dmseay

Brick walls chipped. Mortar cracked. Pipes hang from the ceiling. A fireplace burned wood. Candles flickered.

You want some? He asked.

What is it?.

Coffee with cream and sugar.

The friend took the large paper cup and wrapped his hands around it. He drank some and passed it back to Henry.

That is some damn fine coffee, Dale told him. Thanks.

It’s Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Not that Starbucks shit. They don’t burn their beans. Slow roasted. Nothing bitter about it. Here. Have some more, Henry hands it back to Dale.  Henry starts drawing figures on the dirt floor. Ancient Egyptian symbols, Aztec too.

What are those?

Nothing, Henry said. Just chicken scratch. They were in books I read during college. Drawings from way back. Different cultures. Hand me that coffee.

Did you graduate? Dale handed him the coffee.

Yeah. Henry laughed. Got a degree in English.

Which means what? They both laughed. Not much of anything, Henry said. I’ve read a lot of books. Written a lot of stories. Wound up being poor and drinking coffee with you. He smiled.

Not a bad life, Dale told him.

No. Not bad at all.

Any regrets?

Never got married. Henry said. I would have been awful at it. He laughed. But I would have liked to have tried.

Yeah. I married. And, I wasn’t good at it. Just got in my way. Woke up one night and just left. Just took off. Got on a Greyhound to Joplin.

Why Joplin? Henry asked.

Far away from Buffalo. Just had enough money to get me there.

Yeah. How’d you wind up in Texas? Henry took a swig of coffee.

Worked my way down here. Farms, labor jobs, shoveled shit.

We’ve all done that.

Yep. We have.

The two men stretched out in the dirt. Wood burning. Coats for blankets.

Goodnight, Dale.

Goodnight, Henry.

There’s nothing worse than spending the night with you, he said. Reminds me of old times. The fighting and fussing. Plates and pictures thrown against walls. A table turned over.

We were young, she said. Mistakes were made.

Yes.

Snow had turned to ice. Salt trucks would not be out until morning. Their teenage son slept down the hall.

You  could’ve left earlier, she told him. Just drop him off and go.

The storm was coming, he quietly yelled. I should’ve waited till tomorrow.

You get him for a weekend.  That’s what you get. She put coffee in the filter and added water.

I’m sorry.

Don’t let it happen again.

I can’t control the weather, he said to her as he lit a cigarette. Do you mind?

Help yourself. She pushed away smoke.

I forgot.  You quit.

Yeah.

Quit drinking, too?

I have. One day at a time.

Nobody likes a quitter. He smiled.

There’s blankets in the hall closet and a pillow on the couch. If you wanna stay up and have coffee, go ahead. I’m going to bed. She poured a glass of water and looked for aspirin in the cabinets. Don’t expect breakfast. I suspect you’ll be gone when he wakes up. No school tomorrow, probably.

Right. You take care. See you next Friday.

Don’t forget to lock the door.

Dark and empty. Two men asleep on the ground. Empty vodka bottles. Crushed beer cans. Cars and semis hover above. A fire in a rusted barrel.

They dream of the first of the month. SSI checks cashed and spent.  Living like kings for a day or two. Booze in dive bars. Food from a restaurant. A cheap hotel room for a night. They never had it so good.

And then the money’s gone. No more loot. Disappeared from their pockets in a twenty-four hour stretch. Dimes and quarters left.

They beg in Times Square. Frightened Midwesterners give them a buck or two. Enough for a pint. Passing out back under the bridge or sleeping in subway cars. Trains travel into night. The long wait begins.

Thirty or thirty-one days, depending on the month. December has a hundred.

They sat in a booth at the diner. They faced each other. He read the menu while she played with sugar packets, artificial sweetners, powdered cream.

I think I’ll have the sunrise special, he said. She nodded and took a sip of coffee. Two eggs, bacon, home fries, and toast. I’ll get my eggs sunny side up, he told her.

That’s good, dear. I’ll have a grapefruit.

That’s it? He asked.

Yeah. Just a grapefruit. 

Are we getting old? He looked at her. I mean. I’m ordering the sunrise special, and you’re having grapefruit. That’s what old people eat.

I suppose so, she laughed. I like grapefruit.

I’ve never seen you order it. He shook his head. Never. Maybe a poached egg or a danish. But, never a grapefruit.

Does it really matter?

I guess not. Just curious.

OK.

Yesterday, I noticed my teeth are yellowing. He said. My hair is totally gray. I think I’m shorter. He got quiet. Damndest thing. It just snuck up on me.

What’s that, dear?

Age. Life.

Yes. It’ll do that. She said.

Don’t leave me.

I won’t.

I stood outside, tossing tortillas at  blackbirds. Throwing them like  Frisbees. Round circles rotated in the air before crashing onto the concrete of Washington Square.

A bottle of wine beside me. Some kind of cheap red. I’d drink and toss a tortilla, then take another swig and toss the tortilla again. There was a rhythm to my madness.

Peace Piece by Bill Evans played in my head. Perfect for autumn. The tranquility of it all. No money. A few cigarettes. Red wine and small discs to be thrown. A simple New York day. Peace indeed.

I watched as couples kissed under the arch. Holding hands on benches. Arms around each other. Unfair? No. Life gives us different rewards. Even if it’s for one afternoon in autumn.

The older I get, the more I appreciate September.

Dreaming in the afternoon. A nap on a couch. Eyes shut. Cats scratching the litter box. Cacti growing in pots.

Blinds are closed. Sunshine creeps in. Shadows on walls. Air-brakes on a diesel hiss down the street. An American flag waves high on a pole. Kids laughing on their way home from school.

He awakes. Checks the time on a wall clock his grandfather made years ago before his death. Grandaddy said, I don’t have any money, but I’ve got this clock I made.

That was his inheritance. It hangs there above a fireplace. A picture of his family on the mantle. The wife he had, son in Tulsa, the family dog, all of them lined up to say cheese. Broad smiles. Except him. The old man never smiled.

He sits up on the couch, resting his head in his hands. Alone now. The clock chimes three times. The old man counts each ring. He closes his eyes.

Life changes us, he says. Life changes us. 

He lies back down on the couch. He can’t remember what he was dreaming. The old man just knows it was better than his reality.

You are not well. Are you? He asked. I see you sitting on this bench every day, every morning when I walk past. The young man sat next to the older fellow. Your eyes are red. Do you ever sleep? He just kept looking forward. Eyes fixated on Independence Hall. What are you looking at? The kid asked. The homeless man said nothing. Didn’t even point. Just sat there on the bench in his torn brown jacket and stained khakis. Do you want some money? The young salesman asked. Some food? A bottle of wine? You know. Jesus gave them bread and wine. Right? The long-haired man kept looking at the historic building. You look thin. He told him. Look like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Maybe months. Do you get sick a lot? Out here in the cold. I always wonder about you on my way to work. I say to myself, now there’s a man who knows freedom. He smiled at the toothless man. A man who laughs at social norms. Pigeons landed and ate stale bread crumbs.

Do you feed the birds? He asked. The birds. Do you feed them? The old man heard him. He nodded his head.

Sometimes, said the man with no bed. Sometimes I do. When I have something to give them. He went back to staring at the  brick building.

That’s all you’re going to say. Isn’t it.

He nodded.

Take this twenty. Feed the birds.

He sat quietly in thought with noise all around. Meditation. Prayer. A gathering of senses as the number 6 train ran from station to station. From the Bronx to the Brooklyn Bridge, from Pelham Bay to lower Manhattan with people boarding and people getting off. Each car was a portrait, a painting of urban decay and celebration; those who still had faith and those who did not. Some with bottles wrapped in brown bags and others carrying brief cases, wearing suits, looking like dandies. He just sat there.

In his book bag was Tropic of Cancer. The homeless man began reading silently the story of love and art mixed with freedom and what we must do to survive in America.  Nothing has changed much. He thought. You still gotta bust your ass to make a buck. Nothing is free. And life will leave you behind. He quietly laughed.

Boom boxes played rap and hip hop. Black kids nodded their heads to bass lines. White lines….pure as the driven snow…..played loudly in passengers’ ears while old ladies protected their carts of groceries and old men checked The Post for obituaries and sports scores. A Hasidic Jew sits next to a Mexican with a green teardrop under his eye. They do not speak.

Soon, it is four in the morning.  The train is never empty. He rests his head on the window, holding onto Tropic of Cancer like a teddy bear. His trip never ends.

It’s still dark, he said. Pitch black. What time is it?

Not sure, she told him. Probably around 5:00 a.m.

He pulls the curtains back and observes some more. There are headlights coming down the road.  The sound of rain hitting aluminum siding. Lightning begins to spark just a bit. Thunder rumbles.

Coffee drips in the pot. He makes her a place at the kitchen table: a fork, knife, and spoon with a Fiesta plate painted aqua green.

Have a seat, he said. Go on. Have a seat. They both smile. She sits in her chair as he ties a blindfold around her head, covering the eyes.

What’re you doing?

Just be quiet and enjoy nature’s music. The thunder gets louder. It’s God’s gift to you, he opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a Key Lime pie. He cuts her a piece and puts a candle in it, then places it in front of her. Lights it with a Zippo.

What’re you doing?

Shhhh.

He begins singing Happy Birthday to her as he unties the blindfold. Lightning streaks fill the sky, and the electricity goes out. The only light is the candle. She does not blow it out yet. They look at each other and smile. Shadows on the walls.

Make a wish, he tells her.

She blows out the candle, making it pitch black again. He holds her. She wraps her arms in his.

The clock flickers with numbers in red. The coffee begins to drip again.

I liked it better when it was dark, she states. Stay. Don’t move. He holds her tighter. They sway to the thunder.

Happy birthday,  Love.

Cracks in sidewalks. Weeds growing through. Abandoned buildings. Old brownstones in need of repair. A cobblestone street. Cars parked with multiple tickets on windshields. A bodega on the corner owned by Al and Sal. Halal meats and rice on a hot table. Cop cars cruise by.

Kids play soccer on a side street. Spanglish is spoken. Broken English. Grandmother’s lookout windows. They watched their sons grow up here on this street. Nothing has changed.

An empty ballpark. Teenagers are making out in dugouts. At night junkies leave pipes and needles behind. Teens smoking a joint and blowing smoke up into the cool autumn air. Leaves will be brown soon.

Homeless men and women stand outside a shelter with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Some are looking to score. Others trade in food stamps. Women make offers. All are trying to survive.