dmseay

Looking east in the morning sun. A junkyard filled with rusted out Chevys, broken down Dodge, Fords with floorboards busted out, old pickup trucks split in two, a chained pit bull barks.

The old man sits there on a step eating cornbread and milk. A cup of coffee is next to him. His teeth are missing. He sings the song I’ll Fly Away in a baritone voice. He can’t pronounce the words so he hums most of it.

Morning dew covers junk out back in the yard. Radiator caps and tail pipes on the ground. Torn milk crates and buckets of screws, bolts, nuts, and wing nuts mixed together spill over onto a blue plastic sheet. Dog shit everywhere.

Sifting through junk, a metal cross is found by a young Mexican kid looking for a rear view mirror. He picks it up and holds the silver piece up to the sun. Says something in Latin. Ends by saying Amen and crossing himself . He carries the cross to the old man. How much? he asks. The old man looks at it carefully. Waves his hand. Says, you owe me nothing. The Mexican nods his head. Says bless you in Spanish and walks out. The dog looks at him in silence.

I’ll fly away old glory….I’ll fly away, the old man hums. I’ll fly away. When I die Hallelujah by and by….I’ll fly away….

We talked. Spoke very few words.  It’d been awhile. Years. She looked different. Not the same as when we were married. She’d lost weight. Her breasts were smaller. Hips, thin. Neck looked strained. And her lips were not normal size. Overtaken by Botox. She smiled. I smiled. Her eyes were still blue.

I was not the picture of health. Overweight, dark circles under eyes. Hair tangled and long. I stopped caring. Maybe that’s what happened to us; stopped caring.

It was on a park bench in Chelsea where we sat. She was on her lunch break. I was permanently broken. Her eyes danced. She could not look at me. She saw through me. Always looking for the better option.

There was small talk. Senseless chatter. How have you been? was asked by both of us. Did we mean it? I don’t know. Seemed hollow. I threw bread at the birds. She pointed to a sign, DON’T FEED THE PIGEONS. We laughed. Always correcting me.

She placed her hand on my knee. I gotta go now, she said. It was good to see you. I nodded. There was no awkward embrace. Just two people saying goodbye.

Hair gets longer; unkempt. Beard grows in gray. Dark circles under eyes from nights without sleep. Bones begin to rattle.

Body hurts. Walking down streets in the city have become a task. New York is a young man’s game. The climbing of subway stairs. A stroll on Lexington Avenue becomes a hike. Millions of people to sift through. Punching and pulling. Jousting for position. No one has ever waited for the light to turn green. A constant stampede.

And bars are filled with youth and tourists. Moneymakers paying with credit cards. Craft beers in front of them. I drink my shot and Carlsberg. Left Malort and Old Style far behind.

Bronx girls wait on corners. Pimps sit in cars. Arabs in stores buying food stamps, selling loosies for a quarter, homeless guys waiting by the ATM. Is it the first of the month yet?

Too old for all of this. Time to settle down. Take a bus from New York heading anywhere; South, Midwest, a small town; slower speeds. It is time. It is time.

The cupboards were almost bare. Some rice and canned beans on the bottom shelf. A box of various teas on top. Dust was everywhere. It covered shelves, cabinets, books, pots, pans, highball glasses, and the desk that he sat at to write this letter which never got mailed.

I found it in the knife drawer amongst sharp blades and can openers. A book of matches were in there as well. Said, Meet Me At Henry’s, on the cover. Inside was a telephone number. It was written in red ink with a drawing of lips above. I lit a candle with one of the matches just to see if it would still strike. A blue and yellow flame touched the candle’s wick. The room was illuminated.

Dear Jessica, the letter started. I write to you from a house that’s in complete disarray. Lazy and depressed. No cleaning has been done in months. Everything reeks of smoke and the plants have long since died. They were too much for me to take care of, he wrote. I miss having you here. It was always a joy to see you in the morning. Coffee downstairs in the breakfast nook was always a great way to start the day. But, nothing lasts forever. I don’t know why I did the things I did, or, say the words I said. It all seems so confusing now. That being said, I’m sorry for my actions that caused the end of our marriage, he wrote in cursive. I’ll send you this letter when I’m ready to face my actions. Until that time, take care. I am truly ashamed. Love, Paul.

This letter had pictures of the two dancing, posing with arms around each other, laughing. It made me think that at one time they were happy. Or, in love. What sins did he commit against the sacred vows? Hard to say.But, it must have cut deep.

He hid everything about them in that drawer. I placed the letter and photos in a shoe box. I buried it in the closet with my own history. Sometimes I read the letter and look at the pictures of the happy couple. We often regret the things we do.

Sitting in a coffee house looking at art on the walls, umbrellas hang from the ceiling. Rap music plays and the skinny white girl nods her head as she pours a latte. Front windows are smashed. Yellow caution tape stretches across the frames. A wooden board stands in place, saying, We Are Still Open.

The plants are real. So real they look plastic. Bright, shiny green, standing tall in pots of lavender, gold, and white. Leaves have blown in from the front door. Autumn is here.

Soon winter will come. I wonder if the plants will survive. Or, just be replaced. The same with the front windows; will they be replaced?

I asked the girl behind the counter what happened? She nods her head still to the hip hop sounds. Not sure, she says. Vandalism, she raises her shoulders.

Yeah. I guess so.

That’ll be $3.79 for your coffee.

Hotels with vacancy signs in red. Old run down buildings. A whore on every corner. He lit a cigarette and looked around. Homeboys drove by blasting bass and rap. A sneaker dangles over a power line. Liquor store lit up with flashing signs. A bum asked for a buck.

Two blocks down a sign read, Shrimps and Catfish nuggets. The food is served through a slot at the bottom of bullet proof glass. He reads the menu on the wall. Tells the Arab he’ll take a half pound of shrimps and a Faygo Grape. The blacks stared at his white skin.

The Arab called out his order and shoved it through the square hole. Before he reached the door the old man began eating his fried food. Two teens followed him out the door. He sensed that this will be a showdown.

Hey man, one of the kids said. You gotta dollar? Help a brother out, the old man kept walking. I said you got a buck motherfucker? the pace quickens. Yo slow down bitch. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt ya, the teen with the cocked hat said. Let me use your phone, the old man turned around. Half of his right arm reached into a leather jacket.

Yo man. I’m just asking if I can use your phone. Sides, you ain’t got no gun in there. The old white man stared them down. Kept his hand inside his jacket.

You wanna find out? he asked.

Yeah bitch. I’m calling you out. Show us what you got. A pistol was pulled from his coat. The old man pointed right at them. Shots were fired. The two of them laid out on the sidewalk. Blood dripped from their mouths. The old man kept walking.

A wind storm swept through the trailer park. Trash left on the ground. Pop cans, beer bottles, candy wrappers, used diapers lined the streets. Couple of banana peels too. Dogs sniffed through the garbage. Swings in the park swung slightly.

The old man kept looking out his windows at the wreckage left behind. Tool sheds dented in and potted plants knocked over. He noticed the sun coming up in the east over town. He wondered if there was any damage in the city. Trailer parks always seem to get the worst of it. That’d always been his experience.

He got in the old Dodge Dart and drove towards downtown on 30. Billboards were torn, trash cans in the streets, a decapitated deer on the side of the road. Some light poles knocked over. Half the town was lit while the other was in the dark.

Driving into town he saw where Walmart still stood in all it’s glory. The Lowes next to it was open as well. Mexicans were lined up in front of the store waiting to be picked for work. Boards and panels were piled into backs of trucks. It was 5:30 in the morning. Night time must’ve reeked havoc on the town, he thought. Too many people up at this hour, he whispered. Ain’t normal.

On Main Street windows in shops had holes in them. Some were blown out completely. The traffic light swung from wires; blank in their stare. He stopped by a cop and asked, Was there a tornado last night? The policeman said not quite. But, real heavy winds. Must’ve slept right through it, the old man said. Had to.

At the gas station the coffee was cold. The old man settled for a Pepsi instead. Walked outside and smelled the morning air. There was a peace about him. There was a peace. Always a calm after the storm.

The two sat on the pier watching the sunrise. Magical orange light coming up over Lake Michigan. The city was quiet. No gunshots. No cars racing up and down Lake Shore Drive. The sounds of waves rolling in was all they heard. It was peaceful for the father and son. Joggers waved as they ran by.

There is no sweeter sound than silence, the father said to his young boy. It’s rare that we have quiet in the city, he continued. Gotta get up at some ungodly hour to hear nothing. For peace, he told him.

Did you and mom used to watch the sun come up? he wiped his nose. Dad kept staring at the sun. Would you get up early and walk down here? the boy placed his hands in his pockets; swung his legs out in the air above the water.

We did, pop said. Long time ago. Back before you were born, he lit a cigarette. We would come here with a box of donuts and watch the fire in the sky, they smiled.

Before I was born huh? That was a long time ago.

Yeah, the father said. Way before you were born.

What happened dad?

I don’t know kid. Sometimes people just live better alone.

Are you better now that you’re alone?

Haven’t decided yet.

Why don’t you live with us till you figure it out?

The father crushed out his cigarette and put the butt in his pocket. Come on. Gotta get you some breakfast. You want pancakes? the boy nodded yes. Dad lifted him up and carried him to the concrete sand covered track. One arm round his waist and a hand on his head. The boy wiped his nose on dad’s collar. They both laughed.

They placed a plaque on a building in the Village. It states this is where Burroughs and Ginsberg once lived early in their literary careers. The marker goes onto say they often had Jack Kerouac over and these three formed the Beat Generation; a new way of writing, leaving materialism behind, searching for existential ways. Although I just paraphrased, I couldn’t help but think of the influence the three amigos have had on me. The words on the building ring true. A movement was started.

Maybe by accident, perhaps by choice, I have followed this Beat life. Gave up possessions, gone without a home, sacrificed everything for writing and literature. Hours spent reading and working on poetry and prose. And for what? Money? Fame? No. I do it ’cause it’s in my bones. It’s what I do. Asking the question, what are you? I am a nomad with a keyboard and a bag of books in search of purity in the word; I am a follower of the three wise men.

I’ve spent time in New York, Chicago, had the blues in D.C. Slept under rusty trees in the autumn of Vermont. Watched the ocean slap rocks in Maine. Pawned a typewriter in Philly. Traveled by bus from the Midwest to California on Route 66. Looked at mountains of red clay in west Texas and New Mexico. Saw snow in Arizona and smelled alfalfa in Indio. Broke bread with bums on skid row. I’ve seen the riches of America in its poorest neighborhoods. And, like Kerouac, I wrote about it. Cleansed the soul with words. And, I am grateful. Grateful I never sold insurance. Thank you Burroughs, Ginsberg and Kerouac. Thank you. It’s OK to be an outsider.

He threw the map away. Wandered down 55 towards Memphis. Went through southeast Missouri into Arkansas, straight into the tip of Tennessee. Crossed the Mississippi River and crossed himself. Thanked God for getting him there safely. Fell into a bar on the Southside of town. Black men and women dancing to Delta blues. His white face stuck out.

In the back a smokey smell came through the door. Hickory burning. A pig’s ribs cooking along with sausages a mile long. Catfish frying. He’d fallen into some magical place.

The thin dude was approached by a curvy woman named Delores. She had wavy black hair and green eyes. Red lipstick shined in the dark.

You wanna dance? she asked him. He nodded and took her by the hand. She placed his fingers on her hips. Leaned in close. They stayed that way; transfixed on each other till the final call for alcohol.

Got any plans? he asked her. She smiled. Lit a cigarette. Told him she had to get back to her husband ‘cross the river. She said he didn’t like to dance. He just kept looking at her. Said, Can’t imagine any man not wanting to dance with you. She laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He watched her walk away. Said to himself, What a shame girl. What a shame.