dmseay

We can no longer look at this optimistically. Mike said. It’s falling apart. All around us.  Pieces, the foundation, all that we put into this is being torn down. He stirred his coffee. The waitress came over and filled his cup. In time, everything collapses. Buildings, three hundred years old, fall apart. Bridges bend. Sidewalks crack. Get it?

Yes. Tom said. This isn’t going to last. The end of an era. He motioned to the waitress. You’re right. Things fall apart. Relationships destroyed. Businesses made by men, taken down. And for what reason. Spite? A torn apart love affair with the secretary? He held up his hand for her to stop pouring coffee. Sugar packets on the table. Creamers tossed aside. It’s coming, Mike. You’re right. But then again, I’ve never doubted your word.

Mike smiled. When do you think he’ll pull the plug?

Not sure. Soon. He’ll pull it soon. Tom looked at his watch. Checked a small calendar in his pocket. December. It’s Christmas time. He wouldn’t do it now. Would he?

Stockholders. Board members.  Accounts to be closed. ASAP, I say. Stick the knife in. Let the blood flow already. Mike took out a pack of Newports and offered Tom one. The two men lit up. And I tell you this. There will be nothing left. It will  not exist. New owners? They want their own people in there. We’re seen as old hat. Men who can be tossed aside.

Right.

Until then, we wait it out, Mike told him. I don’t know. Maybe Florida.

Do you have money for Florida? Sure. As soon as my wife dies. Another end of an era. Tom looked behind his back. It’s not the worst thing that could happen.

This is your wife, Tom.

So be it. The cancer is spreading.  She wants to die. Who am I to stand in her way? Mike asked. Do you know how many people make a fortune off insurance? It’s the least she could do. He drew in smoke and blew it out. I’ve been there for her. Right? Die now, I say.  So long.

I’ll pray for your soul, Mike. Tom told his partner. I’ll pray for your soul.

You’d wish for the same.

I don’t know. Hard to say. You come into this world, and you leave it behind. Hopefully, we give something to the next generation. Tom put out his cigarette. 

Fuck them.

Yes. Fuck them indeed. I hope you get what you want, Mike.

One way or another. We all do.

It’s getting dark earlier and earlier. Trees bare. One day cold, the next is not. Up and down. The only thing constant is brown grass and shrubs.

Cars with salt stains on them. A grayish white. Old trucks rusting. Metal chipped. Falling off.

Two and half months until St. Patrick’s Day. Nature will blossom, and so will young love. But that someday will die as well. Still, you have hope.

I find myself alone these days. Romance has come and gone. These are the years that go by fast. One day, you turn around, and it’s summer. Next day, you turn around, and it’s fall.

These springs and winters come and go. I wait for calendars to stop. For clocks to halt. I wait. And I wait, for September.

Are you alone? She asked.

Yes, he said.

What are you thinking of? She wrapped the telephone cord around her hand. What’s on your mind?

Things. Just things.

Things? What kind of things? She blew smoke into the air. Shushed her baby, who was crying in the crib.

I can’t sleep. Hardly ever can. Guess I’m nocturnal. He laughed. Like a cat. I take naps throughout the day. He opened a beer. Threw the tab on the floor along with old newspapers and fast food wrappers. Maybe it’s because of my weight.

Are you a big man?

Yes. He said sheepishly. I am.

I like big men. She told him. The baby began to cry again. Something sexy about them. She lit another cigarette and placed the Bic on the nightstand next to her bed.

Really?

Would I lie to you?

It’s a phone call. You can be whatever you want. Say whatever you want. He chugged the Old Style.

I see. A realist.

Yes.

Shhh. Like you said. You can be whatever you want to be. She said in a low voice filled with scratches like an old jazz album. What do you want to be?

Myself. He said. My true authentic self.

Yeah. So do I.

Tell me something truthful.

I have scars on my belly from a c-section. 

Oh yeah?

Yep. They yanked him out of there. 

How old is he?

One. He’s a one year old. Green eyes and blonde hair like his mom.

You’re a blonde, huh? He asked. He dimmed his lamp. Green eyes. Do you know what green eyes do to me? He laughed. That’s a line from True West. Lee asks Austin. Do you know what green eyes do to me? They both laughed.

You like Shepard?

Yes. Very much.

Buried Child is my favorite.

That’s a good one. I like his earlier, more experimental pieces. Like 4-H Club.

Don’t know it.

It’s out there. He said. I weigh three hundred pounds.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I weigh two hundred. Haven’t  gotten rid of the baby weight yet.

Yeah. I like bigger women.

His daddy didn’t. Left me about a month ago. Took off for Albuquerque. I think. Maybe Tucson? Not sure.

Right. That happens.

It does.

Silence between them. She unraveled the phone cord. Took a breath. Started to light another smoke. Held the lighter in her hand.

Can I call you again? He asked.

Yeah. I’d like that.

Down in tunnels rats scurry along tracks. People stand on platforms watching them race each other as buskers play jazz. Maybe they’re dancing. Rats holding each other tightly, swaying back and forth to a saxophone and cocktail drum. Old tunes by Coltrane and Evans. Brushes swirl softly.

Business men reading papers. Art students draw pictures of the scene. An old lady with hose around her ankles. A blind man tapping his walking stick. Homeless men talking to themselves; diging through trashcans.

The A train speeds into the station. Rodents have moved on. Someday, they’ll settle underneath the streets. Nomads  in search of a home.

He sat on a metal chair and looked out the window onto the streets below. Streetlights flickered. Neon shined. Cars with one headlight. An ambulance goes past with no sirens. He sips coffee.

Ted purrs as he butts his head against his leg. The cat talks in a foreign language but he understands. He sees Ted’s point. More food. More water. The fat man opens a can of tuna and places it  next to an overflowing trashcan. There is silence while the cat eats.

Torn pages from books of poetry thumbtacked to walls. Rilke, Ginsberg, Cummings, Whitman, Kerouac, and others carefully placed over his twin mattress, refrigerator, sink, and windows. There are no curtains.

The electric typewriter sits on a table next to an ashtray. A chianti bottle with a red candle burns.

One of these days, I’ll write the great American novel, he laughs. But for now….

He looks down at the street again. Cop cars go by. A city bus stops at the corner, letting out drunks and third shift workers, people who are real.

I’ll write tomorrow,  he says. Tomorrow, he wipes off dust on his keys. But for now, there’s nothing to write about.

We’re going to be late, he said. They were always late. Late to PTA meetings. Tardy to dinner dates with friends. At church, they would sneak into the back and sit in the last pew, trying not to get caught by Christ who hung above their heads.

Yes. We are already late, he told his wife. Late, late, late. What is it with you? He asked, yelling upstairs.

I tore my hose, she responded. It’ll only take a minute.

Fine. He went into the kitchen and picked up the morning paper. Read the headline. Scanned over the first paragraph. It was a story of a fire that took place on the Southside. There were no survivors.

They’re always burning something, he mumbled. Every day, a fire.

What’s that dear? She said, twirling around in her cocktail dress.

Over on 95th. Cottage Grove. Always a fire. Douglas Park. Always burning something. A house. A car. A liquor store. Why do they do this?

How do I look? The wife asked.

He put the paper down on the kitchen counter. Great honey. You look great.

Who’s always burning something?

The Irish.

Irish?

No. Of course not, he said. Always a fire. They’re big on homicides too. All this crime. I’ll guarantee that fire was arson. Hoodlums burning down a building. Or, a crooked landlord. Always about money. Money, money, money. Why can’t they just go about it like we do? Earn it.

Are you ready? She asked.

Yeah. I’m ready.

They kissed in the hallway. He opened the door for her and held her hand.

You know. This neighborhood used to be safe, he said as they drove through Lincoln Park.

Take a right here, dear.

I know how to get to Rob and Karen’s. Just….

OK. OK. You’re preoccupied.

Yes. I’m watching my city go to hell, he turned right.

She sat in silence as they drove down North Clark Street.

I just wish one of them would break into our house. Shoot him right there on the spot I would. No regrets.

That’s nice, dear, the wife said as she looked out the window.

Yeah. One of these days. One of these days.

It’s not as if we don’t try, John thought silently. Maybe some don’t try at all. Then again, who am I to judge?

John continued breaking Mason jars. Crashing them to the floor. Vegetables everywhere. He began to yell. Scream out. His voice bounced off the concrete walls. Just breath. That’s all he needed. Breath in between screams. Madness requires that.

He had a grand saved up. If he sold the farm, there was no telling how much he could get from land developers wanting to turn it into a housing addition with some strange name like Cherry Orchard or Lake Montague. Something selling the good life when all this land had brought him was grief.

The young man went upstairs and walked out to the front porch, where his mother used to swing slowly in the evening air.

What would you do, mom? He asked the haunting spirit. What shall I do? The family needs money, he mumbled, hands over lips. Bell could use it. I could use it. Just run away, he swung higher. Just like dad did.

There was no answer.

The End

Empty bottles. Labels halfway peeled off. Caps tossed in a trashcan. Christian Brothers a quarter full. Swallows of Wild Turkey, and beer cans with cigarette butts in them; swimming in a little bit of Old Style.

Posters adorn the cracked walls. Snapshots of women he’d been with. Blondes, redheads, Maggie was a brunette. A woman he never loved. Just the bearer of his children. Did he love them? He loved Billy. Kept a picture of him, too. Right there on a milk crate, he used it as a nightstand next to a cheap watch and a beer bottle filled with dimes and nickels. Never counted them. Just kept adding to the collection.

The television was on. A small black and white. He was watching channel 11. Some news program with a fat man interviewing a round table of politicians. The fat man acted like he knew all the answers to the questions he asked.  Chicago’s best and brightest played along.

Lying in the dark with the hotdog sign shining in his window, William laughed. He laughed at the television show. He laughed about his living conditions. And he laughed about leaving his family behind. They’ll make out OK, he whispered. They’ll all be fine.

No more church. He stopped believing. Mom’s suicide. Dad leaving them. Billy’s death. A sister who gave up on God as well and turned to whoring. All of it led to his decision to curse a higher power. God’s will be done, he said. God’s will, indeed.

Often at night, John sat on the swing, going back and forth slowly and viewed the front yard. He remembered the five of them playing tag or kickball. Kids coming over after school played tackle football; broken arms, and bruises. Boys cursed like their daddies did at the television on Sunday afternoons in the fall. One team of boys called themselves the Bears, whereas the other was the Vikings. They never chose to be Packers. Too much hate in their blood for that.

John thought of the simple times. Before Billy’s death. After that, there were no more games of tag or kickball. The Bears and Vikings stopped playing on autumn days after school. No one officially stopped these games. It was unspoken. The farm was hallowed ground where Billy was lifted up into the heavens. That’s what mom believed. Silently, she instilled that notion in them.

And John did not buy it. He didn’t buy it as a kid or as a young man. He broke up with God like a drunk breaking up with a woman. He yelled at God. Told the Holy Ghost to go find somebody else. He said to Jesus, Leave me be.

All this was kept quiet. A storm brewed inside. No emotion was shown. After his brother’s funeral, he cried alone. During his mother’s, he laughed. He laughed so hard he cried. No screams. Just laughter. It was as if the book of truth had been opened to him; you live, you die. Ashes to ashes. There was no spirit. Not to John.

Although John never spoke of his anger and atheism, Eddie read his soul. There, he saw nothing. Nothing good. Just an angry young man who gave up. Stopped living. And once you reach that point, Eddie thought, it’s hard to come back to where the pastures are green and the Lord tends to his flock.

To be alone in this world is painful, Eddie told John once. But then again, he said to his kid brother, You already know that.

For a long time after his mother’s death, John walked around in a malaise. Most of the time, he spent inside the house counting quarters and half dollars he had saved over the years; a big water jug filled with silver, dumped out on the kitchen table. He examined each coin carefully while thinking of nothing. Not a thing came to his mind; a blank slate.

Every once in a while, Eddie would call his kid brother to check on him. Asking questions about work or his lack of. Telling John that he couldn’t go on painting sides of barns, fences, and small houses.

Don’t you want to get married? Start a family of your own? Eddie would ask him.

I had a family, John told him. They all left. Everyone leaves either through life or death. Things change. People change. People changed, he said.

We’re still here, John. I might have left the farm, but I’m still looking out for you. Loretta, too. We’re family John. 

What about Bell?

She’s gone, John.

I saw her just the other day. In the parking lot of the Walmart. Getting out of a car that wasn’t hers. Some man behind the steering wheel. She didn’t see me.

Didn’t, huh?

Nope. 

That’s because she’s gone, John. She ain’t coming back.

Neither is dad?

No. He left before leaving.

You ever want to find him? John asked.

I just as soon not. 

You think he’s still alive?

Man like that? They die young and hard. 

I see. 

Their conversations would go on for hours. Eddie did most of the talking. An assistant at the Piggly Wiggly. In line to one day being manager. A wife. Two kids.

Some folks got the world right at their fingertips. Others just keep on scratching, trying to get a hold. Like a slick rock. Nothing to grab onto. People just keep reaching. But, there’s nothing there. Just air.

There are others who don’t reach at all. Democrats call them the needy. Republicans say they’re freeloaders. John was OK with either title. He just didn’t care anymore.

And that’s when they get you, John, Eddie said. Right when you don’t care. Don’t let them get you, John. Don’t let them get you.