dmseay

What did you do with him?

Dropped him off up the road.

Highway or the backroad?

What difference does it make?

Highway, he’s got a fighting chance. Backroads. He’ll be lost forever. Just tell me where you dropped him off at.

We been over this, he said. Told you I wasn’t going to tell you. Told you it was none of your business. That’s a deal he and I worked out. You’re not going to go looking for him. He’ll make it back here, one of these days. Could be a week. Could be a month. Just like tossing them in a swimming pool. They either sink or swim, now don’t they? He lit a cigarette. Poured himself a cup of coffee.

It’s still dark outside. Should have been in the light. Let him out in the light. What if somebody hits him? What if they find him in a ditch?

He’ll be fine, the father turned on Good Morning America. The hosts were talking about Sunday’s football games. Who won and who lost. Dad slurrped his coffee. This’ll make him tough, he said. He’ll find out how to survive.

How much money did you give him?

Couple of twenties.

That’s all? He’ll spend that in a day.

Not if he’s smart. He’ll come back when it’s gone. Probably spend it on some whore downtown. That’s what I should have done; just taken him to a whorehouse.

That’s not the way you make a man.

You know the Jews are smart about it. They make their boys learn Hebrew. God’s laws. Some kind of social order. Morals. We don’t do any of that. We just dunk them under water in a tank. Hope they come out OK.

He should’ve been baptized.

He is. That’s what this whole trip is about. He’ll either come back a man, or he won’t. You’ll see.

Dust on tables. Television screens need to be wiped. Dead flowers left on the floor. Wilted, shriveled up. The carpet hasnt been vacuumed in years. Various spots on it. Blood stains from cuts. A dark blob in front of the bathroom door. His wrists black and blue. Stitch marks, going up veins. He sits on the floor Indian style and rocks back and forth. Laughing out loud to himself. Mumbling incoherently. Talking about some kind of doomsday. He dreams of it at night time and fears it during the day. The old man often yells out, where are you now God? My father, why have you forsaken me?

As a young man, people would cast stones at him. Throwing rocks at his head and body as he went through town carrying a cross made of metal. It was an old TV antenae he’d found in the junk yard. He yelled out, the end is soon. Repent you sinners. Have faith in the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. A petite black whore from the mission would wash his feet and perfume them with bottles of Polo cologne. Anything she found on sale at the local Walmart. She wiped his tears with paper towels.

The gangs of Chicago had it with him. Said he was a fake. A fraud. Told the people of 95th Street that his days were numbered. Mocked him. Told him, if you are the son of God, then turn this water from the river into wine. He could not. There were no miracles that he could perform. Just talk. That’s all he did was talk.

And so they locked him away in a room above a liquor store over by Austin. That’s when he went really crazy. That’s when the cutting began. The whore would never lose faith in him. She tended to his needs until she died. Mary was her name. She did as she was asked. A true servant.

This old man has not ascended to Heaven yet. He still cries out for the sins of mankind. This old crazy man. This old crazy man. He waits to be called.

She sent me a letter, he said. Written in red ink. Signed with hearts and arrows. Said she was somewhere out East. Wanted to know if I would come join her. Haven’t written back to her yet. The return address was a town in New York, he lit a cigarette. I looked it up. Way up there by Syracuse.

What’s she doing up there?

Said she was dancing at a club. She always wanted to do that. Have men looking at her. Giving her money for shaking her ass.

She mention the kids?

Nope. She did not. I’ll bet her mom’s taking care of them, he sipped on coffee. George Jones was playing in the background. A waitress walked by.

You thinking about going out there to see her? Maybe try to get back together with her? he shook his head.

That girl’s trouble. She has been ever since high school. Making up wild stories. Always running away, he laughed. She sent me pictures. Some naked, some not. Still looks good.

Don’t you want to see your kids? he shook his head. What kind of a dad doesn’t want to see his kids?

The kind that’s given up. I can barely take care of myself. How am I going to take care of kids? Sides, they’d probably break my heart too, he blew out white smoke. Everything I always wanted in a family is gone. I should’ve known better. Known what she was capable of. She’s very good at leaving. Very good.

He would lie in bed listening to screaming and yelling through paper thin walls; a couple next door, meth heads, bellowing out for God’s mercy. Kicking and punching each other. A child crying in the background. Rage, pure rage, and hatred thrown about along with dishes, shoes, knives, hammers, cutting boards, heavy objects, and malice. There’s no place like home, the old man would say, then go back to listening to tempers fly.

The old man was awakened the next morning by cops knocking at his door. He could see the squad car and an ambulance behind them. A young man in cuffs placed into the back of the cop car, his girlfriend on a stretcher. EMS guys closing doors.

Did you hear anything last night? the officer asked the old man. Anything? Did you see anything?

No, the old man said. No, I didn’t.

He then closed his door and went back to sleep.

Where are we at?

Highway 20. Indiana.

They all kind of run together after a while. Don’t they? In the dark, you can’t tell the difference in states or regions. Just one big dark blob that we’re driving into, he watched as headlights flew past them. Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, it’s all the same.

Midwest.

Right. In the dark, I mean. There’s no difference between any of them.

I guess, he continued driving. Lit up a cigarette.

Now, you get out East or West, and there’s a difference. It feels different. A different kind of energy.

It’s just another highway to me. Dark or light, it’s all the same. Food changes at the diners. That’s all.

Oh yeah?

You can’t get scrapple in Indiana. It’s a Pennsylvania dish.

Made out of what?

You don’t want to know. Like head cheese. You dont want to know.

Then I’m better off without it.

I suppose.

I suppose, he rested his head on the cold window. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

Where do you think he is?

Not sure. Could be in Belfast stealing pints after pubs have closed. Might be in Dublin dancing to a fiddle and a penny whistle.

You think he’s in pain?

I’d say not. He’s walking the streets of Manhattan. Sitting in Washington Square. Tickling the cheeks of college girls. Blowing kisses and bowing as they walk by.

Might be in Chicago?

Yes. Singing into microphones but no one hears. Writing poems that no one will read. Except for the lucky few. Those in the next life.

So. He’ll never rest?

Not a chance.

Darkness. No daylight. Stars are gone. Moon is hidden. Walking north on 41. Shoulders iced over. Watch your step.

Semis drive past. The Kankakee River is up. Snow spits. His backpack starts to get heavy. Kerouac, Joyce, The Bible, and Melville fill the bag with pairs of underwear and tee-shirts. One pair of socks.

He sticks his thumb out. No one stops. Midnight travelers drive by. Some going to Chicago. Others on their way to Wisconsin or Michigan. Off to Grandma’s house for warmth and holiday cheer. Presents under a tree.

It is Christmas Eve, and the vagabond hums to himself as he walks; Central Park West and On Green Dolphin Street under his breath. He is grateful to be alive. In the cold, on Christ’s birthday, he is grateful to be alive.

His car lights shined through the windows. Loud music could be heard but not made out. Just rambling voices and screeching guitars; an ongoing drum beat.

The boy had not been home for days. He had a tendency to leave in the middle of the night when all in the neighborhood were asleep. All except mom, who sat on the edge of her bed counting rosary beads. She prayed to Mary and Jesus for her son. Prayers never seemed answered.

She sat in the kitchen when he came in. Asked him where he’d been? The kid told her not to worry about it. Said it was none of her business. Told her he was going to bed. Stayed in his room for days. Listening to music, talking on the phone, plotting. Soon, he’d be gone again. Just like his dad. He’d leave in the middle of the night as well. Till one time, he never came back.

Mom would get down picture albums of the kid and look at them for hours. All the way from birth up to sixteen, she had photos of the boy. Pictures from past vacations on the coast of Maine. Instant pics of him holding fish caught in lakes and rivers. A shot of the teen shooting a rifle in the backyard, his father giving instructions. She sipped her coffee and cried.

And one night, she’d heard the door shut and the Ford start. Momma ran to the window to see the car backing out of the driveway. Music blasting, her holding onto prayers and letting go. He was gone this time for good. She knew it. The beads were placed in a drawer.

A white Dodge rolled through the neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon. Dads were raking leaves in front yards. Sweeping them into little piles picked up by their children and placed in plastic bags. Moms put out mums on front porches and walkways leading up to glass doors. Wreaths were angled just right. Autumn wreaths with fake leaves of gold, red, and rust just hanging there.

The driver of the Dodge took it all in. It smelled of suburbia. Grass still thick in October. Lawnmowers could be heard in the distance. Kids earning their keep. He watched as the postman delivered catalogs and bills to each house. Magazines subscribed to.

His radio was turned down low. Songs by Bill Evans, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, the voice of Chet Baker, listened to on the public radio station as slowly the car turned onto another street, revealing more large houses, mcmansions, all looking the same. Two car garages and shrubs. Lots of shrubs. Dogs barking.

I used to live here, he thought. It’s what she wanted, he laughed. Safety. She wanted safety. Honey, there ain’t nothing safe in this world, he remembered telling her. Nothing.

A kickball suddenly rolled out in front of the car. The fat man slammed on the brakes. A child looked up at him. The driver gave the kid permission to retrieve the red ball. He thought of years ago when his children played as well. He smiled at the boy, who turned his back and ran back to his yard. Not even a wave or a thank you.

They raise animals out here, he whispered. Animals that can’t talk or acknowledge anyone. Love Supreme came on the radio. Windows up. He listened to the saxophone. And drove out of the addition. Time passes, he said. Time passes. Ain’t no-one safe.

Cats roamed around the house. Broken couches. Styrofoam came through splits and holes. Springs rusted. Puddles of water on brown carpet. Newspapers tossed here and there. Cardboard boxes littered the room. A condemned sign hung on the front window.

No gas, he said. We used to be able to cook food, but now it’s just silence with no flames.

Try the oven, his friend said. Go on. Try it, the old man looked at his partner with a sinister eye.

I said there is no gas. No gas, nothing. No electricity. No light. We live in darkness, he said. The kid looked away. Sat down on a broken folding chair and lit a cigarette. He handed the lighter to the old man. Motioned to the stove.

I said there’s no gas. Are you deaf? again, the young man looked away. You don’t like confrontation, do you? he asked. Don’t like it when I call you out on your stupidity? a cat circled the old man’s feet.

Just trying to help.

Give me a cigarette, kid handed him the pack. Where’d you get these?

I found them.

Almost a full pack.

Yeah. Some lady dropped them on the subway. Sorry, they’re Virginia Slims.

Yeah. They’ll do. When was the last time you ate?

Yesterday. Went to the mission. Thursdays, they give away quarts of milk.

I never go there. I’d rather pick through garbage.

They have soup and bread.

No thanks, the old man told him. I can make it without charity. Don’t need anyone. Just myself. I’ve survived just fine on my own, the kid pulled out a chocolate bar. Where’d you get that?

Arab store.

Stole it? the youngster nodded. Give it to me, the old man took it from him and broke it in two. Gave the kid the smaller piece. Ate it in one bite. Nothing was savored. Share and share alike. That’s what I say. That and might makes right.

Is that so.

That’s so. It’s what this country was built on. Share and take. Taxes? That’s what taxes are. Same philosophy, the kid shook his head. Go get another chocolate bar.

With what?

Take it. Steal it like you did this one.

They’re on to me. Gotta lay low.

Go to another store. Steal some other stuff, too. Peanut butter, bread, bologna.

How?

Be inventive. Have I got to teach you everything?

The boy opened the door and looked at the dark clouds. More rain, he said. All this rain. I’ll go later.

Go now. Get it done.

Why don’t you go?

That’s what I got you for. Might makes right.