dmseay

I hear screaming through the vents. Air-conditioned voices yelling at one another. A woman saying, you don’t love me anymore, a baby cries.

There are voices in the alley mixed with hip-hop bass lines and car motors churning slowly, a chained dog barks.

Trains run through town. Steel wheels turn, and the engine blows out smoke. Vagabonds jump cars heading west. Sitting in black empty spaces. Voices ricochet off walls. Cigarette butts along the tracks. A crossing arm comes down. Bells ring.

Sirens on cop cars, fire trucks, ambulances carrying the wounded. Silence for the dead.

You don’t love me anymore, she tells him. You don’t love me anymore, a door slams. Waiting for morning.

She stood in the doorway wearing Pink sweats and holding a child. Baby girl kept pointing at the man on the steps. Reaching out to him. Wanting to touch him. Mom kept slapping her arm down each time she pointed.

Some TV show was on in the background. A man saying he wasn’t the father and a woman insisting that he was. Screaming and yelling at each other. Chairs thrown. A large bald man trying to break up a fight. Audience members cheering them on.

He kept looking at the mother and child. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. A can of Dr. Pepper sweated in his hand. Moisture formed on his upper lip.

We like to keep things quiet round here mame, he said as the kid squirmed. I heard yelling last night through the vents. I can hear everything through the vents, he winked at her. I hear your television. Your kid. And you two screaming at each other, she bowed her head.

Some of us like to sleep at night, he told her, took a drag from his Marlboro. Peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask? she shook her head. I mean, you two yell at each other all the time. And when you’re not yelling, you’re screwing, she turned red. Yeah, he said. I hear that, too. And then I’m up all night. Making scrambled eggs or eating chips and salsa while you two go at it. Sounds like you want to kill each other.

We’ll keep it down, she said. We’ll keep it down, she told him as she began shutting the door.

Could you? Could you just keep it down? I would appreciate it, she nodded, the baby cried, and he stepped off the front porch. The fat man could feel her looking at him as he walked back to his apartment. Some folks, he said. Some folks.

I know you now

Read your poetry

The ins and outs

Parts of you that were left bleeding on a New York sidewalk years ago. No one came to your rescue. Red blood turned black. Drying in the sun. A needle in your hand.

Ghosts have haunted you. Spirits from a distant past. They called out your name in the middle of the night. Made you feel ashamed; scared to go on living.

These things you did. Sins commited. Thefts and robberies. Cheating people out of money. The lies told. These were vain attempts at saving yourself from shelters, cardboard boxes, tent cities, under bridges, and church basements. Keeping up appearances at The Port Authority among travelers, tourists, vagabonds, bums, junkies, meth heads, sick people with no hope. They were robbed blind too. Slaughtered lambs.

And now I know you

I read your poetry.

Saw inside of you.

These truths.

I watched him leave. Held him as he took his last breath. He didn’t say a word, just fell to the ground. Collapsed right in front of me like a deflated balloon or a candle melting under flame. He grabbed onto me briefly, then just let go. I could see his spirit floating in the air.

Before he passed on, he told me how angry at God he was. Said the almighty took his wife from him, left him alone in this world. Hard to let go after fifty years of marriage. The old man never did.

He’d take out her picture from his wallet every day and look at it. Sometimes, at night, he would talk to her in his sleep. Asking how her day went and what was for dinner? He smiled as he dreamed.

Now he’s with her; if you believe in that sort of thing. They’re in Heaven, taking walks on paths of green and streets of gold. The two of them are holding hands. Life goes on.

Everyone’s scared of death, he said. It’s natural to be afraid of the unknown. We go through life listening to mystics or mistakes. Those that know and those that don’t. We make our choices, the fat man lit a cigarette and handed one to me. We lit them both with the same flame from a Zippo. The lighter closed with a snap. He nodded his head to the music playing. John Coltrane dishing it out with Central Park West. I want this played at my funeral, he told me. Followed by Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus, he smiled, stuck the cigarette between two teeth.

The Bible says praise him with song, I whispered, taking a drink from my pint glass.

I think that’s what Coltrane and Mingus, all those cats did. Praised him with song, he held his rocks glass to the ceiling. They knew. They weren’t scared. But, they were prophets. We’re just simpletons trying to stay on a path. Some path through Chicago, New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, Paris, into the heartland of Iowa where the children cry at night, St. Louis cats jumping to rhythms laid down years ago and muted trumpets playing in bars across this land, all over, all over. This is the gospel my son, he said. This is the gospel.

There was a cricket in the house. It chirped from a corner, though nobody ever saw it. All night long, he’d sing. Sometimes, in a fast rhythm, and then slow down as if he were performing a ballad. The high-pitched noise drove the old man crazy at first. He ripped out desk drawers, turned over the trashcan, and checked behind potted plants, all in an effort for peace and quiet. Slept with one eye opened and a shotgun on his lap in his easy chair. The old man was convinced the cricket was a monster. An invisible monster that would one day appear in front of him. He was prepared.

Days were quiet. No noise from the cricket. Just a low hum of television talk shows. Shows about cheating spouses, obese children, pregnant daughters, and fights between siblings. The old man just sat there with the gun cocked over his shoulder. His fingers sweated from the summer heat. Felt a tension on the trigger. Dreaded nightfall.

One night, as the cricket serenaded him, he had a dream. In this dream, he awoke to the smell of fried bacon in the skillet, eggs seasoned, buttered tortillas and coffee brewing. The cricket was standing upright in this vision with an apron around his waist, speaking Spansh. He placed breakfast on a table for the old man and began to sing an old traditional Mexican mariachi song of love and despair. The old man smiled as he rolled his eggs in the corn tortilla. Clapped his hands while the cricket swayed back and forth. There was no anger in him. Just peace. He tipped the cricket a ten spot. The insect smiled and bowed, then walked out the door, closing it softly with a turn of the knob.

The old man awoke to silence. No longer was there noise. No more singing. Just quiet.

Leaves fled from trees.

Christmas lights in September. A wreath is still on the front door. Leaves have yet to change.

It is morning. The old man sits on steps made of concrete; cold, wet from last night’s rain. A cup of coffee beside him, cigarette dangles from his lips. School children line up at the bus stop.

Inside the trailer, mom is making breakfast; fried eggs, fried bacon, fried potatoes, everything fried with buttered white toast. She hums along to a Dottie West song. Windows are open. He can hear her. The smell of bacon drippings linger.

He takes one last drag off his Marlboro and stomps it out in the dirt. Throws the butt in a coffee can. The old man opens the door and sees breakfast laid out on the table for him. He does not smile at her or say thank you. He simply sits and begins to eat.

Gotta go to the grocery today, she says. Want anything special? he continues shoveling the food in front of him into his small mouth. We need more bacon, she tells him. More eggs. Maybe a chicken. Sound good? he does not respond.

Being finished, she grabs his yellow stained plate. Takes it to the sink and rinses it off. Again, he does not say thank you. The old man goes back outside and sits with a half filled cup and lights his cigarette. He stares into space, mumbles to himself, and then falls over against the rail.

She walks down the steps past him. Pats the old man on the shoulder. There is no response.

Instructions were wrongly read. Should’ve been simple. An easy reading of a goes to b goes to c. But you had to put your own twist on it. Adding elements that just didn’t fit. A bit of this. A bit of that. Some mess was made. You’re accountable for this. You have to take responsibility. Has anyone told you that? the old man acknowledged his son. You got all these minions following you. Agreeing with every word you say. It’s as if a spell was cast, the son lit a cigarette. It all could have been so simple. But you had to go for style.

I did what I thought was right, the father stood up. Sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t always pay off. Any smart man will tell you that. Kissinger would tell you that. The truth is hard. Not everyone wants to hear it.

People died pop. They’re gone because of you not following directions. Moms and dads are missing sons and daughters. All because you thought you were doing the right thing. You can’t think in these situations, dad. You have to know. Every little detail has to be followed.

It’s not my fault. Things got messed up out there. Couldn’t see straight. It’s hard to work in the dark.

You were not in the dark. The man before you left instructions. All you had to do was follow them, the son left the room, slamming the door behind him. The father picked up a newspaper, read the headline, and softly placed it in the trash can. His time was over.

Imagination had gotten the best of him. Long drawn-out thoughts of death kept him awake. His eyes open, laying there next to his wife, in and out of a dreamlike state, pictures in his mind of leaving this earth, this life, and moving onto nothing; a blank space. No god nor angels greeting him at pearly gates. No streets of gold. Just a cold, empty space where he would dwell forever. Completely contrary to promises made by preachers in his youth. Tales of Heaven and Hell told by ministers way up high in the pulpits of the South. Spending eternity with Jesus or forever with Lucifer; a million souls lost.

He walked down the hall of his trailer and tried to get comfortable in his easy chair. Flipped through channels with the sound down. Watched news reports of war and famine, criminal activity in the inner-city, and masks to be worn at all times. Maybe the end was coming, he thought. Perhaps the apocalypse was well on its way. More fear entered his head. Maybe death wasn’t such a bad thing, he whispered. Escape before it all goes to shit, the fat man mumbled. Eyes closed. Asleep to the soft voices of television news.

And in the morning it was toast and jelly. Coffee with cream and a loving round wife. He wondered if today would be his last. He wondered.

There’s a clock ticking in all of us, he told his wife. You never know when the alarm is going to sound, he said. Could be today. Might be tomorrow. You never know. My dear, you never know.

She kissed his forehead. Said she loved him. Talked to him like a school boy. Brushed his graying hair back from his forehead. Then she sang to him. It was a song he had not heard since his youth. He hummed along. I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away.

Candy bar wrappers mixed with leaves swept on a sidewalk. Kids leave a trail. Porchlights and streetlights start to turn on. A hazed blue shadows over concrete. The bouncing of a basketball is heard in the distance. Moms yell that it’s dinner time. A pot roast in the oven. Ranch Style salad dressing on tables throughout a suburban landscape. Houses with aluminum siding and clean gutters. Friday night will be here soon enough.

Parents file into a football stadium at the local high school. Kids in uniforms are doing jumping jacks on the twenty yard line. Slapping each other on the helmet with a bulldog on the side. Pounding pads with fists and yelling out, yeah, yeah, yeah. A prayer is said, and the flag is presented. All rise and remove your hats. Hands over hearts.

Under bleechers, boys and girls make out as the band plays Horse. A referee whistles, and the coach complains. Dads, yell, and moms talk about homecoming. What dress will she wear? Will her boy be named king?

Find out tomorrow. Same suburban time. Same suburban channel.