dmseay

People talked about her. She didn’t care. She said she didn’t. Church elders passed her around like a communion plate. Each one taking a piece of her. The preacher took the biggest piece; her soul.

Their affair had gone on for years at Colony Heights.The pretty blonde’s husband never suspected a thing. Shook the minister’s hand every Sunday. Sold insurance during the week. Sponsored the church baseball team. Little kids running around bases with tee-shirts that said, State Farm on em. Red, white, and blue colors on their backs; very American.

And the preacher’s wife didn’t suspect a thing either. The chubby master of the pulpit was always home for dinner. Never missed a Bible study on Wednesday nights. Made sure his children were tucked in by nine. They all prayed before they closed their eyes.

Come one Sunday morning the whole congregation was surprised that neither was in church. Both spouses woke up to nothing beside them in their beds. Just notes on pillows saying, I’m sorry. One day you’ll understand.

They were gone. Some say they left for Lima. Said they saw him selling used cars on the city’s Southside. Others told stories of how they just vanished; disappeared. No one was really quite sure.

The elders found a new preacher. A bright young man with a smile and a golden tongue. Said he’d come to heal em all from horrible sin. Folks had lost faith. And members stopped coming. They’d put their faith in man. They found a new messenger.

Folks started attending other places of worship. They spread out all over town. Searching for salvation in charismatic characters. Looking for a promise of eternal life. Yes. Eternal life. Singing out, how great thou art. How great thou art.

The sun. It’s a million miles away. That means it’d take forever to get there. And once you got to it where would you stand? Just a big ball of fire. A burning star. You’d die from the heat the closer you got to it. The body can only take so much.

He looked up in the sky. Everyone always talks about the magic of the moon. Rarely do you hear talk of the sun. Like the probability that in a billion years it’ll burn out. No more light in the sky. Maybe twinkling stars. But, no sun, he said. Just a blank spot. A black hole maybe, he opened another beer.

Where do you think mom went to when she died? he asked his brother. Some say heaven. The Christians say paradise. Gone to be with Jesus. I think she’s in another dimension. Beyond the sun. Maybe there’s a second sun just glowing on them; those that have passed. They died here and their souls went to another place. Not their bodies. Their souls. And their sun will never burn out, he said.

His thin lips sucked on a cigarette. Weathered fingers wrapped around a can. He sat in silence. His skinny brother too. They just stared up at the sun. Looked at it. He shook his head. Blew out smoke. Sipped on his Budweiser. Shrugged his shoulders. Looked down on the ground at shadows. Long tall shadows of themselves.

A million miles away, he said. That’s a long way, he looked at his younger brother. Beyond that is longer. Another dimension, he said. She’s in another dimension.

An old man sat on a park bench watching children play tag, joggers jogging, horse drawn carriages carrying tourists around the upper West side. He listened as millennials walked past talking of dates gone wrong, where to get the best Indian food, moms and dads back in Missouri. Old women went by with grim faces and small dogs. Leaves crinkled under his feet.

He longed for music. A symphony playing Bach, or, Mozart. Maybe a jazz trio. Folk songs of old. The American songbook. Began to hum Cole Porter tunes; like glorious, glamorous and that old stand-by amorous. The old weathered man sang under his breath. Thinking back to when he used to see Bobby Short at The Cafe Carlyle. He smiled. Began singing, New York New York…a hell of a town…The Bronx is up but the Battery’s down…People run around in a hole in the ground…, he laughed.

A Hasidic Jew walked past. They nodded to one another. Both placed their fingers on their hat’s brims; his, a pork pie hat, the old Jew a black Fedora. They smiled at one another as if to say, we don’t have much longer you and I. A young couple roller skated past them. Pigeons flew away.

Someday I’ll fly away, he thought. Someday. He got up from the bench and began his stroll over to West 72nd Street. Going home. Glad to be alive just one more day.

He sat at the kitchen table drinking whiskey from a highball glass. Looked out at the cars parked in the street. Snow was piling up and the wind was drifting it. Some of the vehicles were buried. Some stuck out. You could see white stuff all over the tops of em and windows were clear. Strange how wind works.

The old man started talking to himself. Speaking out loud so that his neighbors above could hear him. They banged on the ceiling and told him to be quiet. Shut up yourselves, he yelled back. You can’t tell me what to do, he mumbled. Folks been telling me what to do all my life, he said. Don’t need you to, he shook his fist.

John Coltrane was on his record player. The old man hummed along to Central Park West. He smiled. We used to dance to this song, he told himself. Slow dancing. Hand in hand. Her cheek on my shoulder. I could smell the perfume in her hair. Chanel Number Five, I believe. It mixed well with the cigarette smoke, he lit up a Marlboro. Continued watching the snow. The plows would be coming soon. Scraping the pavement with their steel blades. He contnued humming along to Coltrane.

I never meant to hurt her, he said. Wasn’t my intention. Just happened. They say if you’re not getting what you want at home you go elsewhere. That’s what they say, he blew out smoke. A hazey fog covered the room. It was my fault. All my fault, he moaned; more banging from upstairs. You just go straight to hell, he yelled. I’m allowed to remember. Allowed to think back on my past, he said.

There were people out in the streets cleaning off their cars. Brushing them off with brooms. He poured another drink. I don’t know where she’s at now, he said. Probably with some man who can take care of her. That’s what she deserves.

It got real quiet. The record was through playing. The old man just watched as people cleaned off their cars in silence. It quit snowing.

He turned the cactus towards the sun. Morning light came in from the two windows in the living room of his small apartment. There were no blooms on the plant. He’d just recently got the green leafy climber from a neighbor of his. Kind of a welcome to the neighborhood gift. Water just a little, she told him. Just enough to make the dirt moist. And keep turning it towards the sun each day, the older woman said. He followed her directions throughout the holidays. Watered it a little and kept it in the sunlight. Each morning this was his routine.

The old man had never been good with plants. Or, any vegetation for that matter. Everything he’d had always died on him. When he was a kid he tried to grow corn in his back yard. It never turned yellow, just green to staright brown. He tried everything; Miracle-Gro, watering it everyday, good fresh soil; his grandfather laughed at him when he came to visit. Said he didn’t possess a green thumb. Not like him. His whole backyard was one giant garden of flowers, plants, vegetables, he was really something. And, the grandfather let him know that.

His granddad judged him on a lot of things. The way he dressed, the length of his hair, grades in school which were lacking, his work effort, were all mocked by papa. He’d wrap his leathery hands around a highball and tell him to sweep faster. He’d drink a beer and tell him to rake leaves in the front yard like he meant it. Nothing was ever good enough for granddad. And the boy knew it. He knew he would never live up to his standards. Felt like he’d had enough. More than enough.

Throughout his life the old man had serious problems with depression. He’d also had notions of running off across country on the spur of a moment. It was always episodes of mania and depression for him; up and down. Many drugs were prescribed. And, one day during his high school years, he decided to take them all in one giant swallow till all the pills in the bottles were gone.

The young boy woke up in a psych ward. His mother was there scolding him for the event. She said his gradfather was ashamed and never wanted to talk to him again. He never reached out to his granddad after that and grandpa never reached out for him. The relationship, or, what there was of a relationship, was severed. They never spoke again. Never is a long time.

Today the old man got up to turn his Christmas cactus towards the sun. He noticed there was a bloom on it.

On the wall was a picture. A poster put up with thumbtacs. It was a woman in a bathing suit. A tight red one piece. She had long blonde hair. Feathered.

The old man looked at her everyday. Used to talk to her. Would say things like, Morning sunshine. At night he’d tell her, Sweet dreams.

By his easy chair was an overflowing ashtray filled with cigarette butts. There was always a bottle of whiskey on the small table too. Along with a glass. He’d pour himself shots and down them one after another while watching Charlie’s Angels.

One night the woman in the picture was on The Tonight Show. She was Johnny’s special guest. The tall blonde came out in a white dress that was flattering to her form. She’d laugh at his jokes. Smile as he made small talk. The old man smiled; proud that his woman was on TV.

And, as the old man watched, he heard her say she was married to the six million dollar man. Some actor out in Hollywood. He turned the sound down and cried. The old man knew it was over. He poured a drink and said goodbye to her. Kissed his fingers and placed them on her lips.

Then, he got real angry and started tearing the poster in small pieces. She was shredded on the dingy floor. Tiny bits of her in a pile. The old man didn’t vacuum her up. He left her there. Was careful to step over her when going down the hall. He never watched Charlie’s Angels again.

His trailer had bent beer cans all over the floor. Miller High Life, Budweiser, Old Style, all dented and crushed with the heel of his boot, lying on a dingy carpet that smelled of cat piss. He never opened the windows. Never let in the sun, or, fresh air. Cigarette smoke hovered over head.

The old man watched television that night. Had on The Sunday Night Mystery; believe it was McCloud with Dennis Weaver. He cracked open another cold one and laughed at the cowboy trying to solve another case. His boy pulled up outside in his Dodge Charger.

He banged on the front door. The old man didn’t respond. Just let him keep on knocking, he mumbled. He’ll go away. But, the boy didn’t go away. Kept on hitting the tin side of the trailer. The son yelled out, but, it was falling on deaf ears.

Pop, the boy said. Dad, he called out. Open the door old man. Come on. Open it, he began knocking again. You don’t open this door I’m gonna report you as missing, or, dead. Then you’ll have the sheriff out here and all kinds of shit will go down, he told him. Open up pop. God damn. I can smell cat piss all the way out here, he banged on the door louder. The old man came to the door. Pulled back the curtain and told him to go away. Come on dad. Let’s get you out of there, the son tried to see beyond the disheveled old man. Come on now. Let’s go, he said.

Your mother sent you over here. Didn’t she? She would be the logical choice, the old man said. Don’t she know the meaning of divorced? Go on. Get, he went back and sat down in his easy chair. Cats crawled all over him.

I’m gonna leave dad.

Good.

You take care now. You hear.

Uh huh.

I’ll check on you in a couple of days, the kid said. There was silence. I love you, he told him. The old man kept watching Dennis Weaver. Laughing.

Said he didn’t kill him. They all say that. Stood over him with the gun in his hand. Said he’d been drinking. Couldn’t remember. But, he was sure he didn’t kill him. On purpose that is.

The kid said it might have been an accident. The gun just went off. He never thought there was a live one in the barrel. Could we talk about this? he asked.

They’d been drinking all day long. Tequila, he said. We were doing shots of Tequila chased back with Busch beer, his hands were shaking. It was his idea to get out the gun, his voice raised. Wanted to play Russian roulette, he mumbled.

So, the cop said. That’s how you wound up with the gun? You just picked it up after he’d shot himself and decided to stand over him? he asked. The boy nodded his head.

It all happened so fast, he said. We were drinking and switching back and forth with the gun. I thought we were just fooling around. Didn’t know. I didn’t know.

You sure you were playing Russian roulette? Sure you didn’t accidentally shoot him? Sometimes it takes awhile for us to process things, the cop told him. Sometimes things don’t happen like we thought they did. Savvy? the boy nodded. Sure you didn’t kill him? He might have pissed you off today? Or, upset you leading up to this? the boy nodded again.

Think I better call a lawyer.

Yeah. I’d say you might wanna do that.

He often wondered when it would end and how? A stroke? Maybe a heart attack. Could be a hit and run out on Broadway in the middle of the night. The old man always worried about this. This next phase of life called death. He worried that he wasn’t good enough to go to heaven. Scared he would be sent to hell for his misdeeds. Stealing, lying, cheating, not a man of his word. Or, maybe he was. The fat man told folks right up front he’d disappoint them. Told them right to their faces that he was going to screw them. And then he did. Made them sign on the bottom line. Always saw the beauty of an interest rate. Percentages were always running through his head.

Old bony hands wrapped around a highball glass. Gin filled three quarters full. A dash of tonic water. Limes. Asked the bartender to keep dropping limes in his drink. He kept count that way. The old juke box played Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn. The old man kept playing the song over and over. Thinking of his life that had passed before him. And the ongoing question, is it faith or works that get you a free pass. He was hoping it was faith.

Do I believe? yes. And so does the Muslim, Hindu, Mormon, Catholic, Jew, all of them. They all believe, he thought. Maybe the only guy who hasn’t got a shot is an atheist, he laughed. But even they believe in something albeit is nothing, he chuckled again, talking only to himself while Wheel Of Fortune played on the TV with no sound. Just letters being turned by Vanna White. Give me an N, he yelled out. Buy a vowel you son of a bitch, he motioned for another drink.

Where am I? he asked the barkeep. On my tab. Where am I? The server smiled. Shook his head. Said he owed nothing.

How could that be? the old man asked.

Sir. No one owes anything in heaven.

They smiled. Pointed at each other. That’s a good one, the old man said. That’s a good one.

He was addicted to his phone. The middle aged man waited and waited for it to ring. Kept looking at it as if he could magically make someone call him. Old girlfriends, former lovers, ex wives, partners in crime, somebody to talk to was his wish. The fat man thought about calling out to someone, but, he had already called too many times; people were tired of hearing from him. It had got to a point where the phone just rang with no answer. Just a buzzing on the other side.

To be alone, he thought. To never hear from anyone. Just sitting here in silence waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, he whispered. Come on. Ring.

The room had grown dark. The evening sun was gone. Seated in the blackness of night. Wanting to talk to someone. He’d even settle for a salesman. Maybe a foreign voice talking to him about 25% loans, or, a high interest rate credit card. He would like that.

A voice speaking to him. Wanting. He stared at the phone. No one calls after 10. No one ever called him.