by ministers way up high in the pulpits of the South. Spending eternity with Jesus or forever with Lucifer; a million souls lost.

He walked down the hall of his trailer and tried to get comfortable in his easy chair. Flipped through channels with the sound down. Watched news reports of war and famine, criminal activity in the inner-city, and masks to be worn at all times. Maybe the end was coming, he thought. Perhaps the apocalypse was well on its way. More fear entered his head. Maybe death wasn’t such a bad thing, he whispered. Escape before it all goes to shit, the fat man mumbled. Eyes closed. Asleep to the soft voices of television news.

And in the morning it was toast and jelly. Coffee with cream and a loving round wife. He wondered if today would be his last. He wondered.

There’s a clock ticking in all of us, he told his wife. You never know when the alarm is going to sound, he said. Could be today. Might be tomorrow. You never know. My dear, you never know.

She kissed his forehead. Said she loved him. Talked to him like a school boy. Brushed his graying hair back from his forehead. Then she sang to him. It was a song he had not heard since his youth. He hummed along. I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away.

Candy bar wrappers mixed with leaves swept on a sidewalk. Kids leave a trail. Porchlights and streetlights start to turn on. A hazed blue shadows over concrete. The bouncing of a basketball is heard in the distance. Moms yell that it’s dinner time. A pot roast in the oven. Ranch Style salad dressing on tables throughout a suburban landscape. Houses with aluminum siding and clean gutters. Friday night will be here soon enough.

Parents file into a football stadium at the local high school. Kids in uniforms are doing jumping jacks on the twenty yard line. Slapping each other on the helmet with a bulldog on the side. Pounding pads with fists and yelling out, yeah, yeah, yeah. A prayer is said, and the flag is presented. All rise and remove your hats. Hands over hearts.

Under bleechers, boys and girls make out as the band plays Horse. A referee whistles, and the coach complains. Dads, yell, and moms talk about homecoming. What dress will she wear? Will her boy be named king?

Find out tomorrow. Same suburban time. Same suburban channel.

He’s out there. On the ledge. There is no parachute. No net below. A hundred feet above the street. Cars and trucks, pedestrians, hot dog vendors, taxis, and cop cars race up and down. A small girl points at him.

He’s eating a sandwich. His last one. Tuna on toasted wheat with cheddar cheese. A can of Coke sits beside him. It sweats in the summer heat.

He’s humming his favorite song, Central Park West runs through his head. The version Coltrane made famous. His fingers snap to the rythm in his mouth. The man points at clouds. An airplane goes by. A crowd forms on the sidewalk. His palms are wet.

Someone yells out, Don’t do it. But, he can’t hear them. He hears nothing but Coltrane playing his saxophone. Suddenly, there’s a cool breeze, and all seems right. He stands on the ledge. He does not look down. Coffee sounds good.

It’d seen better days. Marked up with blue and red paint. Graffiti had been swashed on by local kids. Mean words about mothers and killers, so on and so on. Pitchforks and devils with crowns dancing on brick walls. Tiny dents where bullets had bounced off . Mortar chipped. Gunshots could be heard throughout the night. One gang trying to claim territory and another attempting to reclaim it. The fighting went back and forth. Newspapers got tired of writing about it. They’re doing us a service, one city councilman said. Let them kill each other.

But, the word on the street was always about a fight being on the horizon; a major gangland battle. Machine guns and semiautomatics shooting into the night behind buildings off Western and out in the street; young boys with toys that kill out in the open with nothing to protect them. Wearing dark clothes and ski masks. Some carjacking for quick getaways. Windows shot up. Babies crying in the night.

Everything was fine when the battles took place in the black neighborhoods on the southside. But when they moved north to white land, folks got concerned. Soon, there were hold-ups at ATM’s. Couples getting mugged coming home from theaters. Drunks rolled in alleys. And gangs tagging buildings, shooting at each other down the street from Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg’s house. Something had to change.

And so, a new sheriff was elected to take care of this crime. This blight. His job was to move everything back to the southside. Back to Austin, Cottage Grove, 95th Street, Blue Island. But, this is not business. Business needs to grow. That’s what the gang leaders told the sheriff. Profits were being seen. Now it was just a matter of fighing it out for supremacy.

You can try more cops, one gang leader told him. but they’ll just be killed in the process, he said. You’ll have a real blood bath on your hands. Things will settle down, the leader of the red gang told the sheriff. Soon, the killing will be done, and the blues will stay on the southside. But, we got these pills to push,and every white kid loves them. Black kids too. This is business, he said. This is business.

The killings continued. Robberies, muggings, stickups, a real crime spree. Nothing got solved. The reds and the blues fought it out forever. And ever. Goodbye, Chicago. So long. It’s business. Somebody’s getting paid.

Dead leaves mixed with candy bar wrappers and cut grass still green. Kids play on swings while old men smoke cigarettes on front porches of the Midwest.

Pumpkins smashed by boys drunk of drink from their fathers liquor cabinets. Young girls dream of homecoming dances.

Fields of corn now brown. Stalks dying. Soon to be tilled back into the earth; where we all will be.

And church bells ring out on a Sunday morning. Calling us all to prayer. Worn out from Saturday night’s folly, we stumble through doors, dipping fingers into holy water. The face of Jesus looks down on all of us, saying, Don’t let me down. But, we do. For we are humans in a Midwestern town.

Do you love me? he asked. Care? he continued. You know, I look at you and sometimes I see nothing. Nothing but a pretty face. No soul behind it. This whole time, I’ve known you, and you have yet to show your cards. Some kind of game you play, he rolled a cigarette on the bar. She looked around the room. Looked at other men walking through the door. Watched couples dance and laugh. Wondered why they didn’t. Would you look at me when I’m talking? he asked. It’s just a common courtesy. At least show interest, she took a drink from her rocks glass. I remember when I first met you, he told her, pointing his forefinger at her chest. I thought, what a pretty girl. You had a real pretty look to you. Sweet, he laughed. You looked sweet. You never know what it is you’re getting, he smiled. I saw you in this bar, and I said to myself that one day you’d be all mine, he took a drag. That’s what I said. Silently. Quietly. I felt my lips move just a bit. And, I walked over to you. What’s the first thing I said to you? she shook her head. You dont remember? she moved her head from side to side again. I said, hello. Just a simple hello. But, I looked you in the eyes when I said it. Those pretty green eyes. And that’s all it took. Three kids and a mortgage later, that’s all it took.

I’m leaving, she said. I can’t breathe anymore. You can have the kids, the house, I don’t want them. I need to take off and go look for myself. Somewhere. Not sure, she stood up. Took a drink and placed her glass on the bar. It was never right, she said. Never felt right. Just did it on a whim. I think most girls do. There is no love.