dmseay

Said he didn’t kill him. They all say that. Stood over him with the gun in his hand. Said he’d been drinking. Couldn’t remember. But, he was sure he didn’t kill him. On purpose that is.

The kid said it might have been an accident. The gun just went off. He never thought there was a live one in the barrel. Could we talk about this? he asked.

They’d been drinking all day long. Tequila, he said. We were doing shots of Tequila chased back with Busch beer, his hands were shaking. It was his idea to get out the gun, his voice raised. Wanted to play Russian roulette, he mumbled.

So, the cop said. That’s how you wound up with the gun? You just picked it up after he’d shot himself and decided to stand over him? he asked. The boy nodded his head.

It all happened so fast, he said. We were drinking and switching back and forth with the gun. I thought we were just fooling around. Didn’t know. I didn’t know.

You sure you were playing Russian roulette? Sure you didn’t accidentally shoot him? Sometimes it takes awhile for us to process things, the cop told him. Sometimes things don’t happen like we thought they did. Savvy? the boy nodded. Sure you didn’t kill him? He might have pissed you off today? Or, upset you leading up to this? the boy nodded again.

Think I better call a lawyer.

Yeah. I’d say you might wanna do that.

He often wondered when it would end and how? A stroke? Maybe a heart attack. Could be a hit and run out on Broadway in the middle of the night. The old man always worried about this. This next phase of life called death. He worried that he wasn’t good enough to go to heaven. Scared he would be sent to hell for his misdeeds. Stealing, lying, cheating, not a man of his word. Or, maybe he was. The fat man told folks right up front he’d disappoint them. Told them right to their faces that he was going to screw them. And then he did. Made them sign on the bottom line. Always saw the beauty of an interest rate. Percentages were always running through his head.

Old bony hands wrapped around a highball glass. Gin filled three quarters full. A dash of tonic water. Limes. Asked the bartender to keep dropping limes in his drink. He kept count that way. The old juke box played Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn. The old man kept playing the song over and over. Thinking of his life that had passed before him. And the ongoing question, is it faith or works that get you a free pass. He was hoping it was faith.

Do I believe? yes. And so does the Muslim, Hindu, Mormon, Catholic, Jew, all of them. They all believe, he thought. Maybe the only guy who hasn’t got a shot is an atheist, he laughed. But even they believe in something albeit is nothing, he chuckled again, talking only to himself while Wheel Of Fortune played on the TV with no sound. Just letters being turned by Vanna White. Give me an N, he yelled out. Buy a vowel you son of a bitch, he motioned for another drink.

Where am I? he asked the barkeep. On my tab. Where am I? The server smiled. Shook his head. Said he owed nothing.

How could that be? the old man asked.

Sir. No one owes anything in heaven.

They smiled. Pointed at each other. That’s a good one, the old man said. That’s a good one.

He was addicted to his phone. The middle aged man waited and waited for it to ring. Kept looking at it as if he could magically make someone call him. Old girlfriends, former lovers, ex wives, partners in crime, somebody to talk to was his wish. The fat man thought about calling out to someone, but, he had already called too many times; people were tired of hearing from him. It had got to a point where the phone just rang with no answer. Just a buzzing on the other side.

To be alone, he thought. To never hear from anyone. Just sitting here in silence waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, he whispered. Come on. Ring.

The room had grown dark. The evening sun was gone. Seated in the blackness of night. Wanting to talk to someone. He’d even settle for a salesman. Maybe a foreign voice talking to him about 25% loans, or, a high interest rate credit card. He would like that.

A voice speaking to him. Wanting. He stared at the phone. No one calls after 10. No one ever called him.

Blinds were closed. Lights off. He sat in darkness waiting in the front room. Eyes open. A growl in his stomach. Wanting someone to talk to at five in the morning. A friend. His son. The wife who slept down the hall. Too early for the rest of humanity. He was late.

Normally he awoke at three in the morning. Sometimes four. God had granted him an hour more of sleep. The old man felt refreshed. Yet, he sat there in the dark. Not wanting any light nor sound. He could just make out his fingers; long. Like sticks on a branch.

And he’d shake one hand with the other. Asked himself, how do you do? he snickered, wasn’t quite sure if he wasn’t losing his mind. Then he heard voices. Women talking and laughing. He turned to see if someone was there. No-one. Just voices inside his head. He smiled. Said, I am losing my mind.

He remembered how his son used to roll up and down the hall on his tricycle. Tooting his horn. Laughing. And now he didn’t know where that boy was. Where he’d gone to. Where are you? he cried out. Where are you? No one answered back. There were no more voices. No one to talk to. Except himself. He mumbled a bit. Got up from his chair and walked down the hall.

There were several doors to choose from. Rooms on both sides. He chose the one with the Christmas wreath hanging on it. The door was slightly opened. Silvia, he called out. Silvia. I’m hungry, he said. No one answered. A body laid there in bed. Stiff. No life to it. He strolled over to the bed and saw that her eyes looked up at God. This isn’t Silvia, he whispered. This ain’t Silvia. Where’s Silvia? he asked himself.

Lights were turned on in the room. A nurse put her hands on her thick hips. Mr Donald you not supposed to be in here, she said. Come on now. Let’s get you your medicine.

That wasn’t Silvia, he told her. That was not Silvia.

He heard noises next door throughout the night. Men coming and going. Staying for brief moments of time. Walls were paper thin. He could hear all the action.

She’d tell them to leave money on the nightstand. Some would. Others commenced to hitting her. Beating the woman senseless till she begged them to stop.

He heard leather hitting skin. And muffled voices asking, how much for this? how much for that? Grown men calling out for their mothers. Others cursing up a storm. Calling her every name in the book. Requesting that she wear a blonde wig, or, tie her hair back like their wives. Saying names like, Sandy, Amanda, out loud, any name, but, her’s.

And she had men visit that were kind to her. Asked what she needed. Brought flowers. A bottle of wine. She sounded appreciative. Almost affectionate.

In the afternoons he’d see her walking down the hallway. She always wore dark glasses and they never said hello. She’d just walk to her room and close the door.

Days are short.

Night sets in.

Following a star.

We travel together.

A pair.

The trip has been long.

Through summer’s end to autumn’s glow.

Tis Christmas.

Gifts are given.

And prayers offered.

We travel together.

Following a star.

Years ago when I was a kid.

I’ve always loved the highways of the U. S. As a kid I remember traveling on them in the back of a station wagon my dad was driving. I had my soda pop and my salami sandwich on white bread my mom had made me and a clear view of the road ahead of us. I kept one eye on the yellow lines and the other on bilboards, trailer parks, fast food places, Howard Johnson, mileage signs.

My dad would have on country radio. Some drunk singing about how a woman had broken his heart. Or, a woman telling a story of how she stood by her man. It was the perfect soundtrack for the road. Even at that young age I understood what they were talking about; that is, I thought I did.

We’d take the road across America. Switching from highways to toll roads to back roads and freeways. Crossing over lakes and rivers where men fished and power boats kicked up water. We’d drive from Indiana to Texas in one clear shot. Never did my father stop for the night. Driving under stars and the moon; mom snoring and Hank Williams singing into the morning. I stayed awake for every hour of it. Watched the sun come up in Texas in the early morning hours. Pulling into my grandparents driveway in Dallas just in time for breakfast. I never looked forward to seeing my grandparents, but, I always loved taking the road.

Standing on Route 66 outside of Joplin with my thumb out, I thought about my travels as a kid. Thought about where my love for the road came from. I think it came from my dad. He was always on the road. He and my mother would have a fight and he’d take off in the middle of the night. Not come back for days. He’d return and she’d ask him where he went to? Just driving, he’d say. Just driving. And she believed him. Had no reason no to. She knew he wasn’t cheating on her. Knew he wasn’t drinking. He just drove to clear his head.

Sometimes she’d get calls in the middle of the night from him. Telling her he was in Iowa, or, Nebraska, or, Colorado. Saying he’d be home when he felt like it. That’s what I’d become. A kid who’d come home when he felt like it. Hitchhiking across America, taking busses, getting rides from truckers, walking miles till I couldn’t walk anymore. The life of a nomad. And, I was surprised to see how many nomads there were in America. Men running from something, or, to something; a job, a woman, new beginning, fresh start, ending it all. Maybe I was always getting rides from the old man in spirit. Maybe it was always his ghost that picked me up and gave me a ride. Something was protecting me. Should’ve been gone long ago.

Present

There was a white hearse driving down my street today. A white hearse with dark windows. No one was following it. I wondered who was inside? Was there anybody being taken to the grave? Probably not. Most likely a gas run. Perhaps a wash. Preparing to take some one back to the earth. Some unfortunate; an elderly person dead of old age, a heart attack in an obese man, a child shot in cross fire. Or, maybe someone decided to end it with the swallowing of pills. Emptying out their medecine cabinet. There’s a million ways to die. But, the heart is a hard thing to stop. It decides when it’s over. In some cases people have pointed a gun directly at the heart only for it to keep beating. That organ decides it all.

It’s midnight and I stay awake thinking of the past and worried of the future. Lots of talk in the bars of the fortunes being made in this town. Houses selling at record prices. Rents going up and up. All through out high school they told us to be prepared for this; this adult life. The throwing away of imaginary things and dreams only to be replaced with the cold hard reality that some day you could be homeless. Or, you will be unable to support yourself. Tossed aside in a country that really does not care. And, you could go crazy, mentally ill. Giving up everything and just living day to day. Hour to hour.

I met a lot of people when I was out on the road. Some living in boxes under bridges. Others sleeping their days away in public parks only to become vampires at night fall. I met rich folks, charitable people who would buy me drinks and meals. Maybe they recognized that I was financialy under par. Maybe I’m not that clever. Could be my insanity had been apparent; no hiding it. I thought I had them fooled, but, no. They knew all along.

And these are the bar saints. Those that look over their flock. Coming to your rescue in times of despair. Buying you solace if only for an hour or two. They are business men who give back. Women that want to talk to somebody. Bartenders who listen. They gave me hope when I needed it the most.

I wonder where that hearse was going today? I wonder. And I sit in my room with my rent paid for the month. Leaving me nothing, but, dollars to spare. I will go to the bar tonight and look for saints. Hopefully they are not all gone. Hopefully.

Pigeons. There are hundreds of pigeons in Union Square Park. Signs say, don’t feed the pigeons. Some follow these directions while others do not; an old lady tears off pieces of bread for the birds. She talks to herself too; singing under her breath. Old songs. Songs that nobody listens to anymore. Except me. She hums the Billy Strayhorn tune Lush Life. I hum along with her. I know the words from way back. Years of listening to public radio after midnight in Chicago. I used to visit all the very gay places….come what may places…where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life to get the thrill of life…from jazz and cocktails…., those words still mean a lot to me as I look around and the sun shines through cold air. Vendors with their organic produce and cut meats. Different types of chocolates, ciders, a real feel of Christmas. And, I’m not even aware of what day it is.

Young junkies sleeping on benches. Seniors walking their dogs. Young professionals drinking coffee and reading the paper, or, flirting with a loved one. Strayhorn’s words ring again, Romance is mush…stifling those who strive….I’ll live a lush life in some small dive….And there I’ll be as I rot with the rest…of those whose lives are lonely too…., wishing I had some money honey to make these blues go away.

Who am I kidding? Bellevue awaits.

I see them on the streets, in subways, hanging out in parks. Talking to themselves. Answering their own questions. They are filthy and smell of feces. Holding signs. Asking for money. Yelling at passers-by. I sit among them. Clean, but in the same boat. Conversations rattle through my head. I mumble out loudly. Cold, lonely and scared. Did I want this? Perhaps I did when I gave up the meds. Five prescription drugs for bipolar disorder and I quit them cold turkey. I had to. No insurance.

Bellevue is a few streets over on 1st Avenue. I promised myself I wouldn’t go into the hospital unless the suicidal thoughts got really bad; they are. Perhaps I should.