The Sunday Blues

So it was this time around three a.m. when the train rumble awoke me, and I saw the uncovered windows of second-story buildings through the creaks and cracks of my blinds. It was no secret what went along in that dingy backroom dwelling, though a sight to see: silhouetted figures so sleek and smooth against the silvery yellow of their own sorta dawn. But the men don't get lucky. And stopped getting lucky some years ago when having to pull out their wallets. It was no nuisance to me, except when dumb, bum, rum, dry outta cash.

And tore through those tracks it did. And paraded on like the rough digging of a dart going through dirt and when it left the roaring never stunted as the snores escaped my halls and the thin roof and paint-chipped alley. It was never too late for a cold sweat and I stunk a lot.

“Shh, shh, you’ll hear ‘em call the Johnny’s!” said one man.

“Grrrgh,” gurgled another. And she moaned.

My girlfriend left me a lock of hair and I still contemplated the moment. Brother sent me another Polaroid of his canyon, and Mother thinks she fucked up. A supercar roars–Outside my door, heavy knocking–the footsteps sound inside–

“It used to rain in April. You remember that?”

“Not ever once, nor do I care, little Joe.”

Then a cigar rolled under the crack, wrestled by the light and disappeared again.

“I smoked it, I smoked a thousand times before!”

“Then why won’t ‘cha smoke one now!?”

My bus ticket leaves in an hour. My bus ticket leaves in an hour. And then it is obsolete. Is that making any sense? I wanna gurgle too, hear a woman moan. The baby’s crying at the foot of the steps this morning reminded me of my youth, and I wish their momma wasn’t so wasted, and I wish their mama wasn’t so attractive, sprawled out like that, like it was the foot of her bed.

“The Sunday Blues” they called it in the papers. But Sunday was yesterday and my bus ticket leaves in an hour and it's time to get started again today. Earlier I had a conversation with my brother on the tele-pay-phone outside the seven-eleven:

“You think a Sunday can outlast its Monday?” I told him.

And he said, “Well grab a beer and let's think!”

So I grabbed a beer out of my trunk and I thunk. And I thought about the bear attack on the next page.

“Maybe we just call it what it is,” I said. “A Monday. Monday after Sunday.”

And he said, “Well grab a beer and let's think!” but I was out of money. And I told him so.

“Then, come over, and grab a beer, and let’s think!”

We were already thinking for an hour. “But I don’t wanna think anymore,” I said. And missed a quarter so slammed it shut and hung it up and sighed.

I reached under my bed for a condom, a wad of cash, some kind of currency. They don’t accept none of that in Montana, so I had to spend it wisely here. Everything only used and slimy on my fingertips, Q-tips orange to scrub my thoughts and itch my brain. I caught an old rag and sat up and used it to wipe the sweat and grease and oil off my face–rub the skin, tear off the stubble. A door slammed and I flinched. Bus leaves in an hour. Gotta get my ticket ready, pack my bags, and everything, and all that.

A young cat used to jump through my apartment window, ruined the screen visor a long time ago. At first, she was chased by my dog, got chased all the way up the street and back through town and back around. Chased and chased, my dog was chased to nonsense, and ran off chasing a policeman’s shadow. The cat returned whenever it felt like it and returned this last Tuesday, and probably for the final time. You too chew for an equitable fortune? But didn’t know what that meant so didn’t say it out loud. We drank milk together, watched old movies with Clint Eastwood, and laughed at the dramatics. I stopped talking. She got bored and left. What's left of her milk is again on my footrest. Roaches come every now and then but I squish ‘em–try to kill them when I can. The day she stopped kissing me was the day my hair went afire and grew wildly like the Death Valley bush. Diet soda cans littered my desk and sill. My walls and bed. I pet her good, soft, and delicate. Made love to my girlfriend, but only when I wanted. Licked popsicles and elbows til the dawn. But not today. My bus ticket leaves in an hour. And then it will be obsolete.

“A last grocery trip?” I still went to my old deli. And bossman was still running the counter and chopping meats.

“Yes,” I told him. And placed a policeman hat under a box of fruit.

“Y’know we really miss ya.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’d love to keep ya–so if ya ever change your mind…it’s only Wednesday.”

“I would but you’re not my dad.” And I had to learn that the hard way.

“I’ve been doing this thirty-two years,” He said.

“Well, maybe that's thirty-two-too many.”

“Whatta ya mean by that?”

“Shoulda capped out at two–”

“Then whatta ya plan to do in Montana?”

“Travel til I’m sick, and speak until July.”

“You get angry easily.”

“I don’t mean to talk shit.”

But I didn’t end up buying anything because they wouldn’t take rag or unused condom as payment and could only charge me with cash, so I didn't know what to do with the little time I had left in the city, the apartment, or the world.

The wanted posters were too kind–on the way back, in the rain. They all had devious little smiles like they were their own cats, and some of the men had tattoos and scars and made lots of money probably too. The women were all very pretty in their unique ways. And would’ve made a lot of money too, if they were with me. I’ve never spoken to a prisoner or an inmate, though sure I’ve met some accidentally before. One man tried to take my purse one time but I told him it only had my school books and textbooks and notebooks. And he said okay and took it anyways and read up and wrote a lot and became the mayor of the city and is running for president in ‘72–but I think he’ll probably have to wait until ‘76. And it's then that I’ll vote–and maybe even for him.

My room was barren and empty. Even more so in the dark. A lampshade is a hat, the cushion is my plate. It all made no sense to me but I did it anyway. I could sit and laze about and not worry about anything for years and they could slip on by one by one bam, bam, bam. Ticket was still in my pant leg, though sticky and moist. I reached for my hat but nothing was there so I’d have to go naked. Made sure the fan was off and kicked around a ball for a minute or two that had military camo colors. But I wasn’t sure.

My girlfriend came to me on Thursday. She knocked right through, though knew and let herself in. She cozied up in the dirty laundry on my bed and put in The Young Teacher video cassette, crying for their worlds. When I came out of the bathroom I smiled and sighed and snuggled up to her before my shirt went on. Her nose was getting bloody so I licked it off and wiped a tear or two with my tongue. Finally, she pushed me and we kissed upright for the rest of the credits rolling, rolling, rolling on by. Then she pushed me off again and staring,

“Let's have a kid.” She said.

“Let’s have a ball!” I said.

“I wanna have a boy.”

“I wanna have a party–with you!”

“I don’t know how to raise a boy.”

“Lemme shoot off the confetti!”

“And you don’t know either.”

“I can ask bossman for a cake! He knows those, he knows how to make one of those!”

“But we can try. We can go at it together. Me and you! Let's have a boy! Oh let's have a child!”

“I don’t know how to raise a boy.”

“It could be a girl? On its own, or its own thing, even?”

“Let's throw a party!”

“Let’s create a child.”

“I don’t want to create a child.”

“I understand.” She pulled a dagger, held up her pony, and cut the neck. Rough and loud, her hair fell in one fine sweep and she handed me the remnants of her struggle.

“But I’m too old,” she said. “And I want to have a child.” Then she got up and left.

I understood, too, I guess. I was too dumb for the draft. The walls really started looking like cigarettes now. And the room felt like them too. Maybe I’m too old.

Another train went by. I felt the cool of its rushing breeze, the running of its trepid boots, the worries of its hurried call. My trophies hung like tortured bats along the wall. A whole lifestyle put behind the croak of the city, the smell of the dirtbag who tied a loose rope a good knot, and the fathers asleep in their swimming STDs. The Tanners across the way held up a sign that read protest every now and then. And when they went quiet I knew it was time to go. My bus ticket leaves in an hour, but an hour is coming by fast.

There were some eggs in the little ice box but they were too old and I stopped eating now anyway. My map of the world was crumpled, torn, and coffee-stained. I ripped it off the sticky table and re-read my red marker markings–circles and arrows–and found the route to the bus stop again, just to be extra-extra safe. An old Amtrak station–no passenger trains run through this side of town anymore. It's been all played out.

Not sure how exactly to give back my apartment, I tidied up whatever there was to tidy up, stuffed my dirtier laundry under my bed, and spit-cleaned the table with an elbow and old shirt.  I placed my wallet on the study desk and flicked on its mini orange lamp. Inside I took from it an unused condom, a ring I had saved up for and bought, and a wax-stamp seal–all stuffed down the back pocket. Left my ID, quarters and pennies, and that old map–an altar. Some doors slammed.

“Get up! Get up!”

“I told you I don’t want your fucking money!”

“That's my fucking car!”

Shuffle of footsteps, ringing of alarms, drying, rumbling, cranky, and broken. It was time to go. And another door slammed. Bus leaves in a long, heavy hour. Coming, coming, coming on by–

Outside. I quietly set the door closed. The old beggar was walking by, Meemaw, my father. Rattling his torn tin cup, ripe social critiques, he turned to me,

“Now where’re you off to, little buddy?”

I put my finger to my lips, walked down the concrete bone steps, aided by the inside lamplight, “I don’t wanna wake anybody,” I said. “I’m going off again.”

“Going off again? Did I not do enough? Was I never there for you?”

“You were always there, Meemaw, and you are great. I’m going off on my own. My own little trip or adventure. For me–it’s a me thing.”

“Am I not your father?”

“Yes. You are my father. You understand that, don’t you? I am my own father too.”

“Have I not set you ripe, ready, and tight on the right path?”

“Sure, I don’t know, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I’ve lived this city through and pleased you too, as it pleased me truth–the city blocks and such.”

“Where have I gone tired? Am I no homeless man? Am I not the one who fought and tried? Dead and ready? The Great War was not that long ago don’t you know that? Why don’t you appreciate that?”

“I love you. I’m going to miss my bus.”

“Where are you running off to?”

As I running off.

“Hey, where are you running off to? You don’t have to stay, just tell me–please?”

My feet splashed up the sidewalk and around the small talk and I waved to all the businesses still closed and shut and down and sultry. The rain stopped some years ago. The taxi cabs stopped giving rides as all the tires went flat and I got tired of walking down the streets to go here or there–well, I tried not to, but my knees gave way halfway across Emerald, and corner to Pacific.

Outside the station, right on time, that hour flew by in one red brick crashing through my window. The bus awaited. A booth was set up for a white man with a turban and sparkly purple robe. Real mustache.

“Are you the ticket master?” I asked.

“No! I am a genie!”

“You are a genie?”

“That’s correct, and I’m going to read your fortune!”

“Okay.”

“You my friend are heading off…to…Montana!”

“Yes!”

“But for what? Let’s see here…you are going for a job?”

“No.”

“A school?”

“No.”

“A college?”

“No.”

“A picnic?”

“No.”

“A girl, a woman…yes! The love of your life!”

“No. Where is the ticket master?”

Posters for air travel were everywhere hammered into walls and posts. Old tintype aero-planes with great deals and giant words, happy smiles. London, Paris, all over Europe. The pictures read like little poems and my heart swelled. Australia? The danger of the unknown. I wasn’t sure. Over the grand oceans and white waves and good music. Great food. But no one I knew went there, so nothing right there existed, only me. 

“Are you better than everyone?” my professor asked me. 

“Of course I am,” I said. “I crawled out that barn on my own, didn’t I?”

“Yes–well, not actually. You get a lot of credit for doing nothing.”

“I’ll take it as far as the bread basket. Nothing else. I’m afraid, gotta ease into it.”

“You don’t know the meaning of any bit of those words yet.”

“Okay, then shall I go?” This was Friday, some hours ago. Gotta hit the road before Sunday comes again–if there was any meaning left in that sacred day–or if they were all the same. I talk too much, I shouldn’t say a word. Jump.

There was no more room. My bus ticket leaves now, it waves in my hand, but there is no room. One foot on the metal step, ticket waving in my hand, still no room. Not a guaranteed trip? I held the ticket I bought, one that proves travel and gets you through the door. No room. He twisted the folding doors shut, they closed around my foot. My bus ticket leaves now, it wavers in my hand, slipped between two fingers. They couldn’t do anything about that, there was no room. Well, make room, I paid, I am here. Nothing could be done. He jabbed at my foot with the butt of his shotgun. But I have my ticket, it's here in my hand, guaranteed travel. I need to get out of this place, you don’t understand, it’s gone dry, and I can’t drink. This your ticket? Yes, it's my ticket. This is all you need? That’s the tale been told. Okay. He grabbed it. He studied it. He turned it this way and that, upside down. He nodded. He grunted. He ripped it in half, tossed it to air, spit in my face, shut the door, and hummed off into tomorrow. Hmm.

A feather floating down, side to side, gentle, and whispering. It landed, unfolded and great, stuck between my two fingers, frozen to my side. The train roared again, miles back down the road. It squeaked and clattered, and went along as it always did. My apartment stayed, rent was paid, hearts could be mended. This life’s not too far gone. I could hit two decades, eventually. Do the whole bit and routine. It was a happiness, guaranteed. Some things aren’t, I just learned that. Again and again, I do. Something was telling me to stay and the genie said I had no reason to leave. All this wandering, I wandered up the train tracks, walking slow, and thinking through. The next train was coming, I felt it in the split of the tracks, the rocks knocking. The light, like the sun, exposed the world, the back acres of old brick buildings and aging new condos. Sleeping bums from the city kicked out of the park. When I heard the horn I stumbled to the gravel and watched the cargo hauled by slowly, following along. The last few empty boxes, smoke eddied and whisked away to metal air as the red chugged on. I sped up. This train was going the opposite direction, away from Montana. Okay, I said. And sped up. Running, running, running, I reached out, fingers caressing metal handles, sweat slipping through, and wet clenching tight. A ball, a lock, a guaranteed freedom. You’d be going through your hometown again. Out the shooter! Out the pooper! I swung aboard and found the cart empty and alone and all to my bitter self. So off we go again. Still but on the road.