dmseay

What is it you can’t grasp? he asked. Very simple. A monkey could figure it out, the boy looked up at his dad. You were never one for challenges. Shy away from them. Don’t you? the boy looked at the lawn mower harder. Seemed to look inside its soul. A Briggs & Stratton, 1979. Polished and clean, but the blade wouldn’t turn.

It’s an engine problem, the young man said. Not enough juice going to it.

Well, no shit. A woman could’ve told you that. You gotta garage full of stuff out here. Most of it doesn’t work, the old man said. Hedge clippers, Weedeater, a table saw, this stuff doesn’t work. You let em get old. All these things I’ve given you over the years have become junk. You don’t take care of anything. Don’t get me started on your marriage. They say it’ll last forever, the father shook his head.

Leave her out of this.

Told you she was no good. Leaving you. What did you do to make her mad?

Things happen.

Cheat on her?

What?

Did you cheat on her?

Stop it.

You did. I can tell. Nothing wrong with getting your dick wet. Just don’t get caught.

Irreconcilable differences, dad.

What?

We couldn’t get along anymore. We fought all the time.

No kids. That’s where you went wrong. Kids keep you together. They ground you.

Dad. What the hell are you talking about? Do you even know?

Forty-five years. Yes. I know what I’m talking about.

Were you happy?

Get out of here.

You were never home, dad. Off at the bar. Playing cards. With some other woman.

Boy. I was not. I gave you and her my soul. I provided, didn’t I?

Yeah. You provided.

Some other woman?

We all knew. Mom knew. Overnights and hotel receipts. Bills from dinners out. Who holds onto that?

They were for tax purposes, boy. Your mouth is about to overload your ass.

Right.

I can still take you out, boy. I’ll give you a whole new beating.

Just leave. Just leave.

The old man spit on the garage floor. Lit a cigarette. Said nothing.

The mower never worked.

He heard voices from the vents. Warm air mixed with people talking, sometimes yelling at each other about stupid things, petty things. Accusations of cheating, lying, talk of leaving. The old man cracked open a beer and listened, sitting on a chair in the kitchen, waiting for the final blow.

You son of a bitch, she said. Always high. Can’t do anything unless you’re stoned. All our money goes towards weed and cigarettes, she opened the refrigerator door. Look. Nothing inside, she yelled. Your son hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. Proud of yourself? she asked. Huh? the old man snickered a bit, took another drink from his cold can.

Are you done? he asked. Are you through? Now the baby was crying. The child’s screams came up with the heated air. Look at you, he said. You do nothing. I bring home the paycheck, I work, and if I want to smoke a little dope, so be it, he told her. A dish was thrown across the room. Now clean that up, he yelled at her, the baby crying harder. You’re making a mess.

Go to hell, she said. Just go to hell, she began to sob. The old man stood over the vent. Had trouble making out the words.

Hey baby. Come on now, the voice said. We can work this out. Shhhhh. Come on now. You know I love you, he said. I’ll lay off the dope.

Till next time, she said. Then we’ll just fight again, the old man heard movement. I’m going to bed. Gotta boy, I have to take care of.

And then there was silence. The old man shook his head. He knew they’d be back at it tomorrow.

What is it that you want? she asked. Out of this. This thing we’re doing, she lit a cigarette, rubbed her green eyes, ran fingers through her gray hair. I mean, you come over here drunk after closing bars, and we make love, then you go home. I don’t even know if we’re making love to be honest with you, he looked up at her. Just some kind of crazy thing we do, she laughed. And, I allow it. Every weekend, I let it happen. I don’t know. Maybe we’re both living out our older days the way we did our young ones. Just messing around. No commitment. Right? she crushed out her cigarette, walked over to the kitchen counter where he was leaning. She placed her hand on his lined face. He pulled it away. Held it. Smiled at her.

You got any coffee?

You know where it’s at, he nodded. Second shelf. It’s on the second shelf, she told him. Get back. I’ll get it.

You gotta be more specific.

Specific?

Yeah.

Are we talking about coffee here?

Yeah. Point it out to me, she reached over and grabbed the Maxwell House. You could’ve just shown me.

Coffee, huh? Could’ve fooled me.

What else could I be talking about? You think this is symbolic? A can of coffee? Words we’re exchanging. Sometimes, a banana is just a banana. There’s no hidden meaning.

It’s a cigar.

What?

Oral fixation. A cigar. That crazy Austrian said cigar. Not banana.

Right. That crazy Austrian.

Yes, they both laughed. He held onto her, and she wrapped her hands around his neck. They began dancing a slow dance. No music. Just silently waltzing across the kitchen floor until morning.

Goodnight, old friend.

Goodnight.

Clear. Pure. Not tainted in any way. A purpose to be served. Driving into light on I-95. Northbound to New York. Traveling from Philadelphia. Leaving her behind. Time to be alone. Solitude. Finding peace in Manhattan. This is what mad men go in search of. To be with one’s self. Tranquility among masses of people. Herds cross streets. Eighth Avenue, Broadway, 32nd Street, up by Lincoln Center, Central Park, Columbus Circle, street vendors selling halal meats, hot dogs in dirty water, swarms of busy bees going in all directions. It is too much. Maybe not enough. Soon, the voices will stop. Soon.

Cracks in sidewalks. Uneven concrete. Weeds growing in between. A broken bottle of Wild Turkey. Cigarette butts smoked down to filters. Walking home at night to a rented room above a Polish bar; last-minute shopping before closing time.

It’s four in the morning, and the place is filled with United States postal workers, laborers, off duty cops, hard working criminals, hookers with Eastern European accents right off the boat, and old men who have seen it all. Big noses and ruddy faces. Purple lines on weathered hands. The bartender yells out, last call, in broken English. Moans across the room. Bobby Darren is cut off mid note as the jukebox is turned off. The front door is opened, and gray smoke pours outside. Six packs of Black Label sold to stragglers leaving to camp out in alleys, on sidewalks, between buildings, upstairs in bedbug rooms. Like an assembly line, they plop cash down, liquor is sold, and they walk out into early morning darkness.

The bar is given a sweep. Broken beer bottles are thrown out into dumpsters. Dollar bills picked up off the beaten wooden floor. Swivel seats lined up. The neon lights turned off.

They’ll be open in three hours. The seven o’clock crew will start their day. More of the same. Construction workers, guys on social security income, homeless men who slept in shelters on a mat sprayed with Lysol, whores still waiting for one last trick before sleeping away the day in cheap hotels, back seats of rusted out cars, pimps apartments, behind bushes in the park, bus stops along Division Street. The jukebox is turned back on, and Bobby Darren is back up to speed.

And some guy takes a swing at another. The owner named Zimski breaks it up. Drink up my friends, he tells them. Drink up. Darkness turns light. A cop car cruises by. An ambulance is chased. All in a day’s work. On Division.

People don’t change, he said. They stay primarily the same. Not growing, stagnant. You’d think we’d get better as we get older, see life differently with each year,but that’s not the way it is, he lit a cigarette, sat at the counter as the waitress poured a cup of coffee. We grow up wanting things, but we settle. Never taking that step forward. Just staying what we are.

And what’s that? she asked.

I’m sorry.

Said, what’s that?

A lot of things. Lots of different kinds of people. There’s those who take advantage of others, of situations. And there’s those who don’t. Mean people, spiteful. Folks gentle as a lamb. It all starts in childhood. Getting picked last at recess for dodge ball. The bully who wise-cracks and beats kids up. Criminals and cops. That’s what becomes of them, he munched on toast.

Where does that put you and me? she leaned on the counter, looked at the clock. We’ve always been the same? the clock said three. No cars in the parking lot. Just them and a Mexican in the back. No growth? That’s sad, she lit a cigarette. They say when you’re baptized, you change. Preachers say you come up from the water and you’re different; filled with the Holy Spirit.

And then what happens? she shook her head. We go back to our old ways. A cheater will always cheat. A thief will always steal. Sure, we’re pure and clean for a short time. But eventually, our true nature comes out. Lying, cheating, insecurities.

That’s a negative way to look at the world, the redhead smirked.

I suppose. Part of my charm, they both laughed.

You want some pie?

Sure.

Down the street, an orange light was on. Shining through the front window, through open blinds. It looked like they had captured the sun. Just a round orange ball glowing from a house. I was drawn to it. I wanted to see it up close. Touch it.

And I saw men coming and going from the suburban home. They were loading boxes into an old van. Rust on the running boards. A cracked windshield. It was two in the morning. One streetlight shined down on the corner.

A mist was in the air. The heavy stuff was not expected until sun up. Streets were slick. I walked carefully. The men loading the van were moving faster. The orange glow got bigger as I approached. Do I dare? Do I dare?

I stood in front of the house, watching. The screen door was open. It was dark inside, except for the orange light in the living room. I thought I was invisible and moved in closer to investigate.

What are you looking at? a man asked me. Stunned, I shook my head. Said, what are you looking at? his voice was now lower, almost like a growling bear.

Nothing, I said. Couldn’t sleep. Just out for a walk. Three men behind him kept moving boxes. Happens. Can’t sleep, so I walk at night, I said.

Have you tried warm milk? Taken aback, I began to laugh. It works, he said. A cup of warm milk. That’ll do the trick.

I’ll keep that in mind.

Meanwhile, keep walking.

I’ll do that.

Do what?

Warm milk.

Yeah.

And keep walking.

The next night, there was no orange light in the window. The blinds were drawn. I sat and drank my warm milk.

You were always talking about Duluth, Minnesota. Said there were more millionaires there than any city per capita in the world. All these rich folks freezing their asses off, he laughed. They could live anywhere. But they chose Duluth, he rolled a cigarette. They could go to California or Florida somewhere warm, maybe South Carolina or Georgia, he paused and took a drink of whiskey. And they stay in a cold environment. Bunch of Vikings. Crazies, he swiveled in his chair. I’ve heard the women up there are real pretty. Blonde and blue-eyed, his friend said. And in shape. They’re all in shape. Like Playboy bunnies without the tans.

Oh no, the old man said. They have tans, took another shot, and motioned to the bartender for a beer. In the winter, they ski in bikinis. Right down the mountainside wearing string bikinis. The sun glistens on their skin, he smiled.

You sure about that?

I read it on the internet.

So, you’ve never been there.

No. No, I have not. But in my mind, I have. I’ve been to Albuquerque, too.

In your mind?

Yes. In my mind.

You’ve never been anywhere, he said. Just stayed on this barstool all your life.

I’ve been to Decatur. They got a restaurant there that serves all the fish you wish. Fried Lake Perch. With hush puppies.

I know that place. Everyone knows that place. It’s only one town over.

Yeah. I know.

Why are you always talking about Duluth?

Just seems nice. In my head, it seems nice. Not many blacks in Duluth, he sat back and watched the television in the corner. Looked up, and Burt Reynolds was on Carson. The sound was on mute. A Bob Seeger song came on the jukebox. Not many Jews either, the old man said. Actually, I’m guessing about the Jews. But the statistics show less than two percent black. Mostly white. Lutheran even. Can you imagine?

No, Adolf. I can’t. Duluth, Minnesota, huh.

Yep. I’ll go there one of these days. I’ll go.

He listened to a swing outside his trailer hanging from a tall oak in the middle of the night. Going back and forth in November’s breeze. It squeaked a soft pitch, putting him to sleep. Only to be awakened a few hours later from nightmares of his past.

Did she really exist? he thought. A short time seems like a lifetime, he whispered, shaking. The old man took a swig of brandy sitting on his end table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Cracked, chapped lips wet from the liquor. He turned on the lamp and pulled open a drawer underneath. It was a color photograph of a little blonde girl. She was five. He remembered that.

The old man held the picture tightly. I thought she’d live forever, he said out loud. He leaned back in his easy chair and held her to the light. I did my job, he whispered. I did my job.

Mother and child lived across town in a one room rental. Mom had a mental illness, heard voices inside her head. She’d leave her daughter with momma and take off for weeks at a time. Criss-crossing the nation from Indiana to New York and out to Los Angeles. The young mother sold herself on the streets for dollars and cans of beer. Her green eyes looked crazy. The young lady stared down her clients as if they were game to be hunted. She never said a word. Just gave em what they wanted and went on to the next one.

The old man would visit twice a month. Every other weekend, he’d knock on their door and wait for it to open. Sometimes, it took a while. He had to call out through the thick wood, it’s me. I wanna see Bess Ann. Mother and daughter would open the door. He’d pick her up in his fat arms and hold the child. Told her he was sorry. Bess Ann would nuzzle in his chest.

What’re you sorry about? asked his former lover. You got any money? she twisted in the doorway, took a twenty from him, and invited the young buck in. He held the kid tightly, never wanting to let go. And then, he’d leave. Just go back to his trailer and drink till he cried. Waiting and waiting for Bess Ann to grow up. Maybe come stay with him. These were all dreams. Living with a drunk would be better than living with a schizophrenic hooker, he laughed and then passed out.

He got a call from Grandma one morning. Something had been wrong with Bess Ann for a while. Said she was real sickly. Her skin was yellow, and she cried a lot. The child complained of stomach pains.

He took her to the hospital where a doctor confirmed what he thought. Bess Ann was dying from cancer. Soon, she’d be gone.

They buried her in a pine box. A pauper’s funeral. He tossed flowers into the casket before they closed the door forever. He said a prayer. She went her way, and he went his. They never saw each other again.

At night, when the wind blew the swing back and forth, the old man would look at that picture of Bess Ann. I never got to push her into the air, he said, then take another drink of brandy.

The mirror in the corner showed his age. A little round in the midsection, lines on a ruddy face, gray hair disheveled.

I’m getting old, he said. My body hurts, and every day, I feel like I’m dying, the old man looked closer in the mirror. I should have taken better care of myself, he whispered. Should’ve quit smoking and drinking long ago, a pack sat on the kitchen table. Have my eyes changed? he asked. I think they’re still the same. Just more wrinkles, he laughed.

He took down a bottle of whiskey from the top of the refrigerator. Poured himself a glass and toasted, here’s to your health, he said. Let’s make it one more year.