dmseay

They used to walk in Washington Square Park. Watched tourists take pictures and art students pose. Saw the changing of seasons fall upon concrete. Indian vendors selling samosas. Lines for bathrooms on Saturday afternoons. Fall never tasted so good.

The pair galloped down streets in the Village. Strolling past coffee shops, restaurants, bookstores, record shops, Greek diners, the two took it all in. Smells from down the alleys. Dogs walking their masters.

And Chelsea with the sun bouncing off brownstones. The YMCA down the street where Albee used to hang out. Chinese markets where Ginsberg picked his fruit. Cabs being replaced by Uber drivers. Busses run throughout the night.

Dear old Manhattan, they pondered. True old friend. Don’t ever leave us, they whispered. Don’t.

She wandered down to the stream. A frozen creek. In the summer it ran north to south with water pushing over stones and limbs. Flowers on both sides. Yellows, blues, reds, orange, colors for miles. Hawks would fly over.

Years ago, she fished in this small body of water. It was in vain. There were no fish in that creek. Deep down inside she knew that. But, it was a ritual. The casting of the line. Watching the red and white bobber float on the surface. It never went down.

And now she stands over the frozen water skipping rocks on ice. This was the practice of winter. Throwing rocks and talks with God. It pleased her. She’d pray as the evening sun went down. A simple prayer of peace.

Tomorrow 100,000 troops will be lined at the border. Trucks and guns and launchers and young men old enough to be her sons will stand and wait for orders from a man who knows no peace.

Does God hear prayers? She wondered.

She used to send him messages from around the world. Greetings from North Dakota, she’d say. Or, Salutations from Portland. These notes were always on real pretty postcards. He saved them over the years. Had one with the Statue Of Liberty on it. He always wondered how they built that.

One time he got a postcard from Paris, France. Had the Eiffel Tower on it. Turned it over and there was no note. Just blank white with a stamp on it. He pinned it to his wall just like the rest of them. Just a picture. No words.

Then they stopped coming. No more picture postcards. No more notes. He thought something might’ve happened to her. Maybe she’d ran into trouble in Turkey. Perhaps she was in a South American prison. He wasn’t sure.

Could’ve been she just didn’t want to communicate with him anymore. She got tired of writing. He knew one thing for sure. He’d never see her again. She was gone. She had the guts to leave while others just talked about it.

He missed her.

He watched her make coffee. Just as he had a thousand times. Snow had piled up. Outside, the symphony of snowplows moved up and down driveways and sidewalks. She was starting breakfast.

The cast iron skillet made a sizzling sound as eggs and potatoes hit the black bottom. She moved the concoction around the pan, added salt and pepper; a little Louisiana Hot Sauce. He looked on the way he always had for thirty years. Children outside were bundled up in coats and hats.

She plated breakfast and sat it down in front of him. Kissed him on the forehead and poured herself a cup of coffee. He smiled at her. She smiled at him. A Dodge got stuck in a ditch.

Couldn’t quite make out her face, although I’d seen it several times before. A soft face, with brown eyes and a rounded nose. She had ruddy cheeks and her chin was like a cushion. Still couldn’t make her out.

Was she from church? Maybe the pastor’s daughter. Thought I saw her on the front row one day. Listening to her daddy preach. He was talking about all the sins we commit. How as humans we are bound for error. I left about midway through. Before the offering.

I might’ve ran into her at the bar on a Saturday night. Maybe I danced with her. No. I think I’d remember that. Was that her in the corner drinking shots of tequila? Speaking Spanish in a drunken tone? Laughing with the others? I wondered.

And now she sits in a pickup at a red-light. Singing along to some song. Her thick lips move, but, there’s no sound. The windows are down.

She drives through town and I decide to follow her. She takes the main street out to 30. Then I see her waving goodbye in the mirror. Just waving.

Her truck sped up. She was gone.

Sunlight came in through the blinds. Shining on a clear bottle of canola oil, jug of soy sauce, a pack of smokes. Shadows were cast on the counters. Lines of yellow and black, dark and light.

She moved across the kitchen to the pot of coffee by the sink. Old. It’d been there for three days. Time to make a fresh cup. She thought about it. Let the water run cold down the drain as she stared out the window. Looking at the house next door. The blue house. Windows boarded up, no trespassing sign, a Ford upon concrete blocks in the front yard. No one went in. And no one came out.

The water was turned off. She had forgotten what she turned it on for. Off in the distance there was the sounds of sirens drawing near. Getting closer and closer. There were gunshots. People, a man and a woman ran from the cellar next door. No one chased em. They just ran into the morning sun. More gunshots were fired. And more people, this time a family of three came running out. Again, no one followed em.

Cop cars parked outside on the street, some up in the yard. A megaphone was used. The plainclothes policeman asked if he were alone? Anymore hostages? Was he by himself?

A voice responded, I’m always by myself. And one last shot was fired.

An old man had been abandoned by his son. This happened years ago. The kid put him in the nursing home and forgot all about him. Moved to Saint Louis, or, Kansas City. Wasn’t sure where he was going. Just getting away from the old man.

He talked nonsense all day long and into the night. Said God was punishing him. Getting back at him for all the sins he’d committed over the years. Drinking, cheating, stealing, lying, just had no moral compass whatsoever . His mom knew this. So did he. And now he wanted everybody to feel sorry for him. Sorry that his wife had died, a mistress passed on, broke, living on social security. These were his crimes. This was his sentence.

The son got a call late one night that the old man had died. Heart failure. The thing finally gave out on him. He had no last words. Died in his sleep.

Well, that’s justice, the son whispered. He didn’t get the last word, he laughed. That’s a nice way to go, he told the nurse on the phone. In silence. He probably didn’t appreciate that.

We don’t have any money, the kid said. Just give him a poor man’s burial. Hell, donate the body to science, he said. Just get rid of it. Will ya?

That was a few years ago. Son doesn’t know where his father is buried. A part of his life cut off. He did not look back.

What is this thing? Who does it belong to? People leave their trash all over the place. One boy I know travels ‘cross country and leaves items in every state.

He placed a Thermos underneath a grapefruit tree in Arizona. Put a book, Shepard’s True West below a girl’s dorm bed in California. Tucked away a whole salami in Central Park. He thought he’d come back and get em all someday, but, he never did.

Just kept taking Greyhounds everywhere. Dropping more shit off as he traveled on. Left a bunch of underwear in Pennsylvania. Hocked a wedding ring in Ohio. It was white gold. Got a grand for it. That was enough for awhile.

But, this thing. What’d you call it? Rusted. Holes in it. Some kind of saw. Sharp teeth. He must’ve been by. Left it here then went on his way. He does that. He thinks he’s Santa Claus.

He heard the train running through town. Sounded like a thunder storm. Snow was flying. Kids waited at the corner bus stop. Same thing every morning; traffic backed up as the train rolled on.

These sounds, noises he heard. Water heater turning up. Dishwasher going. Birds outside looking for crumbs of bread. He didn’t look out his windows. Just sat there listening. It had become his pass time.

The arms were rising and bells rang. The train had moved on. The humming of diesels and old pickups starting up. All this noise outside. These sounds inside. All while humming along to Stars Fell On Alabama by Coltrane ran through his head.

Then everything stopped. There were no more noises. He didn’t hear anything. That was twenty-five years ago. He remembered hearing on that last day. Then gone.

Life changes. It changes us, he whispered. What I wouldn’t do to hear Coltrane one more time.

He woke up from a dream. She was in it again. Same dream every night. Some brunette beauty dressed in white calling for him. Wanting the old man to come with her to some secret island where it’d be just the two of em.

Each night he’d get closer and closer to going with her. And then he’d wake up. Always in a cold sweat. Always crying out for a nurse.

She came to me again, he told the attendant. She looked right at me, the patient said, And told me to come with her, the young lady nodded her head. One of these days I’m gonna go with her.

You aren’t going anywhere, she adjusted his bed. Not on my watch, she said. Never had one die on me yet, she knocked three times on his linoleum counter.

You think someone’s coming to take me?

Shhh. You just rest. Get some sleep. You want the TV on? he shook his head. Alright then. Call if you need me, he nodded.

Again she came to him in his sleep. And he was young. They ran down green hills into streams of crystal blue water. They were lovers. What a way to spend eternity. Finally, mystery solved.