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This thing.

Yes.

This thing you have. Is it deadly? Can you die from it? I mean, I’d hate to see you die. But, I guess we all die sometime. Right? The old man nodded his gray head. Where do you think you caught it?

Don’t know. Might’ve been it came from inside. Could be it’s always been there, he said. Some kind of growth. Something growing inside my body all these years. Might’ve been a toilet seat, they laughed. Not sure. Neither are the doctors.

You never smoked? the old man shook his head. Wasn’t much of a drinker either were you? again he shoook his head. How’d you wind up here? In this place. We’re surrounded by death. Every day someone is dying from something. Like I said. We all gotta go sometime, he took a sip of coffee.

The two old men looked out the window at the busy street in front. Cars and trucks going places. Mothers taking sons to baseball practice, men and women driving to business meetings, truckers delivering goods, lovers checking into hotels. They sat there for awhile in silence. Just watching the traffic go back and forth.

I wanna go some place.

You wanna leave?

Yes. Before I die I want to go someplace, he said.

How much time do they say you got?

Not sure. Couple of months. Don’t know.

Yeah.

I’ve never been anywhere, he said. Never left Ohio. Never been to Cleveland. Or, Dayton for that matter. Just been here all my life.

Should’ve joined the Army. Could’ve seen the world.

Yeah. I was too much of a coward. Besides, never liked people telling me what to do. When to do it. How.

I was in the Navy.

Like it?

It was alright. Good for me back then. Whipped me into shape. Made me a man.

Yeah?

Yep. So. You’re going to die soon. Sorry to hear that, the two continued looking out the window. Just kept looking at traffic. People going somewhere.

He never wanted it to change; the way things were. Completely content. As pleased as a man can be. He just wanted to live out the rest of his years in quiet. The sound of nothing except classical music playing on the radio. Maybe the sound of his own voice once in awhile. The old man liked to talk to himself. Carried on conversations constantly. He’d talk about old times with women he had dated over the years. The blondes, brunettes, all of them from boy hood crushes to full-on-affairs in the cities across America. There was that Japanese girl in Toledo, he said to himself. She was really something, he smiled. And that Dutch woman in Chicago, he sipped his weak coffee. She was fun.

The old man spent afternoons counting up all the women he’d been with. There were several. But, he could never place that ring on his finger. Came close with an Irish woman who wound up breaking his heart. That was in New York City. Years ago when Manhattan wasn’t so safe. I guess it’s not that safe now, he said, staring out the window at a parking lot. Things change then they change back again. Just the nature of life, the old man said.

Look at all those cars, he whispered. I wish I could get my hands on one of them. That and a good credit card I could run up before I die, he laughed. I’d be out of this place in a second, he smiled.

It’s time for your pills Mr. Samuel, the nurse said. He wheeled himself over to her in his chair. His frail hands pushed against the wheels. Make sure you take them all, she said. Make sure you swallow them, he nodded.

Darkness was coming. The sun was going down. Parking lot lights shined on the cars as they left the nursing home. No one visited him that day. No one ever visited. He just sat alone talking to himself about old times. He never wanted things to change. He was perfectly content. It goes by so quickly.

It’s five in the morning and the cats are calling. Running around the house. Spraying their scent that smells like a piece of urine soaked wood. They cry out and chase each other. Doing unspeakable things to one another that you’d only find in a Turkish prison. I wish they’d be quiet.

They jump in bed with me. Carrying on like two criminals about to make a steal. At first they’re quiet. Then the crying begins again. What do they want? Yes, I tell them. Yes. I’ll feed you, they spring off the bed, soaring in mid-air before landing and skidding on the hardwood.

They run to the kitchen and jockey for position at the food bowl. I pour in the dry mix; one stays, the other decides he’ll wait; wait by the vent to keep his white coat warm. He keeps looking over at the gray cat to see if he’s done. He is. He has savored every bite. Whitey takes his turn. Slowly he eats too. Mr. Gray watches. He meows. Telling him to hurry. Whitey tells him to go to hell.

They are both napping now. Sleeping till dinner time. That smell of urine will not go away. It will not. They both smile as they lay there.

She slept in her room down the hall. He watched television up front with the sound down. The Weather Channel was showing all this arctic air moving in from Canada. Five day forecast didn’t have a day above freezing. A blue color on the map indicated that snow was coming. Strong winds. Blizzard like conditions. The old man looked at all this with the wonder of a child. New Haven hadn’t had a good snow storm in years. He was ready for one. And she, she’d just sleep through it.

The old man stayed up all night waiting for the first flake to fall. He had the porch light on and the curtains open. He walked over to the sliding glass door and put his frail hand against it. Cold, he said. That’s cold, he mumbled. He went back to watching the TV. It seemed as though the blue swaths of color were moving to the south of his state now. The arctic air was blowing the blue band farther and farther away. It was announced there would be no blizzard. Less than an inch would fall in his area. The old man was not amused.

No snow, he said out loud. Damn. Can’t have anything go my way, he yelled. The old man turned off the television and poured himself a whiskey. Sitting in the dark he could hear his wife snoring down the hall. She’d be up in a little while, he thought. Have to break the news to her, he lit a cigarette. He then walked over to the curtains to close them and turn off the light. He sipped his drink. And looked up at the sky. Clear as a bell, he whispered. Clear as a bell. The old man went to sleep in his recliner, dreaming of fluffy white stuff. He had a smile on his face. It was New Year’s Day.

A cat outside yelling for food. It’s dark. Not even a star out. The cat sits close to my back door; scratching. His nails shriek on the tin. All I can do is hear him. I can’t see him. Must be black. Or, maybe gray. He claws harder, faster. A real need of urgency. I turn on the back stoop light. There’s nothing there.

Maybe the light scared him. The sudden force of energy. I go back to drinking my coffee; leaving the light on. And, there he goes again. Meowing loudly. Almost calling out words in English. Talking to anyone that’ll listen. I go back to the door. This time with a saucer of milk. I open the door and he takes off again. Scared of a human presence.

I leave the milk out for him. The sun is coming up. I turn off the light. Moments later I hear him say meow one more time. As if to say thank you. I look down at the saucer and it is empty. He got what he wanted. I’m glad to have served him.

The next morning there were two cats at my back door. They talk loudly. Like two drunks in a bar. I fill a bowl of milk for them. Open my door. And set it down in front of them. They both meow. Both finish and lick their paws. Then leave.

Haven’t seen them for awhile. Stopped coming around. We are only here for a short time.

A red light glowed in the dark. He could hear wind blowing. Dogs barking. Kept looking at the red light. Just a tiny dot. It didn’t move. Stayed still. All around it was pitch black. He couldn’t make out anything. Couldn’t see anything in front of him. Dark.

The old man looked to the right and saw a green light glowing in mid-air. It was hiding behind the blinds in his front room. Then a blue light appeared. Red, green, and blue lights. None of them blinking. Just shining.

He lit a match. The flame was big. It burned brightly. The old man followed the burning stick all over the room. The small lights were coming from outside. He opened the blinds and saw a semi parked across the road. No sound. Just parked there with lights shining. He blew out the match and turned on the lamp. Put his coat on. Walked outside and looked at the truck. He was hauling lumber. A streetlight shined down on the wood. But, those glowing lights in the dark. Could’ve swore it was aliens, he said. Maybe some men from another planet, he shook his head and went back inside. Turned around. The semi was gone.

The old man sat on a porch swing overlooking the highway in his front yard. Tires from semis kicked gravel into the grass. Every summer and into autumn neighbors down the road could hear the old man yelling as the lawnmower threw rocks towards the windows on his trailer home. But, this was the dead of winter. Slush and ice along with pools of water at the end of his driveway was all he had to look at. No green grass, nor multi-colored leaves to rake, just pitch black slush and dark water. It was as if everything was dead. Now, he was just waiting his turn.

His wife passed on some time ago. He couldn’t remember the date. Died of cancer. It was a long drawn out sickness. He tended to her. Took care of the elderly woman as best he could. He didn’t show any anger, or, questioning of God during her illness. But, he was mad at Jehovah. And after she died, he let it all out.

She’s gone, he whispered while drinking a beer. He took her, he said. I guess it’s all about timing, took another swig. You only got so much time. Or, it’s a punishment, he crushed the beer can and picked out another from his cooler. Either way. She’s gone. And he took her.

Three diesels came running through his front yard. The tips of their tires touched the dirt and weeds. It was now spring time. The season when she died. He brought Lillies to her in the hospice on Easter. She was asleep. He sat with her for hours. Looking at his wife. Held her hand. Had tubes running from it. What I wouldn’t do for ya, he told her. What I wouldn’t do. Soon the flowers will be here, he said to himself. Soon, he whispered. But, I won’t. No. I won’t.

People talked about her. She didn’t care. She said she didn’t. Church elders passed her around like a communion plate. Each one taking a piece of her. The preacher took the biggest piece; her soul.

Their affair had gone on for years at Colony Heights.The pretty blonde’s husband never suspected a thing. Shook the minister’s hand every Sunday. Sold insurance during the week. Sponsored the church baseball team. Little kids running around bases with tee-shirts that said, State Farm on em. Red, white, and blue colors on their backs; very American.

And the preacher’s wife didn’t suspect a thing either. The chubby master of the pulpit was always home for dinner. Never missed a Bible study on Wednesday nights. Made sure his children were tucked in by nine. They all prayed before they closed their eyes.

Come one Sunday morning the whole congregation was surprised that neither was in church. Both spouses woke up to nothing beside them in their beds. Just notes on pillows saying, I’m sorry. One day you’ll understand.

They were gone. Some say they left for Lima. Said they saw him selling used cars on the city’s Southside. Others told stories of how they just vanished; disappeared. No one was really quite sure.

The elders found a new preacher. A bright young man with a smile and a golden tongue. Said he’d come to heal em all from horrible sin. Folks had lost faith. And members stopped coming. They’d put their faith in man. They found a new messenger.

Folks started attending other places of worship. They spread out all over town. Searching for salvation in charismatic characters. Looking for a promise of eternal life. Yes. Eternal life. Singing out, how great thou art. How great thou art.

The sun. It’s a million miles away. That means it’d take forever to get there. And once you got to it where would you stand? Just a big ball of fire. A burning star. You’d die from the heat the closer you got to it. The body can only take so much.

He looked up in the sky. Everyone always talks about the magic of the moon. Rarely do you hear talk of the sun. Like the probability that in a billion years it’ll burn out. No more light in the sky. Maybe twinkling stars. But, no sun, he said. Just a blank spot. A black hole maybe, he opened another beer.

Where do you think mom went to when she died? he asked his brother. Some say heaven. The Christians say paradise. Gone to be with Jesus. I think she’s in another dimension. Beyond the sun. Maybe there’s a second sun just glowing on them; those that have passed. They died here and their souls went to another place. Not their bodies. Their souls. And their sun will never burn out, he said.

His thin lips sucked on a cigarette. Weathered fingers wrapped around a can. He sat in silence. His skinny brother too. They just stared up at the sun. Looked at it. He shook his head. Blew out smoke. Sipped on his Budweiser. Shrugged his shoulders. Looked down on the ground at shadows. Long tall shadows of themselves.

A million miles away, he said. That’s a long way, he looked at his younger brother. Beyond that is longer. Another dimension, he said. She’s in another dimension.

An old man sat on a park bench watching children play tag, joggers jogging, horse drawn carriages carrying tourists around the upper West side. He listened as millennials walked past talking of dates gone wrong, where to get the best Indian food, moms and dads back in Missouri. Old women went by with grim faces and small dogs. Leaves crinkled under his feet.

He longed for music. A symphony playing Bach, or, Mozart. Maybe a jazz trio. Folk songs of old. The American songbook. Began to hum Cole Porter tunes; like glorious, glamorous and that old stand-by amorous. The old weathered man sang under his breath. Thinking back to when he used to see Bobby Short at The Cafe Carlyle. He smiled. Began singing, New York New York…a hell of a town…The Bronx is up but the Battery’s down…People run around in a hole in the ground…, he laughed.

A Hasidic Jew walked past. They nodded to one another. Both placed their fingers on their hat’s brims; his, a pork pie hat, the old Jew a black Fedora. They smiled at one another as if to say, we don’t have much longer you and I. A young couple roller skated past them. Pigeons flew away.

Someday I’ll fly away, he thought. Someday. He got up from the bench and began his stroll over to West 72nd Street. Going home. Glad to be alive just one more day.