dmseay

Know what time it is? He asked.

Four, she said, looking at her watch on the nightstand.

Red numbers on the alarm clock kept flashing 12:00 a.m. He sat up and placed his bare feet on the cold wood floor. Cars were heard driving by. An ambulance siren in the distance got closer. He rubbed his eyes.

Sun will be up in an hour.

Uh huh. Yep. About an hour, she yawned. You always get up at this time, she said. And you have to ask what time it is. The young woman laughed. Either get up or come back to bed. She rolled over on her side. Actually, go turn the coffee on. I’ll be up in a minute.

It ain’t easy, he mumbled. You ain’t easy. He walked down the hall naked. Looked out a kitchen window. Noticed how pitch black it was. No light. Nothing. Just black. The city had not been turned on yet.

Morning, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her silk robe felt good on his skin. The girlfriend reached up and kissed the back of her lover’s neck.

You want coffee? Or….

We got awhile till it’s brewed. She twisted her long blonde hair.

I see. We do. They laughed as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. 

You think anyone knows?

About us? He asked. Not sure. Hard to say. Secrets are hard to figure out. He dropped her on the bed.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I love you, William Bennett.

Let’s not ruin it.

It’s cold, he said. Too cold.

Shut off the air-conditioner, she responded.

Then it’ll be too warm.

You’re never happy. Always having to complain. She opened a window and turned off the air. Maybe some fresh air would help.

Perhaps. Maybe. He sat quietly after that. Didn’t say a word. Closed his eyes for a bit. listened as she spoke.

You should get out more. She told him. You stay inside all day and night. That’s not good for you. She placed her hands on her hips and walked away. I’m going out for a while. Do you want to come? He sat still and silent. Suit yourself. She opened the door. See you later.

He got out of the chair and looked out the window. All those buildings, he whispered. All those people. Who would want to be a part of that? He continued looking down on the sidewalk. Children drawing with chalk. Bright colors of pink and orange. They drew blue clouds.

The kids know. He said. They know what’s real and what is not. Like monsters under our beds, in our closets. That’s real. He lit a cigarette. They know truth. I don’t think I ever did. Not sure.

He stuck half of his body out the window. Placed his foot on the frame. And, then he jumped.

The door was left unlocked overnight. Waited for her to come home. Fell asleep in the La-Z-Boy with a rifle cross his lap. Television was on. Sound down to a murmur. Hushed tones while news headlines ran at the bottom of the screen.

In his sleep, he gasped for air, tossed and turned, and held onto his gun tightly as if he were out in the bush waiting for Pol Pot. His fingers sweat, wrists itched from a red rash. A half filled beer can was placed on the side table. Warm beer. Saved to finish later.

Around three a.m. she came through the door. Silently. He was talking in his sleep. Something about going on, moving out, finished. She quietly locked the door and took off her shoes.

She awoke in the afternoon. Cats down below fighting. Hissing at each other. The blonde haired woman opened the window and let in a cold breeze, some fresh air.

Everything seems so stagnant, she said. Nothing new. Same old story. She quietly dressed. Put on her coat and shoes. Walked over to her sleeping husband. Kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye, Don McNally.

Head by the toilet bowl; the cool, cool toilet bowl. A small trashcan, rusted on the bottom, a quarter way filled with vomit, stands beside him. A can of Lysol in his hand.

There’s shit on the floor from not making it in time. Underwear soiled. Tee-shirt dripping with sweat. It is two o’clock in the morning. Drinks had three hours before now flushed away. He wipes his mouth with his forearm and runs his hand through greasy hair. Shakily, he stands like a newborn colt.

He stammers down the hall, back to his rented room. Wind from the fan hits his face. Windows are open. Half a warm beer in a can. He smells it and pours the Schlitz down below onto the sidewalk, past other windows, and a green neon sign that reads, Paddy’s Pub.  Damn Irish, he mumbles and turns on the music. Joe Henderson plays sax out of a tinny transistor radio. Goddammit still sounds good, he whispers.

Falling into bed, he turns over on his side and looks for a matchbook on the nightstand. He sits up with his back against the wall and lights a Viceroy.  Smoke hovers above him.

Where are you, honey? I miss you.

Fritos in the cupboard. Coffee on the counter. Toast with marmalade. No cream in the fridge. Not even the powdered stuff. Bare bones.

Cigarette butts in a plastic cup. He pulls them out one at a time. Some of the filters have red lipstick on em; a whore who was there the night before. No money in his dresser. Just an old Eagle Scout badge left behind by his dad. There’s a hole in his sole.

He opens the window and lets in the cold winter air. Christmas has passed. It’s a lonely Valentine’s Day. An old card sits on his nightstand. See you soon, it says. Love, Hazel. 

A candle is lit. Pictures of naked women nailed to the walls. All twelve months are represented.  He has a fondness for Ms. November. He lights another butt. Turns on the radio and listens to 24 hours of Coltrane on WKCR. India plays.

The song ends. Another begins. A Love Supreme. He listens in a trance. It is healing. Souls need nourishment. Feed me, he says quietly.

Happy Valentine’s Day, John.

She used to sit on his lap as they drove through town. Honking the horn and waving at people. Folks waved back.

Little girl would place her hands on the big steering wheel with her father’s over them. They’d turn it loosely, nothing sharp. Laughed as the Dodge spit and spattered, made noises, nothing quiet about it. 

They’d pull up and park it at Dog N Suds. Daddy placed the speaker on the half rowed down window. He let his little girl place the order.

We want two dogs with no ketchup and two root beers. She looked up at Dad.

Go on. Tell him what else you want, Daddy said.

Two bags of barbecue potato chips.

Well that be all Miss? The voice asked.

His daughter leaned towards the speaker and said that’ll do it. The kid with pigtails looked up at her parent for his approval. He nodded. Smiled. Used shirt sleeves for napkins. Crusty mustard on flannel.

They drove back through town. His hands on hers. Drove past the barber shop and Jewel grocery store. Went around the corner where Paddy’s Pub stood. Mom was out on the sidewalk spraying off chalk drawings.

There you go, kid. Dad said as he leaned over to open her door. I’ll see you real soon.

I love you, Daddy.

I love you too, squirt.

She hugged him sideways.

He drove off. Heading West.

Standing at the jukebox and there are three renditions of Vernon Duke’s Autumn in New York.

One done by Oscar Peterson. Another played by Bill Charlap. And a third selection by Bill Evans Trio, including Scott LaFaro on bass and Paul Motian playing drums. I take a sip of whiskey and decide to go with Bill Evans. I place my last quarter in the record machine and watch the 45 start to spin. I think of you.

We used to sit in Washington Square Park eating popcorn and feeding pigeons. Leaves of rust, yellow, gold, and red. You placed your cheek on my chest. Blonde hair surfing an overcoat.

That was years ago when we were young and poor. Hungry for new experiences.  The only thing that changed was you.

And I held a transistor radio in my hand. Listening to WKCR. Listening to Autumn in New York by Bill Evans. Squirrels danced slowly. Couples walked by. Smiled. We laughed.

I sit here drinking whiskey. Remembering. I’m stuck in remembering. Autumn in New York.

Mountain tops in West Virginia. Deer on the side of the road; killed by carelessness in Pennsylvania. The Ohio River churns.

I drive throughout the night. Hours in the dark, thinking of you, feeling your touch on my face like a ghost reaching out. Spirits on 40.

Driving past St. Louis and over the Mississippi with its muddy banks and casino boats. Money floating on brown water that Huck and Jim paddled upon. An arch overlooking all of us.

All alone in this world, this country since you’ve been gone. Drive, drive, drive from one end to the other. From West to East and North to South. In search of something to keep me going.

And there’s that touch again. Your spirit trying to break through; a sign that it’s alright. I’m not alone.

But, I keep driving. Past Joplin, Carthage, Oklahoma, down into Dallas over to Amarillo where they have steaks big as your head.

Stay with me. Don’t go away. We’ll be there soon.

Windows were open. Cold air came into the rented room. A mug of coffee on his desk; an electric typewriter, stacks of blank paper, a picture of a woman in a gold frame bought at a dime store.

He looked at the photograph every day before sitting down to write. Occasionally, the old man would kiss it and place his wrinkled fingers on her blonde feathered hair. She looked like one of Charlie’s Angels; the blonde one who married The Six Million Dollar Man. A bird sat on the window frame.

The old man started to write a sentence but kept staring at his muse. He picked up the picture and held it close to his heart.

I miss you, he said. More than anything, I miss you. The frame was placed next to the typewriter.  He took out a tissue and wiped his eyes. Just ’cause we never met don’t mean I don’t love you.

They talked into the night. Spoke about different things. Chased the moon.

He picked up the youngster at a diner in Topeka. Said he was heading west. Going out to Colorado. Spend some time in Denver like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. Eventually, wind up in San Francisco. Buy a book at City Lights.

Ever heard of Kerouac and Cassady? He asked the runaway. The teenage boy with a ring in his left ear shook his head, no. That’s a shame. Full of adventure and longing. Longing to discover America. No telling what those two were gonna do next. Had to turn the page, said the bearded old dude. You don’t talk much.

Just along for the ride, the kid said.

Aren’t we all. Maybe the days of discovery are over.

Sure.

They rode along in the dark with the radio turned down low. Picked up static in the middle of nowhere. The hum kept them awake.

What do you want to be when you grow up? The old man asked. The boy didn’t respond. He acted like he was asleep at times. In and out of dreams. Mumbling something about mom and dad. Talking in soft tones of girls in his high school.

I know, the hippie said. I still ain’t figured it out. He laughed. Ain’t that funny. Grown man still ain’t figured it out. Oh. I do odd jobs here and there. Guess I’m just a traveling fool. He looked at the boy. The sun was coming up. An orange haze filled the sky.

You can let me out at the truck stop, the teen said.

You sure?

Yeah.

OK.

You gotta five spot on you? I’m hungry.

Yeah. I can do that.

The old man pulled out a wad of cash. Handed the kid a twenty. Said, today’s your lucky day.

The boy didn’t even say thanks. He just went from truck to truck looking for his next ride.