dmseay

This is autumn? Right? Edward asked. Summer went by so quickly. One day, you’re shooting fireworks, and the next raking the front yard. Too much to think about. Too many changes.

I like it. Tom said. It gives me hope. Tells me the earth is still spinning, he said. One day, it’ll stand still. One day. Then we’re in trouble.

It’s all an illusion. Edward told Tom. One big trick. He lit a cigarette and threw the match on the ground. Just like us. Are we really here? He asked. How do we know?

Tom took out a pocket knife and rolled up his sleeve. There were tracks on his arm. Probably the other one, too. He took the point of the blade and poked the skin, which began to bleed. Looked up at Harold. That’s real. See that. The way it moves down my arm. Like a slow flowing river. Drying up like a riverbed during a drought. He picked at the black blood. Placed some in his mouth. That’s real, Harold. We’re real.

That proves nothing. Harold said.

Pain proves everything.

Brown spots on yellow tiles. Coffee stains on white counters. Rips in leather seats. Foam coming out. Sign says OPEN.

The waitress walks the floor, going from table to table with a coffee pot in one hand and her black hair up in a bun. An ink pen runs through it. She hands the gringo a menu and asks if he wants water. He says coffee will do.

Tortillas, tamales,  enchiladas, chorizo and eggs, eggs Ranchero style, caldo, menudo, and many other hangover options on the plastic sheet. He rubs his eyes.

Are you ready? The short waitress asks.

Yeah. Ready for what?

Ohhhh. Not feeling well this morning? What got you last night?

Tequila. He tells her. Tequila. Then I switched countries and went to Ireland. Whiskey. I had whiskey.

On no. She said. Don’t ever do that.

I’m a pro. Used to be a pro. Now I’m just a drunk with a headache. Tired. In need of grease.

Chorizo and eggs?

Yes, please. Corn tortillas.

Sí.

He watched her as she walked away. That woman is a goddess, he says. A true goddess.

A thin mattress on the floor. The tag on it says Beautyrest. Blood stains and brown spots cover it.

He lies down, resting his head on a folded Carhartt jacket, smelling of smoke, and cigarettes. Work boots remain on. Soles worn thin. His feet sweat in unwashed wool socks his parents gave him for Christmas one year. A picture of them folded in his wallet.

The toilet down the hall runs all night. No one bothers to shake the handle. Smells of dead rats in the walls permeate the building. After a while, you get used to it, he writes down on a legal pad next to the bed; trying to capture the real America. Leaving suburbia behind. The smell of burning charcoal replaced with that of shit. He stares up at the cracked ceiling. Smiles and waits for more observations.

Snow is piling up outside. Plows scrape steel on streets. The flashing neon sign that reads, The Tiny Tap Two blinks on and off, glowing under streetlights on Dearborn. It’s four in the morning.  Drunks yelling out for forgiveness ring throughout the city. He lights a candle.

What is true? He ponders. What is real? Maybe the affairs and quiet alcoholism of Hinsdale are more American than the brutal honesty of Chicago. Perhaps. He picks up his pencil and writes, This country is one big lie. 

I told him to come in. He didn’t listen. Never listens. Didn’t even look at me. Just kept on walking. Colder than a well diggers ass out there. I wasn’t going to chase him.

Two days had passed. Hadn’t heard from him. Ma waited by the phone. Said he’d be calling any minute. Phone never rang. Actually, it did ring once. Berniece called to see what Ma was bringing to the church potluck Saturday night. Ma told her she didn’t have time for that and hung up quickly. Made some coffee and went right back to sitting by the phone. Silence weakens the heart.

Sit down over here, I told her. Come on. Have a seat. She walked over to the couch and sat on the opposite end.

It’s your fault, she said. Shouldn’t have been so hard on the boy. He can’t help it. 

He’s a fancy boy, Ma. Walks and talks like a girl. Soon he’ll be wearing dresses and getting his ears pierced.

So what. Ma said. So what. He’s still your son. 

Son. Daughter.  I don’t know.

Well. He’s gone now.

Probably caught a bus to San Francisco or New York. Some big city.

Ain’t you worried? She asked.

Of course. Everybody worries about their children.

Blank walls. White.  There are no pictures on them. Lamps cast a light.

Coffee maker pisses black liquid into a pot. Makes a gurgling sound as if someone was choking it. A cup and a spoon sit on the counter. Stolen sugar packets and cream; Irish flavored, French cream, hazelnut.

The radio is turned to WKCR. Twenty-four hours of Thelonius Monk. His birthday is being celebrated. Straight No Chaser.

I pour my coffee and open a window, sit on the ledge, and crawl out to the fire escape. Down below morning traffic begins. Busses, taxis, kids laughing and cursing, all of it makes a symphony.  The streets; one great concert hall.

It is beginning to rain. An autumn shower. Morning in New York.

Blankets were piled neatly in the corner. Different kinds of blankets; cotton, wool, electric with the cord attached, and plug hanging by a wire. Some were just plain white. Others had knitting on them of lambs jumping over the moon, red barns, outlines of blue skies. Grandma stitched em together years ago. She said my dad used to play camp out in the front room, using blankets, drooping over chairs as a roof, and another on the green shag carpet he pretended was grass.

Grandma said he died over in Vietnam. Told me he was a Marine. She said he wasn’t over there, no more than six months, and they were shipping him back with a flag across his casket. I never believed her. I knew Dad was out there, somewhere.

Funny thing about Dad. There was no headstone for him. No final place of rest. Grandma said the old man was cremated, and a twister one night scattered his ashes all around town. She told this story with fake tears streaming down her face. And that’s when I started looking.

I packed a duffel bag and swung it over my shoulder. Decided I’d head out West. As west as you could get. As far North too. Went to Alaska in the spring. Almost all the snow had melted. Flowers in yellows and whites with some reds were beginning to bloom. Needles on pines were green.

It was there in Anchorage, Alaska, that my travels ended. Seated at a bar on a wooden stool was my old man with long brown hair and a wild beard drinking whiskey. I imagined him shaved and with a short cut. He looked just like me. Brown eyes and all. Even had a gut like me.

I sat down next to him and ordered a whiskey as well. Turned to him and toasted. He lifted his glass. We sat in silence.

Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. The air-conditioner and fans turned on high. It is October. She counts her blessings.

The leaves have not changed yet. Grass is still green and in need of a cut. Sun and rain. Sun and rain.

He sits on the pier with a fishing pole in hand. Nothing has hit his line all day. He wonders if autumn will ever come.

They used to call this Indian summer. Now it’s just summer extended. Eighty-three degrees in Northern Indiana. The fat man drips sweat. He curses God.

Nothing is biting. At least the days are getting shorter. Soon, the darkness will come. He says. A good excuse to sleep early.

These days are numbered.

Porchlight gives off a yellow color. He sits in the morning darkness with a cup of coffee, listening to frogs croak and crickets laugh. Two feral cats hiss at each other. There’s going to be a fight. Over what? Stale bread? A dead bird? Popcorn thrown out in the yard? He takes another swig of coffee and wipes his mouth on his long sleeve. Lights a cigarette.

Semis go up and down 41. Some go north to Chicago while others head south to Terre Haute. Air-brakes and engines. Tires roll. Headlights shine.

The old man remembers when he used to ride across country in big rigs. Drivers picking up teenagers, runaways at truck stops down the road, heading to New York, New Orleans,  Los Angeles,  Seattle, any place, but far, far away. 

The fat man laughed as he sat in a trance, thinking about his youth. He wished he could do it again.

Never live with past regrets, he whispered. I should have stayed in Albuquerque.

I sat on the couch in early morning hours, listening to Kathleen’s Theme and thinking of her, my adventures. And dear old Quebec.

Montréal can be filthy with debris on the sidewalks, boarded buildings, hookers and hobos walking the streets asking for money in French and English. Bars with bars on windows. Yet charming.

Her dark hair looked as though blue jays nested in it. Her face was dirty, and skirt ripped. She sat on the curb with legs open for business.

Hey you, she said to me as I walked by. Hey! I’ll do anything for a beer, she whispered loudly. Anything.

I looked at her and thought, what would Christ do? I’ll buy you a beer, I said. A tall boy. The coldest we can find. 

Alright. Now you’re talking. 

She started to come to her feet like a rocky first-born calf. I gave her my hand and held it into the liquor store where a Japanese lady behind the counter looked at us with great disdain as she skipped to the cooler to make her selection.

Michelob. My daddy used to drink this back in Calgary. He’d stay up all night watching hockey and drinking this stuff. When he fell asleep, I’d steal a couple and sit outside on the curb, drinking them and watching stars fall.

That’s the one you want?

Yes. She grabbed a six-pack. I laughed. I reminded  her she said just one. 

What good does one do me?

OK. 

We marched up to the woman at the cash register, and I got out my card to pay for it.

Cash only, she said.

I only have American.

Fine. You pay $15. That good deal.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Do you have a car?

Yeah. But, let’s sit here.

Here?

Yeah. And just talk.

That’s all you want is to talk?

Yeah. I’ll listen. You talk. Tell me about yourself.

I’m a schizophrenic from Calgary.

I see.

I’m an alcoholic.

OK.

And I have a son that was taken from me. She drank her ale quickly. Opened another bottle. That’s all. What about you?

I’m a bipolar divorced man driving a Dodge around North America. I laughed. I sleep in my car. I eat in my car. I pray in my car.

She twisted another cap. I’m sorry, she said. Truly. I’m sorry.  Sounds like we have a lot in common.

Yes. I would say so.

She downed the last beer and stood up to kiss me on the cheek.

What is your name? I asked.

Kathleen.

Kathleen. You take care, Kathleen.

You, too.

Tall weeds in the front yard. A porchlight with moths flying around it. Rusted Chrysler LeBaron sits on gravel. White wall tires. Sun is coming up. Men trace tracks with guns in their hands. A deer behind a bush.

It is November. He drinks coffee and eats dry toast. White bread. Nothing fancy. He hears a gunshot in the distance. Early bird gets the worm. He says. The straight lined man picks up another piece of toast, holding it between his teeth as he pours more coffee. Leaves fall from oaks.

He opens the front door of the trailer and stands on its porch, runs his hand over splinters and nails coming loose. He can see his breath. Another gunshot. This time, it’s closer. Too close.

Sun has risen completely now. Another shot is fired. The wiry dude goes back inside and gets his shotgun. He loads it with buckshot.

As he closes the door, he hears a scratchy voice. A fat man spitting tobacco. Red Man Chew. Put the gun down, the hunter says. I said, put the gun down.

The man does as he is told. What’s this about?

Shhhh. You’ll scare away the deer. The fat man laughs. Got any money? Any rare coins?

He shakes his head, no.

What have you got?

I got that LeBaron.

Go get the keys.

Here, pulls them from his pocket. He tosses them to the bearded slob.

Don’t you call nobody. You hear?

Deer run as the engine turns. Loud music plays when he takes off. The crunching of dead leaves.