dmseay

Red blankets covered the windows. No one could see inside. Siding was falling off. Shrubs overgrown. Weeds had taken over the front yard.

It’d been years since anybody lived there. Stayed in the O’Reilly family for years. Handed down from one generation to the next. A torn Irish flag still waved.

Kids used to throw rocks at the house as they made their way home from school. Made up stories about the home. Said it was haunted. Told folks that old man O’Reilly died in that house. And, he did.

He was the last O’Reilly to live there. Had no one to hand it down to. No sons or daughters. Nieces and nephews didn’t want it. Brothers and sisters had passed on. No family. No friends. A true loner. Never went to the neighborhood pub nor to church. He had given up faith in God and whiskey long ago. The old man just sat in his chair each day drinking tea and listening to The Clancy Brothers on his record player. He tapped his long fingers to the music. Sometimes, he would pretend to be dancing with a beautiful woman right in the kitchen; like in his younger days. He laughed and cried, but mostly stayed silent as the needle touched the wax. Remembering. Remembering.

Brought out on a stretcher for all to see. Had a heart attack. Died in his sleep. That’s what they said. The body was cold. It had been in decay for weeks. It was by chance that his nephew found him. A pot of tea was on the stove. He raised a cup to his uncle. Cheers, he said. God be with you.

Red blankets covered the windows.

There was an old bathtub he used to sit in when he was a kid. Toys floated on water; tug boats, fire engines, plastic men wearing life jackets. He played with them until the clear water turned cold.

At the end, when he heard his mother calling, he would say, Death to sin and alive to Christ, before submerging his head under the clear water. He would come up from the depths of cleanliness back into a world of sin.

One day, he prayed, he would be baptized at church. Wear the pure white cloth, and be applauded by a whole congregation of people; happy to see another soul saved. Another life that shall not perish.

Mother would put him to bed and ask if he’d said his prayers. Yes, he replied. If the Lord takes me tonight, I’ll go straight to Heaven.

Well, mom said, You better be good. God doesn’t take just anybody.

The kid worried himself to sleep. Kicking under covers, he dreamed, Am I good enough? Does Jesus want me?

Tears rolled down his face. He prayed immediately for more forgiveness. Forgiveness for lying, for thinking unpure thoughts, for swearing, for calling his neighbor a fool, a host of sins. He named them all. A complete confession. His stuffed animals looked on.

Amen.

Have you ever been alone in the city? he asked her. There’s a million people around you, but you feel lonely. Folks crossing streets in herds. Walking against red lights, he told her. Just a mass of humans. Acting like animals. Some push and shove to get where they’re going. Others just run right over you, he lit a cigarette, stirred his coffee.

Both of them looked out onto 8th Avenue. The diner had a few people in it. Mostly drinking coffee and eating sweet rolls. They shared a slice of cheesecake.

People say this is the best cheesecake in the world, she said. Perry Como came over the speakers. I’m glad we splurged and got cherries, he looked at her.

Special occasion, he said. The waitress came over and poured more coffee. Yeah, New York cheesecake is pretty good. Never had it till I got here. Looked at it in the spinning case and said, that looks pretty good. Cut me a big old slice, they laughed. How long you been here?

Going on three years, she said. I forget. It’s all gone by so fast. One minute, you’re on a bus, then you’re dumped out into the streets. You know the routine, she stabbed at dessert.

I do, he said. You miss home?

I miss having my own bed.

Yeah. Me too. Me too.

They looked at each other. Tony Bennett was singing. Taxis drove up and down the avenue. There was one bite of cheesecake left.

You take it, he said.

No. It’s all yours.

They both stared at each other some more. Left the small bit on the plate. She rolled her fork in the red goo. The boy and girl walked out together. The sun was coming up over Manhattan.

They talked on the phone for hours. Long distance. He was four hours ahead.

She told him about her night. Waiting on truckers and folding highchairs. Pouring coffee, serving pie, and smiling the whole time. She threw away dreams.

And, he said he wanted to move there. See her in person. Told her he liked her pictures; the ones in the swimsuit. He carried a polaroid in his wallet. Showed her to men at work in the lunch room. Said, that’s my woman. They were all impressed.

On the phone, you can be anything you want to be. He wanted to be a country singer. Said he wrote songs in her honor. He’d put the phone on speaker and sing to her from his rented room. Sang about loneliness and heartache. Told stories through songs about loving her for eternity. She smiled on the other end. A kid cried in the background.

She rocked her baby asleep. Whispered into the speaker, I love you, babe; pulled the pacifier gently from the child’s mouth and told him it was time for her to go.

They kissed from a long distance. Told each other goodnight. And then softly touched the phone to hang up. He strummed a few chords, and she put the baby back to bed.

The sun was coming up in Nashville.

I was glad to have known you, she said to the tombstone. Wildflowers and weeds grew around it. The woman placed a coffee mug in front of the marker.

Brought your favorite cup, she said. Pictures of her grandkids were on it; the boy on one side, girl on the other. Missing teeth. Smiling. I brought flowers too, she told the piece of concrete. The daughter placed them on top. They kept falling off; her hands trembled. There, she told the rock, pushing the yellow tulips down, Hope you like these, a cardinal flew by.

The woman kissed the tombstone and hugged it. She held it with her two hands. I miss you, mom. You went too soon, she said. Oh, well. God has a plan, she said. Don’t know what that is sometimes. I never do, really. Things just kind of happen. Like you getting sick with cancer. Never saw that coming, she patted her mother’s name. Traced the letters with her bony fingers. I’ll see you one day, mom. Streets of gold. A mansion on the hill.

She waved goodbye to the tombstone.

Brick walls with graffiti on them. Painted in blue and red. Crowns and pitchforks. A crack pipe on a sidewalk made of tin foil.

The Arab store trades in food stamps for cash; sixty will get you forty. A transaction is made. Now he can buy his goods for the night; a forty ounce, dime bag, pack of smokes. Later, in the midnight hour, he will purchase a Big Mac. Maybe fried chicken at Kennedy’s on the boulevard. Before the sun comes up, his money will be spent.

And he sits on the corner the next day with the other bums, junkies, crazies, runaway teens and whores. Waiting for someone to walk by with mercy. He begs for a dollar. Dimes and quarters are dropped in his hat. This is their church; a collection must be taken.

But, it’s not one for all all for one. It’s every man for himself. America has taught them well. All profit. No overhead.

The fat man sits in his pants filled with piss and shit. The smell is horrendous. He sings out songs as people walk by. His voice cracks and sputters. They keep walking.

He tells Jr. tales from Bellevue. Strapped to a bed. Isolation. Meds handed out like candy. Talked about the woman who used to bring in pizza for everybody. Everyone got a slice. She was an angel. Then, one day, she stopped coming. Nobody knew why. She just stopped. Maybe she went to Heaven, Jr. said. The fat man nodded his head. That’s it. Maybe she died and went to Heaven. Do you think we go to Heaven? he asked. Fat man was silent. Started singing again. A dollar was dropped in his hat.

I’ll tell you what is real, he said. Nothing. It’s all in our minds. Truth? that doesn’t exist. It’s just made-up situations, the old man said. Lies we tell ourselves, he drank his coffee and continued talking to himself. Old girlfriends, former lovers, some old dog that bit us when we were in first grade; figments of the imagination. They were never there, he lit a cigarette. This whole life is just one big dream, his boy came into the room. He looked up at him from the kitchen table. Tall kid. Weighed about a buck fifty. The young man opened the refrigerator and pulled out an Old Milwaukee’s Best.

What are you pontificating about? the boy asked. Out here blabbing on to yourself. You’re crazy old man. Just crazy.

What do you know? the old man asked him. You’re not real. Your mother wasn’t real. Just some kind of thoughts in my head.

What do you know about real? You’ve avoided reality your whole life, the kid slapped him. Now that’s real, the old man was stunned. Face turned red. Did you feel that? the boy asked. Get a little taste of reality? he laughed.

The old man got up from his chair and headed for the closet, where he grabbed a shot gun and placed a bullet in the barrel. He pointed the gun at the boy; his own flesh and blood. This isn’t real, he told him. This isn’t real at all, he pointed the gun at his son.

Put the gun down, dad.

You’re just a dream, a bad dream I’ve had all my life, he put the gun to his head. I’m going to end this dream once and for all.

The son grabbed the barrel and removed it from his jaw-bone. The old man fired, and the bullet went right through the kitchen wall. They both laughed.

Well, the old man said. You can’t kill what’s not there.

Watching the train go by

Flattens a spoon on tracks

Midwestern afternoon.

Graffiti on cars

Corporate signatures

Heading west.

Out to California

Over mountains

Above streams.

A man on back waves

A spoon flattens

On tracks.

He was stuck in Brothers Karamazov. Couldn’t read anymore. The three brothers with distinct personalities and the old foolish father had given him headaches at night. Made him toss and turn. Did he have a good heart? A soul that was bound for Heaven? Or was he evil? Only looking out for his own good. A narcissistic approach to life. Putting himself above others. These spirits swayed back and forth inside of him. Good versus evil. Would he kill his own flesh and blood to attain a lover? On the right given night? Probably.

The rosary hung on the doorknob. It was given to him by monks in the Bronx. The wooden beads felt good in his hands when he held it. Moving his fingers from one ball to the next. He would often hold the small silver cross to his heart and pray for forgiveness of his many sins over the years. Vainly, he would pray for God to give him direction in his life. The fat man would pray with sweat rolling down his cheeks and forehead, Father in Heaven. Forgive me of my sins. Lead me down a path that is worthy of your love. Help me to overcome these sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…Amen.

Was he sincere in this prayer? His actions said otherwise. Around two o’clock in the morning, when coyotes howled and rats scurried through garbage cans, strange thoughts would enter his mind. Clouding out all rationale. He’d stare at the rosary and then at the butcher knife on his desk. Cleaned and polished. Every bit of blood wiped off it from the night before. Father, forgive me of these sins, he’d say, then examine the knife even more. The wooden handle was easy to grip. The blade was dull, but it did the job. The devil was inside him. God had left long ago.

The fat man would dress for the night wearing dark pants and a black tee-shirt with a blue jacket. He washed them every day; very particular about getting every bit of blood out of them. Spots on his jeans. A smear on his jacket. Drops on his black wool hat. Shoes polished. This was his outfit for murder. The killing of the innocent lamb. After he was done, his heart went out to them. A victim was a victim was a victim. He killed without prejudice. And, a prayer was said for each soul that had passed. God forgive them. And take them into your home, he said silently, then he threw the body into the trunk of his car and drove off. Deep into the woods of Ohio, he would drive. Listening to country music the whole time. The Highway Men was his favorite group. Willie, Johnny, Waylon, and Kris; a song about reincarnation. He sang along as he drove his Dodge off highways onto backraods made of gravel amongst tall pines and oaks. Didn’t bother burying the body; just threw it out there for someone to find. Then, take off like a ghost in the middle of the night. Praying for forgiveness. Laughing while Dolly sang of her coat with many colors.

The Brothers Karamazov sat on his desk. He could not finish it. Murder is one thing. Completing a task another. Sliding a blade into someone’s gut is easy, he thought. Seeking truth is hard.

Out of date yogurt. Mold on garlic hummus. Zuchinni had gone soft. A case with two beers left in it. An empty coffee creamer bottle. Bread that’d seen better days. He continued looking in his refrigerator . Some box of baking soda. Left in there years ago. That was a memory of her.