dmseay

Three years ago.

I watch America roll by. Hilly land and mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire on into Massachusetts where this country began. People wave at the train as it goes by. I sit in the bar car having a $7 beer and a bag of peanuts; collecting shells and placing them in a paper coffee cup while others play cards and listen to music on their headphones; bobbing heads to beats I can barely hear, yet it is a distraction. I hear just enough to make out the profanities that are scratchy and screeching in their ears. The youngsters look at me and smile. I pull out the matchbook given to me from the young waitress in Burlington and I think, They’re not all bad. In fact, They’re not all bad becomes my mantra. I say it over and over again in times of stress. A whole culture taken over by youth with old men financing their every move; I continue looking out the windows.

The train runs through Connecticut where the land is not quite as mountainess, but, the feeling is still the same. These are the blue bloods of America mixed with poverty in New Haven, Bristol, Hartford. It is actually the perfect picture of America; those who have and those who have not. There are those back in the Midwest who believe there are those that have worked for it and those who haven’t. But, they have not seen the wall that surrounds Yale, or the green yards of Harvard in Cambridge, Mass. People in this country refuse to believe there is a caste sysyem. There are the rich and there are the poor and never do the two meet. Or, shall we say three? That is if there is a true middle class anymore. We wait to see the outcome; It’s not dark yet. But, it’s getting there, as Bob Dylan said. Yes indeed. It most certainly is.

Manhattan. The Port Authority Building. Every vagabond in America is here. And, if they are not here they’re on the other coast: Los Angeles, San Fransisco. But, a large percentage of them are here in New York. They live in shelters, drop in centers, sleeping in church basements, on benches, sidewalks, city parks and so-on. A lot of them try to sleep in the Port Authority Building. Junkies falling asleep in bathroom stalls, drunks staggering into corners, hookers on the roof top and parking garage. Offering clients special discount rates. They are young girls just off the bus. They are men wearing wigs and tight skirts. They are former housewives with habits. All of them searching out of desperation for dollars to support their addictions. They are a community of loners. Death is destined.

It is midnight and I’m walking around Burlington, Vermont. College kids run rampant in the streets, dodging and bumping into each other on their way to bar after bar after bar. The air is filled with alcohol and reefer. Kids smoking it openely in the streets, down alleyways, in between buildings in the dark. The smell is sweet and it brings back memories of St. Louis where I drove through and stayed for a week with a friend in public housing on the city’s Northside.

That smell of pot being a constant in the air. Black kids huddled together at bus stops smoking Swisher Sweets and Philly Blunts packed with herb. Rapping as they smoke. Talking about this bitch and that hoe. Checking guns they have in their pockets, coats, book bags, at hand and ready to use. The price of life in St. Louis is cheap. These white kids in Vermont do not realize that. They sing out rap music as well in their nasal tones. They know the words, but, they don’t know the music.

I’m sitting in a bar and it is almost closing time. A tattooed waitress tells me she’s going to New York as well one day to be an actress, or, a burlesque star; she hasn’t made up her mind yet. She talks to me as if I was her father, asking advice, wanting to know all about me, as if she came from me. I tell her I’m a bum on the run. A man who could not take it anymore. I tell her about the voices I hear, the highs and lows, the constant thought of ending it all. She places her hand on my shoulder and gives me a hug. That would be a shame, she says. An absolute shame, she kisses my forehead. It is good to feel her warmth. Maybe I’ll see you in New York one day, she says. I tell her maybe. Then, in a sweet old school way, she writes down her phone number on a matchbook. She smiles and says, Keep this. You might need it some time. And I realize I was wrong. Not all kids are bad.

The trees that were green when I first hit town have now turned golden over night. The mountains are breathtaking. Never have I seen such beauty in natural landscape. Yes, there are the Rockies out west and the Ozarks in Arkansas, but, they do not compare. This is magical. And, untouched.

I drive through small towns on back roads and highways. Looking at feed stores, gas stations with the old pumps, general stores, beautiful libraries, cobble stone streets, I’m taken back in time. That is till I get back to Montpelier where craft beers are all the rage and haute cuisine at the cooking college makes this town seem cosmopolitan. I have just enough money left for a decent meal and a beer. I skip the meal and fall into a dive bar for cheap PBR’s. There I come up with the plan to sell the truck for scrap. See what I can get for it. Then set my sights on New York. I am cold, tired, and hungry. I doubt my actions.

But, like the Mexicans, I’ve left everything behind in search of a new start. My dad was always wanting a new start. Moving from state to state, job to job. From Texas to Tennessee. Tennessee to Indiana. Indiana to Mississippi then Ohio. Always on the move. Seeking out the perfect opportunity; the perfect American dream.

Americans are always looking to better themselves. And, parents want their children to make it, have more in America than they did. Me, I just want to survive.

I sell the pickup for a grand. I’m back in the flush. College loan companies keep calling. I change my number. They keep calling. I’m no different than the rest of America; I hate to pay off my debts. We borrow and borrow in this land of opportunity and rarely do we pay it back. The government never does. Why should we?

These are clearly the thoughts of an insane man. Or, are they? I’ve been hospitalized thirty-two times. Had three suicide attempts. Prescribed countless medications. Been homeless and down on my luck. For now I will take in the golden mountains and consider myself lucky. Like the dollar says, In God we trust.

I’m sitting on a park bench in Montpelier, Vermont reading Charles Simic. It is the beginning of September and an early autumn has come. The pickup is in need of repairs of which I cannot afford. I figure I have one more long drive left in it. Not sure. My money is tight; little opportunity here for work. Simic will guide me.

Montpelier is the smallest state capital in the union. Around seven thousand people live in this picturesque town. It is a combination of the old and the hep. A town where an attitude prevails from it’s youth. Every young hippie from America eventually winds up here on their travels. Guitars carried in cases, scented oils bouncing off their bodies, and a constant stoned look upon dirty faces. White kids with dreadlocks far away from home. Following Phish, or, the Dead, or what’s left of the Dead; they don’t want the party to end.

And, maybe I’m no different. I’m running across America too. Running on high and low octane. My energy goes up and crashes down within hours. A constant roller-coaster ride. I used to take pills for this; a lot of pills. Before hitting the road I quit cold turkey. All my pills tossed out; anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, heavy doses. Some days I feel as though anything is possible. Other days the feeling of death takes over. I am hungry, cold, tired, and ready to crash. “I can’t go on. You must go on. I will go on.”

It is afternoon. Approaching evening. I have a hundred bucks to my name. I’ll work some meaningless job for awhile and bring myself back to snuff. But, tonight I’ll spend most of the cash I have on a good meal and cocktails. It’s very American of me to do this. The philosophy of spend it all and start all over again runs rampant in our society. Businesses practice this, banks too. So do mom and pop stores. Our government, always spending then making more; a constant recession. And everyone wonders how inflation got so out of control; $3.49 for a dozen eggs. $19 for a Caesar salad at a restaurant; with anchovies. And, we buy it. Spending the last of our loot. Why should I be any different?

Henry’s is a bar and restaurant on Main Street. It’s been around since the ’50’s. Beautiful inside. Dark wood and a bar the length of a football field. Booths on the side for private conversations. Lights dimmed always; very little light. I go in and Wes is bartending. Nice guy. The son of missionaries. A true bartender. One who listens, is attentive, and knows every face that walks through the glass door.

I ask him what’s new? He tells me fishing stories. How he almost landed a big one. He’s always on the verge of landing the big one. Aren’t we all? He also tells me that Floyd the baker will be in later on tonight. Floyd the baker. A true genius. Could be the most well read guy I know. Never went to college. Lost his hearing years ago. Uses a high tech hearing aid for conversations. Still hums John Coltrane songs and talks of aliens taking over the planet. Says, there’s always somebody taking over something. It’s cyclical. They take over then we take over. But, now I think this time the aliens have us on the ropes, he said. How do you explain cell phones? He asked me once. Aliens, he said. We couldn’ t come up with this shit. Never in a million years, he said. And, I believe him.

Looking at the menu it’s the same thing. Only the prices have gone up. $14 for a cheeseburger. $19 for fish and chips. $23 for some kind of Cajun pasta. I object to the Cajun pasta. Italians and Cajuns should never mix their recipes. Keep the Italians Italain and the Cajuns Cajun. Fusion food. You know who doesn’t do fusion? Mexicans. They stick to thousand year old recipes. They don’t mix it up.

I splurge and order the fish and chips along with a cheap beer. This is my night to celebrate. Celebrate that tomorrow I’ll be starting over again. Always starting over. A true American.

I lie in bed with cool air blowing through the cracks of my windows. Blankets are on top of me, but, I am still cold. I hear the sounds of fire trucks and ambulances; wondering where they’re going. The sounds of the city are a constant. It is noise. It’s become white noise. A background to everything I do. It makes me feel at home.

The ten years I lived in the suburbs, I did not feel comfortable. It was too quiet. Too perfect. It was like a picture postcard. Complete with a waterfall in the center of town. People walking their dogs in the morning and evening hours through parks and on sidewalks; tying them up to a fire hydrant as they went inside Starbucks to order lattes. Those days are over.

Waiting for my water to steep, I take down a book by Baudrillard, America. I read what the French philosopher and social commentator has to say about our country. Was his experience of roaming around the U.S. the same as mine. All this bigness, this plasticity that is America, is anything authentic anymore?

Looking out of my window as I do every morning, I see the facade that is the new shopping center here in town. I also see the for sale signs in the front yards. The time is coming when all of us (renters) will be kicked out, looking for a new home in another bad part of town, or, another town completely.

The apartment in the house I live in is not for sale; yet. I hide inside like a soldier in a bunker. Waiting for the enemy to attack. Soon their armies of the night will come. They will take over and I’ll be forced to surrender. And, it will be time to hit the road again. And again. A never ending life of being a nomad.

“You can’t go on. I must go on. I will go on,” Beckett.

Like a thief in the night I leave these towns; working just enough to get to the next city where I’ll continue my tour of America. I travel on I-80 then connect to 76 which takes me by Pittsburgh where I stop for a few days.

It is a city that at one time was in decay. Much like Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, Memphis, the list goes on and on. But, there is construction here. People building infrastructure, new places of commerce, hope. I see this hope when I talk to folks in bars. Impressed with new shopping malls going up in the suburbs. These are destinations built to look like small cities. Stores after stores with restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory and Olive Garden where you get as many breadsticks as you like. Don’t forget the never ending soup and salad bowl.

People, lemmings, walk up and down the brand new sidewalks going into Chico’s, Macy’s, Build A Bear, The Gap, Old Navy, and countless other spanking new businesses. All of them smiling and happy while looking at their phones. Watching music videos, reading emails, texts, talking out loud as they carry the instruments in their hands away from their mouths. They walk in front of traffic. Cars honk at them. Kids on motorized skateboards zip by on their way to no-where. The flowers are fresh smelling and the grass is green. The people of Pittsburgh, of America, are proud of these architectural achievements. We are in love with the brand new.

And I look at this mall. This shopping mecca. I see plastic. It is not real. Much like Times Square in Manhattan is not real. Disney characters following you around. Handing out leaflets to tour the island. Too many people, too many lights, too much loud thumping bass and blaring notes, all of America is becoming the same.

I sleep in a parking garage by the bus station downtown Pittsburgh. I sit there listening to jazz on the public radio station; jazz, the last American art form. And it is old jazz, bop jazz. Coltrane, Davis, Monk, Max Roach, Bill Evans, Mingus, they all play that night as I dream with a soundtrack playing till the sun comes up. Light gleaming inside my pickup. It is a sign from God. Another day has begun.

I-80 runs from New Jersey to Oregon. All that land in between. Cornfields and soy. Monsanto owns this part of the world. I travel through Indiana into Ohio down to Youngstown. Sleeping in my Ford outside of day labor places where men are picked for various jobs. I awake before the sun rises to stand in line with black and brown men. Some speaking in Spanish and others cursing their lives in urban street talk. I always stand at the front of the line hoping to get picked first. And, I do. I hear mumblings of men saying, white privilege. I keep my mouth shut. I need a buck like everyone else.

The assignments are handed out. Some will be working on beer trucks; loading and unloading kegs and cases while drivers talk on their phones and smoke cigarettes. There are those who will work on the backs of garbage trucks; emptying cans and dumpsters where some sleep over night. Many will work in factories on assembly lines or clean-up crews. It is the lowest of the paying jobs. Minimum wage. And, if you hurt yourself, you are not covered by anything other than what you have in your pocket.

I get chosen to work on the beer trucks. My muscles ache each morning. I stretch before others show up in line. My forty-two year old gut hurts from the daily lifting and carrying of beer. Bottles, cans, kegs, all stacked in liquor stores and basements of bars across America. This is my job. I’m a laborer with a college degree in English. Moving from town to town, waiting in line with men who maybe never had a shot in life. Never had a chance in these United States. Land of opportunity indeed.

In Chicago I worked the beer trucks. Slept in my truck under a sign on Halsted saying, Fresh Killed Lamb. And the lamb was fresh killed for you and me. For the drunks and junkies sleeping behind buildings on West Randolph. For Mexicans singing along to music as they wait to work; bringing dollars home to family; all sharing a two bedroom apartment in Pilsen, Logan Square, Bucktown, the Northside, where ever they can find cheap rent; asking no one to solve their problems, they solve them.

The fresh killed lamb. Son of God. Keeping his eyes on us all. Giving hope where there is none through word and song. It is this belief I cling to. For I am a sinner. In need of salvation. All of us in the line are sinners. And those in office buildings, those at home taking care of kids, country club members with cocktails in hand, the tax man, the theif, whores in the street, we all pray to the fresh killed lamb.

I drive around the country in search of nothing. The day takes me where the day takes me. Highways, interstate, toll roads, turnpike, back country roads; feeling myself loosing control with each mile until I’m finally lost in St. Louis, Iowa City, Dekalb County, Illinois, alleyways in Chicago, South Bend, on and on and on, never stopping for more than a day or two, just enough to rest, sleep in a Walmart parking lot or side street of a small town or major city.

Through out the night I go into Walmart to stretch my legs, use the bathroom, wash my face. The shoppers are insomniacs, night owls let loose from their cages, they come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. They walk down aisles in a trance like state. Zombies looking for the best deal on soda, cereal, shirts, a gun. They buy toys and video games, footballs and helmets with stars on them. They all walk slowly, hurded by music to self checkout stations. All of them, corralled into this space. Paying with cards and cash; bagging their goods.

I go back to my pickup truck in the parking lot and pull a blanket over my body. My feet push the floorboards, legs stretched out stiff. I close my eyes and try to sleep. Try to dream. The blue lights from high above shine down on me. These lights are everywhere. There is no escape. No darkness to be found. And the sound of shopping carts being pushed and pulled on concrete and broken blacktop keeps me awake.

My life has changed. I am a nomad in America. I am lost. I have no appointments, no medications, no prospects on the horizon; I am the luckiest man alive. Here’s to Henry Miller.

Looking out my window in the afternoon. The church bell chimes two o’clock. It’s loud. I can hear it over traffic. I hear it over the woman upstairs vacuuming. I hear it over music playing on my phone; Charles Mingus and his band. I see people walking past on the sidewalk carrying bags of food from the church pantry. Kids holding onto their mother’s hands. Fathers wearing cowboy hats and boots. They are brown. Some of the men have a thick mustache. Women wear dresses with flowers on them. They all wear coats and jackets. Children kicking leaves. I watch them; glad that I never had children. Happy I never had that responsibility. I can barely take care of myself.

I watch out my window at cement trucks as they drive down the street. An old abandoned building is being turned into an outdoor mall. Complete with condos and food courts. Bars and entertainment. All these old houses around me are selling for three times over what people paid for them years ago. Landlords are kicking out month to month tenants. Condemned buildings are being knocked down and new dwellings are going up. They say soon the average price for a home in this neighborhood will be over three hundred grand. That price used to be forty grand.

This is good for the city, they say. All this gentrification. Buildings that were once factories where people worked and raised families on decent wages are now becoming parking lots and apartment buildings, hotels, live-in lofts, offices. In the past this was never my concern. We lived out in the suburbs. We had nicely cut grass and flowers. A dog in a fenced in back yard. We had careers.

They say change is good. The displaced will find a place to live. They always do. It’s a matter of survival. Afer all, we’re only renters. We have no stake in the game. No dog in the fight. We are not true Americans. We are not members of the upper class. Not even members of the middle class; if there is such a thing anymore.

My ex-wife was a good member of the upper class. She came from money. Why she married me I do not know. Perhaps it was love; maybe. Maybe it was to upset her parents? They never liked different. She liked to tip the boat. What a treat it must have been to have met me the first time. A fat working class bartender who voted Democrat. I called it operation shock and awe. I flew over their dinner table and bombed everything in sight. Letting them know of my core beliefs. She smiled as the bullets rang out in the conversation. It’s funny how your ideas change. Mine did. Strange how we move from what we used to be only to find that you were never far from home.

The church bells chime five o’clock. I hold my rosary and pray. I feel the wooden beads in my hands and the metal cross in my lap. I open my eyes and see Mexicans walking back to the church. It is Wednesday and I’m skipping mass once again. I haven’t been in years. And I call myself a Catholic. Fear is a powerful tool.