dmseay

Rain came down and washed the streets. Cleansing them from the night before. A night when lovers walked holding hands for one last time. Drunks staggered home to nothing but an empty soul. And junkies hide in corners. Some in dark dense downstairs basements of buildings condemned. A shooting gallery for the down and out. While others just lay on sidewalks waiting for sunlight; some kind of hope.

And meth-heads chatter teeth, rattle bones, pick at skin; scabs. Old wounds. The flesh is weak.

Whores go home at sunrise. Night is over. They clock out on Grand Avenue taking busses to the North side where they live in one room apartments, back seats of cars and cheap hotels. God have mercy on us all.

A rain came down and washed the streets. Sins have gone away until the next day and the day after that.

The moon leads us in bad directions. Foolish mistakes. Errors in judgement.

We wait for the son. We wait for the son.

Mom went in to have surgery on her hip for the fourth time last summer. Doctors never could get it right. It seemed as though the replacement never set. She was in constant pain. The old woman would lay there in a nursing home bed and agonize over her discomfort for hours: begging for morphine, some kind of pain killer. They were reluctant to give her anything heavy. Wound up with Extra Strength Tylenol. It just wouldn’t do the trick.

Her son would bring special packages to her. Bottles placed in brown paper bags. Scotch, whiskey, one shooters of Fire Ball, wine coolers, alcoholic ciders. He’d stand over the old woman and watch as she drank it down in a couple of gulps then carefully remove the bottles from her room. She ate mints, chewed on em, but the staff knew she was drunk. They could still smell it on her. They started giving her breath tests and piss quizes. Got to the point where they’d ask to check everything brought to her. That’s when the boy stopped visiting her. Said there was no point to it. In his mind he’d done his task. Now it was up to God.

She called him every day. Asking him to pack a bottle down his pants. Said nobody would know. The mother would beg the boy to bring a pint of Rumplemintz, or, some kind of cheap vodka. He would tell her no and hang up the phone then go back to watching television talk shows about couples cheating on each other and unwanted pregnancies.

That’s what’s wrong with America, he’d say to himself. No morals. Just a bunch of people messing around with each other. Screwing or killing, he said. That’s what we do best; screw and kill, he popped open another beer. And of course, the phone rang again. He checked the name on the screen. Greystone Nursing Home, it read. He knew it was her. Couldn’t have been a doctor. It was mom begging for more booze. She’d leave messages.

Boy. Pick up the phone. It’s your momma. Did you forget about me? I need a bottle of Southern Comfort. Just sneak in a little shooter shot. Maybe you could bring two or three. Some Crown Royal would be nice. Hey, you listening to me? This is your momma. Call me back.

He never did call her back. Never spoke with her again. The doctor called a month later and said she’d died of an infection. The boy hung up the phone and went back to watching television.

Where did they go to?

Who?

Mom and Dad. When they left here where did they go to?

All kinds of places. All over.

Well tell me. Is it some big secret?

They went to Ohio. Down around Youngstown. Dad got a job down there. Then he got fired from that one. Got another one in Mississippi. Tuepelo. Making parts for something. Some kind of gadget.

And the old man got fired from that job too?

Why are you so suddenly interested? Where have you been all this time?

Been around. Out West. Iowa. Nebraska. Got a job on a ranch in Oklahoma. I covered my tracks.

From what?

Don’t worry about it. I always keep one step ahead of them. It’s been a hero’s journey. Like the Iliad or something like that. Homer’s Odyssey.

Wouldn’t hurt you to have called a couple of times. Let the folks know where you were. Safe and stuff.

I left here a long time ago. When I left, I left. I turned my back on it all. Spent time in Chicago. Spent a long time there. Long enough to get a reputation.

What kind of reputation?

I did some things.

Yeah?

You’re too weak for it. Couldn’t stomach it. Found it in my best interest to leave. That’s when I really took off. Threw myself away. Took on a whole different life. Sometimes you have to do that. Forget where you come from. Cut yourself off. It’s in everybody’s best interest. No more communication. Comprende?

You had so much promise. Smart. What made you come back here?

Just wanted to see the old town one more time. The bar I used to sneak into when I was a kid. Movie house on Main Street where I got my first kiss. That old church we used to go to out on 30. The minister and the elders were screwing everything in the flock. Women. Young and old. A big lie. Still. Dad made us go there.

He didn’t know what was going on.

He knew. The old man was smart. He could sense bullshit.

What are you saying?

I just think the old man knew more than he let on. Didn’t say anything. Kept quiet. He always kept quiet. He’d put a stop to any rumors he heard. Said it wasn’t Christian like.

Right.

He was miserable. Gave up his belief in God. So have I for that matter. Said Christ was just a man. Told me this one night when he got drunk. Sitting right there in that chair. I was a kid. I think that’s when it started.

What started. What are you talking about? H

His downward spiral. Going from one job to the next. Quitting or getting fired. He stayed drunk most of the time. You just never knew it. Too young to see it. And mom just put up with it. ‘Cause she loved him. She loved him more than anything. Anything in the whole world. I’ll say this. She stuck with him.

So you come back here. Bad mouthing pop. Saying this and saying that. He had faults. We all have faults. But, you don’t have to point them out. It’s not Christian like. The old man was right about that.

Oh he was wise. He was. I’ll give him that. But, in the end. We’re all fools. All of us. Mississippi huh? That’s where they died?

No. They died here. Came back here to live off social security. He went first. She died a few months later. They never wanted to be apart.

Right.

They’re buried out on Paulding. A little place. Headstones right next to each other. Bought ’em for them.

You paid for it?

Somebody had to.

Sorry I didn’t contribute.

I didn’t expect you to.

Bushes were growing out of control in front of his old house. They covered windows. Grew over sidewalks. Neighbors called them, The Green Monster. Bright green bushes intertwined wth each other making one. A solid wall. The old man couldn’t see outside and people couldn’t see in. He was hidden from the world. Folks wondered what he was doing in there. They said he had a mail ordered bride from Vietnam, or, Sri Lanka. Maybe he was keeping her hostage, they thought. Then again, neighbors never saw anyone go inside. These were just rumors.

Grass was growing long in the front yard. Backyard was a jungle. Weeds had taken over. Long green weeds that turned brown in the winter time. Some wild flowers were mixed in. Flowers planted there years ago. Way before he owned the place. They took in rain water to survive. Never did the flowers rely on him. They grew each year despite the old man. He was not one with Mother Nature. Or, maybe he was. The whole cycle of life and death. Let things go naturally. Don’t trim nor prune. Just let the whole thing go. That was his philosophy.

Neighbors grew tired of the old man’s ways. His yard was an eye sore. The house not much better. Shingles falling off. Paint chipped away. Rust on the front door handle, light fixture hanging above a porch that was caving in hung by a screw, and upstairs windows with cracks in them. It was beyond repair some thought. neighbors thought of renting a bulldozer and knocking the should -be condemned house down in the middle of the night. They thought about it.

A meeting was held at the Goldsteins house one night to discuss the matter with others in the neighborhood. Kind of a file your complaints party.

I want to sell my house and he’s preventing me from getting top dollar for it, said Mr. Klein. It’s a real danger to the community, he finished. The whole group nodded their heads in agreement and said yes and Amen.

My kids can’t walk near the place without crying, said Mrs. Yablamowitz. The whole structure is falling down. Kids are scared to go the park across the street from it. What good is a swingset if you can’t use it ? Everyone said, She’s right. And a chant began, Knock it down. Knock it down, they yelled. Pots and pans were taken from the kitchen and a march started out the door and down the street to the old man’s house where where they banged on their cookware and shouted, Knock it down. Knock it down. Knock it down.

The old man paid no attention to the mob outside. He sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee and listening to Mozart. The louder the crowd got, the louder he turned up the record player. But soon the crowd would over take the music and he turned it off and just listened to the chant. Knock it down. Knock it down. Knock it down. He began to sing along with them. The beat had invaded his head. He became one with the crowd.

The old man danced around his house singing, Knock it down. He grabbed a ruler and opened the front door to see the crowd that had assembled. He conducted their chant like a symphony. Building higher and higher until it came to a stop. The crowd noticed the old man. They had never seen him before. He was old with a long beard and a balding gray head. His finger nails were long and he didn’t wear shoes. The mob just looked at him. A woman asked out loud, Why?

He looked at her and smiled. Shrugged his shoulders. And said, Why not?

The old man died a year later from that night of the chant. He had no will nor next of kin. And, in the name of property values, the home was demolished. Dreams really do come true.

Years had passed since he was gone. Died on this very day back in 1975. Massive heart attack. No-one saw it coming. Not her, not me. One minute he was drinking coffee and then boom; out like a light.

He seemed to go quickly. Complained of being dizzy. Little pain in his arm. Said his chest was tight. Mom poured another cup and turned around to find the fat man on the floor grabbing at his heart. He said no words. Just kept looking up at the ceiling. Breathing hard, or, not breathing at all. Laying there in pain.

I felt bad because I continued eating my breakfast. Two eggs, bacon, sausage patties, buttered white toast. Potatoes on the side. In fact when I saw him on the floor I asked if I could have his. Mom nodded her head. He’s too old to eat like that anyway, she said. Go on. Finish it boy, she poured me another orange juice.

Meanwhile, he laid there on the tile floor. Mom stepped over him to answer the phone. It was her sister from Arkansas. Asking how she was doing? And, what were the kids up to? She didn’t ask about the old man. Mom told her he was playing oppossum on the floor. Probably playing a trick on us all, she laughed. She kicked the side of his round leg. Get up you old buzzard, she said. Anyway, he’s always up to something, mom told her.

I remember coming home from school and the body was still laying there in the kitchen. Mom was sweeping around it. Are you gonna get up? she asked. You can’t lay there all day. I got work to do, she continued sweeping and shaking her head.I sat at the table watching. I’d never seen a dead body before. I looked straight at him. He didn’t look back.

Mom. You think something’s wrong with him? I asked. She laughed. No mom. I think there’s something wrong with dad, I said. She just stood there smiling. Has he been there all day? She nodded. Don’t you think you should call somebody? She put her broom down. She looked at me.

What do you want me to do? she asked. What am I supposed to do? she yelled. I don’t know what to do. It’s not my fault, she said. This was bound to happen one day or another. You call somebody, she said. Go on. End it. Call somebody and put this game to rest, she pleaded. This is just like him. Always quitting at the wrong time. There’s bills to pay. A mortgage. How are you going to get along? I shrugged my shoulders. That’s what I thought, she said. That’s what I thought. Well, I’m ready if you are. Get him out of here.

I dragged dad’s body out to the barn. Mom didn’t want any strangers in her house. I laid the old man out on straw with a pitchfork in his hand. Mom said, make it look like he was working. Wouldn’t want anybody to think he was lazy. I dialed 911. Told them that the old man had died. Could they send somebody out? Mom continued cleaning.

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.