dmseay

Blinds were closed. Lights off. He sat in darkness waiting in the front room. Eyes open. A growl in his stomach. Wanting someone to talk to at five in the morning. A friend. His son. The wife who slept down the hall. Too early for the rest of humanity. He was late.

Normally he awoke at three in the morning. Sometimes four. God had granted him an hour more of sleep. The old man felt refreshed. Yet, he sat there in the dark. Not wanting any light nor sound. He could just make out his fingers; long. Like sticks on a branch.

And he’d shake one hand with the other. Asked himself, how do you do? he snickered, wasn’t quite sure if he wasn’t losing his mind. Then he heard voices. Women talking and laughing. He turned to see if someone was there. No-one. Just voices inside his head. He smiled. Said, I am losing my mind.

He remembered how his son used to roll up and down the hall on his tricycle. Tooting his horn. Laughing. And now he didn’t know where that boy was. Where he’d gone to. Where are you? he cried out. Where are you? No one answered back. There were no more voices. No one to talk to. Except himself. He mumbled a bit. Got up from his chair and walked down the hall.

There were several doors to choose from. Rooms on both sides. He chose the one with the Christmas wreath hanging on it. The door was slightly opened. Silvia, he called out. Silvia. I’m hungry, he said. No one answered. A body laid there in bed. Stiff. No life to it. He strolled over to the bed and saw that her eyes looked up at God. This isn’t Silvia, he whispered. This ain’t Silvia. Where’s Silvia? he asked himself.

Lights were turned on in the room. A nurse put her hands on her thick hips. Mr Donald you not supposed to be in here, she said. Come on now. Let’s get you your medicine.

That wasn’t Silvia, he told her. That was not Silvia.

He heard noises next door throughout the night. Men coming and going. Staying for brief moments of time. Walls were paper thin. He could hear all the action.

She’d tell them to leave money on the nightstand. Some would. Others commenced to hitting her. Beating the woman senseless till she begged them to stop.

He heard leather hitting skin. And muffled voices asking, how much for this? how much for that? Grown men calling out for their mothers. Others cursing up a storm. Calling her every name in the book. Requesting that she wear a blonde wig, or, tie her hair back like their wives. Saying names like, Sandy, Amanda, out loud, any name, but, her’s.

And she had men visit that were kind to her. Asked what she needed. Brought flowers. A bottle of wine. She sounded appreciative. Almost affectionate.

In the afternoons he’d see her walking down the hallway. She always wore dark glasses and they never said hello. She’d just walk to her room and close the door.

Days are short.

Night sets in.

Following a star.

We travel together.

A pair.

The trip has been long.

Through summer’s end to autumn’s glow.

Tis Christmas.

Gifts are given.

And prayers offered.

We travel together.

Following a star.

Years ago when I was a kid.

I’ve always loved the highways of the U. S. As a kid I remember traveling on them in the back of a station wagon my dad was driving. I had my soda pop and my salami sandwich on white bread my mom had made me and a clear view of the road ahead of us. I kept one eye on the yellow lines and the other on bilboards, trailer parks, fast food places, Howard Johnson, mileage signs.

My dad would have on country radio. Some drunk singing about how a woman had broken his heart. Or, a woman telling a story of how she stood by her man. It was the perfect soundtrack for the road. Even at that young age I understood what they were talking about; that is, I thought I did.

We’d take the road across America. Switching from highways to toll roads to back roads and freeways. Crossing over lakes and rivers where men fished and power boats kicked up water. We’d drive from Indiana to Texas in one clear shot. Never did my father stop for the night. Driving under stars and the moon; mom snoring and Hank Williams singing into the morning. I stayed awake for every hour of it. Watched the sun come up in Texas in the early morning hours. Pulling into my grandparents driveway in Dallas just in time for breakfast. I never looked forward to seeing my grandparents, but, I always loved taking the road.

Standing on Route 66 outside of Joplin with my thumb out, I thought about my travels as a kid. Thought about where my love for the road came from. I think it came from my dad. He was always on the road. He and my mother would have a fight and he’d take off in the middle of the night. Not come back for days. He’d return and she’d ask him where he went to? Just driving, he’d say. Just driving. And she believed him. Had no reason no to. She knew he wasn’t cheating on her. Knew he wasn’t drinking. He just drove to clear his head.

Sometimes she’d get calls in the middle of the night from him. Telling her he was in Iowa, or, Nebraska, or, Colorado. Saying he’d be home when he felt like it. That’s what I’d become. A kid who’d come home when he felt like it. Hitchhiking across America, taking busses, getting rides from truckers, walking miles till I couldn’t walk anymore. The life of a nomad. And, I was surprised to see how many nomads there were in America. Men running from something, or, to something; a job, a woman, new beginning, fresh start, ending it all. Maybe I was always getting rides from the old man in spirit. Maybe it was always his ghost that picked me up and gave me a ride. Something was protecting me. Should’ve been gone long ago.

Present

There was a white hearse driving down my street today. A white hearse with dark windows. No one was following it. I wondered who was inside? Was there anybody being taken to the grave? Probably not. Most likely a gas run. Perhaps a wash. Preparing to take some one back to the earth. Some unfortunate; an elderly person dead of old age, a heart attack in an obese man, a child shot in cross fire. Or, maybe someone decided to end it with the swallowing of pills. Emptying out their medecine cabinet. There’s a million ways to die. But, the heart is a hard thing to stop. It decides when it’s over. In some cases people have pointed a gun directly at the heart only for it to keep beating. That organ decides it all.

It’s midnight and I stay awake thinking of the past and worried of the future. Lots of talk in the bars of the fortunes being made in this town. Houses selling at record prices. Rents going up and up. All through out high school they told us to be prepared for this; this adult life. The throwing away of imaginary things and dreams only to be replaced with the cold hard reality that some day you could be homeless. Or, you will be unable to support yourself. Tossed aside in a country that really does not care. And, you could go crazy, mentally ill. Giving up everything and just living day to day. Hour to hour.

I met a lot of people when I was out on the road. Some living in boxes under bridges. Others sleeping their days away in public parks only to become vampires at night fall. I met rich folks, charitable people who would buy me drinks and meals. Maybe they recognized that I was financialy under par. Maybe I’m not that clever. Could be my insanity had been apparent; no hiding it. I thought I had them fooled, but, no. They knew all along.

And these are the bar saints. Those that look over their flock. Coming to your rescue in times of despair. Buying you solace if only for an hour or two. They are business men who give back. Women that want to talk to somebody. Bartenders who listen. They gave me hope when I needed it the most.

I wonder where that hearse was going today? I wonder. And I sit in my room with my rent paid for the month. Leaving me nothing, but, dollars to spare. I will go to the bar tonight and look for saints. Hopefully they are not all gone. Hopefully.

Pigeons. There are hundreds of pigeons in Union Square Park. Signs say, don’t feed the pigeons. Some follow these directions while others do not; an old lady tears off pieces of bread for the birds. She talks to herself too; singing under her breath. Old songs. Songs that nobody listens to anymore. Except me. She hums the Billy Strayhorn tune Lush Life. I hum along with her. I know the words from way back. Years of listening to public radio after midnight in Chicago. I used to visit all the very gay places….come what may places…where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life to get the thrill of life…from jazz and cocktails…., those words still mean a lot to me as I look around and the sun shines through cold air. Vendors with their organic produce and cut meats. Different types of chocolates, ciders, a real feel of Christmas. And, I’m not even aware of what day it is.

Young junkies sleeping on benches. Seniors walking their dogs. Young professionals drinking coffee and reading the paper, or, flirting with a loved one. Strayhorn’s words ring again, Romance is mush…stifling those who strive….I’ll live a lush life in some small dive….And there I’ll be as I rot with the rest…of those whose lives are lonely too…., wishing I had some money honey to make these blues go away.

Who am I kidding? Bellevue awaits.

I see them on the streets, in subways, hanging out in parks. Talking to themselves. Answering their own questions. They are filthy and smell of feces. Holding signs. Asking for money. Yelling at passers-by. I sit among them. Clean, but in the same boat. Conversations rattle through my head. I mumble out loudly. Cold, lonely and scared. Did I want this? Perhaps I did when I gave up the meds. Five prescription drugs for bipolar disorder and I quit them cold turkey. I had to. No insurance.

Bellevue is a few streets over on 1st Avenue. I promised myself I wouldn’t go into the hospital unless the suicidal thoughts got really bad; they are. Perhaps I should.

The city is quiet for the most part. A few sirens go off. Making all aware that they are still in Manhattan. Bars have emptied out. Young Jerseyites and suburban revelers will be going home now. Back to the safety of their mothers arms. They wait in Grand Central, clutching tickets in one hand and a sixteen ounce beer in the other. Kids talking of clubs and bars, brunettes and blondes, rap music piercing through air, bouncing off walls, and each one looks the same. The blacks look white and the whites look black. Indian girls speaking in choppy speech patterns. New York dialects are starting to be lost. East coast dialects are starting to wane. I noticed this in Chicago and D.C. as well. Our speaking is becoming homogenized. Soon we will all sound the same. Brooklyn will no longer be Brooklyn and the Bronx will no longer sound like the old Bronx. It’ll be one sound. The sound of hip hop language. People will go back to writing in symbols. Emojis will take over.

I’m old. I’m fat. I’m confused. When did this change take place? Some say with the creation of the cell phone. Others say with the emergence in rap. We’ve become a mimicking society. A country of imitators. Maybe we always were.

I go to the gym for my daily shower. I rejoice in the clean underwear I have and laundered shirt. Been sleeping on benches and parking lots. Down by the Hudson. It’s not a lot of sleep. Soon I will have to move into a shelter. I’ve heard horror stories. The fights, the theft, pecking orders, guys out of Rikers. These are men who don’t care anymore. They’d just as soon slit your throat and call it a day.

Soon I’ll have to start working again. Looking for day labor jobs. Should be able to find something. My head is tired and my body is weak. The mania has become a full on depression. I stand here in the shower and let the hot water hit me. Dirt forms at my feet. I make a vow. Never ever go a day without a shower. No matter how bad it gets. Always clean yourself. And never beg for money. This is my new religion; clean body, clean mind. It makes me feel a little better. For now.

I wish it was still night. Wanting outside to be dark as I lie here in bed with my blinds closed. It is sunny and bright here. Ice from the night before melts on car windows; exhaust from pickups with bad mufflers fill the sky. The heat is on. I keep forgetting we’re going into winter.

Starting my day, I notice a Christmas tree in the window across the street. Are we really that close? Another year passed. And how strange this year was. Not like recent years. It was a year of settling, yet, unsettled. Moving into a rented room with the fear that at any moment the rent could go up. Or, the building sold and then kicked out. Or, I don’t know. Anything is a possibility.

No longer do I work. I never really did. Different jobs, different professions. I was fired from all of them, or quit due to anxiety and mania. One day I’d be in a newspaper office and the next leaving town; gone in a flash. Leaving a wife behind. Taking off across America as I always have. I should have been a truck driver. Too bad I’m scared to drive. I prefer taking the bus or a train. Hitchhiking on back roads and highways. Getting rid of my pickup was the best decision I ever made. I had a sense of freedom. Wasn’t weighed down by money. I could afford to be a bum. Or, a bipolar maniac. You choose.

Some would say, I chose this life. And maybe I did. Not sure if I chose it or if it chose me. I’m beginning to talk to myself more and more. The suicidal thoughts are constant. It’s going to be a long winter.

It is five in the morning on a Saturday and again I am awakened by the loud boisterous Mexicans driving down my alley. The sound of a tuba rivets my windows. The bass; the bass makes my ears split. The debris they throw in the back of the old weighted down pickup makes a screeching sound; metal upon metal. And there are voices speaking in Spanish. I can’t make out what they are talking about, but the term, Sabado Gigante, keeps coming up. Sabado Gigante I know. It is a game show on Univision that I somtimes watch; midgets running around in clown outfits and scantily clad women showing off their perfectly round backsides. Contestants are pulled from the audience and mahem ensues.

I close my blinds and I go back to bed. The noise of the early morning quickly disipates into nothing, not a sound while the morning sun makes it’s way into my room. It is another day. Soon the construction workers and the carpenters will be making different kinds of noise; hammers hammering, saws sawing, concrete mixers unloading, and more Mexican music.

Long ago before I moved away this town was quiet and small. It had less than a hundred thousand people living in it. Today there is well over two hundred thousand people in less than a twenty year time span. The growth is amazing. Neighborhoods being turned upside down. Homeowners make great profits while the renters are tossed aside to another neighborhood, or, outside the city. Landlords complain about their property taxes. What is fair and what is not? Upset because they are paying more than the rich in the suburbs where city council members live. In a way, everybody is getting screwed but the rich. That’s the way it goes in America. The rich decide. I start thinking back to my childhood with that idiot Regan showing a pie chart and explaining trickle down economics to the nation. It didn’t work then and it doesn’t work now, I say to myself. It doesn’t work now. Sabado Gigante indeed.