dmseay

A Swisher Sweet hung from the corner of his mouth. Half way burned through. Getting shorter and shorter. The fat man kept switching the small cigar from one side of his thin lips to the other. He’d tap the ash with his forefinger and thumb. Sitting beside a window in his apartment at midnight. Looking down at busy streets and neon lights glowing from bars and used car lots. All night taco stands. And, twenty-four hour convenience stores. Advertising Big Gulps and Slurpees. Ninety-nine cent hot dogs. A five dollar frozen pizza. Microwaved burritos.

The fat man opened a beer and waited. Soon the show would begin. He kept looking at the window across the alley from him. Every night the fat man looked at the window. Every night it was the same show. Blinds drawn. The outline of a woman’s body. A shadow. Firm breasts and a little bit of a gut. Long hair. A chin that stuck out.

He looked on as he drank his beer and smoked his cigar. He watched as the water hit her body. Saw her hands bathing her belly. It’d been a long time since he’d seen a woman’s body in person; up close. Holding onto it. The fat man kept looking at the outline. Thinking of what he would do if he were a younger man. In shape. Able to perform. He watched and wondered.

Then the woman was gone. The show was over. Bravo, he said. Bravo. He stood and clapped. Turned on a jazz radio staion and went to bed. It was just another night. Loneliness will get you every time.

Wet streets from rain. Streetlights shine down on pavement. Shadows following hookers as they make their nightly stroll. Fat men in cars cruise by slowly. Rolling down windows.

Cops are in the diner drinking coffee eating midnight breakfast. They know what goes on in these streets; who’s dealing? who’s buying? They know the pimps, whores, perverts and junkies. They see through dumpsters in back alleys, dark corridors, down steps leading to basements in empty houses. People hiding. Hiding from them.

And, some of these folks are their friends. Telling cops the score. The latest victims. Who killed who? What’s behind door number one? There is no honor among theives. They’ll rat in a second. Telling stories about a guy who knows a guy. Some mad man running around passing junk with poison. He’s hurting business.

Pollo knew something was up. His paranoia was heightened. Antennae on his head buzzed constantly. The cops were on to him. He knew it. But, did he lay low? no. He might as well have shouted it from the roof tops, I’m a dealer. Wanna o.d.? Come see me, he whispered.

The short black man was shaking that night. He made his rounds. Hitting whores. Giving away free candy. Well, in this life nothing is free. He’d paid his price as well. Fresh out of Rikers where he had his right eye cut out with a shank. A black patch covered the wound. The fat little man swore he would never go back there. They’ll have to kill me first, he said; carried a pistol at all times. Ready to use. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Just like the old West. A gun fight on 8th Avenue. Right in front of Madison Square Garden. Just him and the pigs. Shooting at each other. May the best man win.

His shit was clean; pure rock. That is, as pure as it gets. Nothing is perfect. All night long he’d stroll around Manhattan. Selling and giving out sweet tastes of crack, smack, reefer if you wanted. The man was a walking drugstore. Hand delivered goods to those in a constant wait. But, he didn’t watch his step. And soon everybody on the streets would know about it.

The cops wanted him back in Rikers. Or, better yet, dead. He didn’t play ball; cocky, but scared. He knew sooner or later he’d meet his destiny. The pusher man chose sooner.

The body was found in a stairwell on 55th Street. Gun was in his right hand. The shot was clean. Went straight through the brain. A hooker found him when she went down there to turn a trick. Cops identified him as Pollo Jackson. Just another dope dealer dead. There was no-one to claim him.

He was hungry. Starved. Lying in bed. Going over events of the past day. Nothing accomplished. No letters written nor bills paid. Didn’t talk to anybody on the phone. Stayed inside looking out the window at the falling rain. The sun blotted out by dark clouds. That was his day. And now at one o’clock in the morning he was hungry.

There were two eggs in the ice box. A spoonful of mayonaise. Some wheat bread up in the cupboard. Little bit of butter. He decided to make a fried egg sandwich. Used to make them all the time. Years ago when he and the wife came home from a night on the town. Two drunks making fried egg sandwiches. Dancing in the kitchen. Listening to Bill Evans play Gloria’s Step. He’d twirl her. Give her a dip. Then a kiss on the lips. Most of the time butter burned in the pan.Turning brown. They’d laugh and start all over again. But, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He held her from behind while she flipped eggs in the frying pan. She’d lean her head back on his chest until the eggs were ready to place on the bread. Eating slowly. Enjoying every bite. Looking at each other. Scared of one day the other being gone.

That was twenty years ago. Now they lived apart. Her on one coast and him on the other. Eating fried egg sandwiches alone he thought. Being alone.

The egg stuck to the pan. It tore apart and did not look pretty. The yoke was hard, but, it was not a perfect yellow. He didn’t use enough butter. She would’ve laughed at his fried egg. Would’ve ridiculed it. She’d call it an abortion. He smiled. Thinking of her. And fried egg sandwiches.

That’s when things break down. Two people. Not on the same page. Thinking they had the perfect plan when all along they were counting on the other to fold, to give -up, give them their end of the deal. Folks say their on the same team, but, rarely is that the case. There’s always selfish motives. People get greedy. They want it all for themselves.

There’s no more water, he said. No more. I’ve tried all over this land and there isn’t a spring one here. We tapped it all out, he kicked in the air. You and your daily hair washing. We gotta move on, he told her. Pack your stuff. We’ll leave here in the morning and travel through the day up until we find something; a stream, some fountain, maybe a river. It’d be great if we had a map. Note to self, he said, always carry a map.

You don’t know how to read a map anyway, she said. Not my fault we’re out of water. Maybe all the coffee you made, she looked at him with daggers. You ever think about that. You can’t live without your coffee, she lectured. Washing hair and staying clean is one thing. It’s needed. Keeps us human. Coffee? that’s a waste. A waste of water and time, she started gathering sticks. Why don’t you do something productive for a change? Like help me build a fire.

He just looked at her. Looked at her in a new way. Not the same as when they started months ago. Not the same as when they planned it that night in the bar. It was a look of anger. He’d had a enough. And, so had she. This hike was becoming a chore. It was hard work. They thought it would be a vacation. Now every little thing about the other was bothersome. The two of them planned to reach Maine by September when the night air was starting to get chilly. It was August and they were still in Carolina. He was starting to hate her. She was staring to hate him. They both started thing about killing the other. Bury the body along the trail. Nobody would find it.

Are you going to help, or, not? she asked. He was setting out his bedroll and wrestling with bad thoughts. He knew she had a gun. Brought it with her just in case. He’d have to wait until she fell asleep. Then he would take action.

He’d never killed anybody before. The boy looked over at her as she slept. All of her stretched out as long as the Mississippi. Her blue eyes were closed. Her blonde hair smelled of lavender. The gun was beside her head.

The contemplation of killing someone. Thought out. Planned. Executed. This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, he whispered. He crawled over to her. Reached out his hand. He was going to do this. Kill her. Calm and cold he’d kill her.

And just as he was about to grab the piece, she said, Don’t even think about it.

There is nothing out there. A few cars parked in the street. Some man walking his dog. Windows shut. Air-conditioners on. No one sitting on their front stoops. No hookers walking by. Night moving into day. Trash pick-up cruised down the alleys. There is nothing out there.

He could not sleep. Thoughts of old friends haunted him. Some dead. Others he’d fallen out of touch with. Or, they’d fallen out of touch with him.

The old man sat on the fire escape drinking his coffee and looking out at the streetlights up and down the street. Not many. Just a few. Strategically placed. He and his friends used to walk these streets when they were younger. In and out of bars. Midnight diners where cops mixed with transvestite whores and out of work actors. Drunks ordering beef Manhattans and omelets, or, stacks of pancakes. Junkies stealing sugar packets.

Jimmy finished school. Got married. Had a couple of kids. Last he’d heard the golden boy was living in West Chester.

Doug died of a heart attack. Never saw it coming they said. The old man hadn’t talked to him in years. Heard about it through the grape vine. Doug was his best man. A marriage which had vanished years ago. He always said she’d leave him.

Pete gave up on being an actor. Did a couple of bit parts in plays. Spent most of his time bartending and chasing women. The old man thought he moved out to San Francisco for a new scene. He wasn’t sure.

There were others. Frank, John, Mike. Had no idea of their whereabouts. This was not the same city. Things change. And, friends come into our lives and leave. Few stay. Very few stay.

The sun was coming up over the city. The old man went inside. Took his medications. And sat in his favorite chair. He took out a pen and note pad to scribble thoughts on. There is nothing out there, he wrote. There never was. What a wonderful waste of time.

An orange moon was tossed on dark clouds that moved by. They both saw it. The two looked up in the sky and could see the shining ball bouncing, dodging and weaving as a midnight mist came down upon them. Both boy and girl stuck out their tongues to catch the drops of joy that fell. Water for thirsty souls.

Sinners always need cleansing. Scars from misdeeds show on their faces. The guilty can never look innocent. And they pray and pray and pray for forgiveness. They never feel clean. Harm that they’ve done to others haunts them.

She never confessed her sins to anyone. Everyone thought she was pure as gold. But, the beautiful girl was tainted. She tried to get rid of evil thoughts stirring in her mind. It was to no avail. These dreams were persistent; spoke to her in a language only she understood. Secrets eventually kill us.

The boy sat there with her that night. A silence between them. He could tell somthing stirred inside her. Some kind of spell from way back. He asked, Do you have something to say? She shook her head. He asked again, Are you sure? She shook her head again; violently this time. Then she turned away. Started running. Leading him on a chase through the pitch black woods. He was out of breath when she stopped. They both were.

She pointed to the soft ground. Something down there? he asked. She kept pointing. The boy took the heel of his shoe and started kicking in the dirt. Then he got down on his knees and started digging. He dug deep. She kept pointing. Her mouth closed.

He had dug down deep into the earth. Not knowing what he would find. And then he told her, There’s nothing here. Nothing buried here. She smiled. And jumped down in the hole with him. The moon was now hiding. Why? He asked. Why did I dig this hole? The girl grabbed him and kissed his lips. Forcing him to lay down. She undressed and saw that moon glowing again. Then she told him. She confessed.

I’m not what you think, she said. I’m a lost soul. Soon I’ll be gone. My sins are many. But, I’ve enjoyed them all.

Come morning she left him there in the hole. The sun had replaced the moon. She laughed silently. Her deed was done.

Ghosts walked around in the backyard. Old friends of his. Children laughed on a swingset. His father stole tomatoes. Mom sat on the back porch smoking a cigarette. A high school sweetheart. Some former co-worker stood by the wooden gate. Holding hands.

He popped open a beer and offered one to his mom. The can was sweating. Cold in the dark heat. Moonlight shined down on both of them. She took the Old Style and drank it in one gulp.

This is what killed me, she told him. Beer and cigarettes. Now I can have as much as I want without anybody questioning me, she said in a hoarse whisper. It no longer hurts, she stated. The pain has gone away, he nodded and took out a Marlboro for himself. Your father still won’t talk to me, she said. He wants nothing to do with me. But, we’re stuck together here. He does his thing and I do mine, she coughed. We never were in love I guess. Just married ’cause everybody else was, she confessed. The son got up and walked out in the yard.

Valerie stood with her lover at the gate by the rose bushes. His high school girlfriend and his friend from Piggly Wiggly waved at him as he walked past. They were killed in a car accident out on Lima Road on graduation night. The night she broke up with him. He always knew they were up to no good. Sneaking behind his back. What kind of a guy steals a friend’s girl? he thought. He kept walking.

The children on the swingset reached high in the sky with their feet touching the stars. They were kids he knew in grade school. The boy died of cancer at age eight. And, the girl passed on a year later. Shot in a drive-by. The news report said she wasn’t the intended victim. Cross fire on the Southside. Both of them were laughing. They would now be forever young.

And dad. Pop wouldn’t talk to him. Wanted nothing to do with his son. He didn’t want him to begin with. An accidental pregnancy. Forced to marry. The boy was blamed for his failures in life. He was going to live in Alaska and work on a fishing boat. Romantic dreams of the sea. He settled for a job on a used car lot. Selling Ford, Chevrolet and Dodge automobiles. Bored out of his mind. Some say that’s why he shot himself. Others said it was life in general. And there he sat eating tomatoes from his son’s garden. Didn’t say a word.

A train passed. Going out West. The old man wanted to jump on it. But, he couldn’t. Stuck in the backyard forever. Winter would come soon.

They were both quiet. Didn’t look at each other. She stirred her coffee while he looked out the kitchen window. Staring at hummingbirds. Drinking the sweet sugar water he’d put out the day before.

They’re quite amazing aren’t they, the old man said. The way they flutter their wings. Staying in place. It’s like watching a movie, he poured coffee for himself.

What’re you talking about? she asked.

Hummingbirds. I’m talking about the little hummingbirds.

Oh, she paused for a minute. He continued looking outside at the tiny creatures. They fascinate you do they? she sipped from her cup.

Yes. Yes they do. I like them very much. It’s one of my favorite parts of summer. Seeing them. Drinking from water I made for them. They have a sweet tooth, he laughed.

I see.

Silence came back between them. Neither spoke. The hummingbirds flew away.

I never saw you

Standing there

Staring at me

Looking through me

Hollow me.

Nothing

An outline

Soul missing.

No words said

Between us.

Silence in morning’s dew

Nightfall of a thousand stars

You were there

And, I was not.

He looked at her. Seated in the kitchen. Staring out the window. She sat quietly. Not making a sound. Like she was a zombie. It seemed as though she had death in her face. Wrinkled face. Blue veins in her hands. Her hair was gray and she was balding. The old man looked at her.

Where have we gone to? he asked himself. Yesterday we had youth on our side, he thought. There were dreams, ambitions. Nothing could stop us. And now, now this, the husband whispered. Now this.

She turned her head towards him; her lover of sixty years. Gave him a good look up and down. She drank from her coffee cup. Play some music, she said. Play Lush Life. He laughed. He smiled. Nodded his head.

The old man went into the living room and thumbed over old albums. Frank Sinatra, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, and Billy Strayhorn singing Lush Life. He put the old, scratched record on the turntable. It weezed and coughed, but the music still came through.

He went back into the kitchen and offered her his hand. The old couple embraced and slowly moved to the song. Billy Strayhorn singing Lush Life. Yes, it had truly been.