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Charlie Clemons, a ripened man in the late years of his life, sat at a table facing the bedroom. A fresh-pressed blue linen shirt draped from skinny shoulders and was unbuttoned to reveal a hairless chest and ribs that poked through the flesh. He had dark purple skin, rough and calloused, and eyes that popped from cavernous sockets, strained and boiled red. The light entered from the over the waters of the bay far off to the east of the city. It bent around the buildings, which paraded across a concrete land. It bounced through the street and sidewalk off automobiles and streetcars. It came into his apartment and jumped along the floor and settled smoothly on his hands. He dealt out a game of solitaire from a deck of cards, shuffled with vigor three times over. The number three played out in ways that a normal mind couldn’t imagine. Many mornings after he left the apartment and made a few stops that were required as a part of his daily regiment he walked around the city to search out the refrain of three in apartment numbers, billboards, the birds in park, the rhythmic pattern of foot patter on the road—anything that provided the relief he desired, anything to release his mind from anxiety and sadness and the deafening madness perpetrating the deepest chasms of his soul. He wasn’t entirely unhappy and from those who weren’t directly involved with the everyday musings of the man’s life would say he lived in a relative comfort. He had a home, with the dressings of a humble existence. Some things even that would be a considered a luxury—like the bed in his room or the working kitchen or the radio or the books on the shelves. There were visitors on occasion. There was talk and drink and smoke and the playing of cards. They listened in to the radio for ballgames and music programs and everyone left late in the evening with the full and complete sensation of having shared something with another human being. But somewhere inside of him, somewhere unknown even to him, something was lost or gone or simply hadn’t arrived yet. The world was a blue fog.

Gloria had come from the bedroom about the time he was to finished his game. It hadn’t happened yet, but he played so many times that he got to know when a game was about to close. She had showered and freshly powdered her sweet and rightfully soft skin and had water in beads in her hair. The drops fell to the floor and slapped against the wood. When he watched her, the world seemed to operate in slow motion. He watched the water drop and gravity pull at the beads in an attempt to break them apart and the floor succeed in doing so when the beads hit the floor and splashed up in millions of tiny little beads. They had been together for more years he cared to remember. Not because he didn’t want to or because it had become something other than love, but because he didn’t measure what he had—what they had—as anything but what it was in that moment, the eternal moment.

She snuck up behind Thomas, who sat tired, almost sleeping on his chest and kissed him lightly on his forehead. There had always been something motherly inside her. It wasn’t an outward disposition. More of an eternal sweetness that moved from her to others like a soft wave would swoosh across the body as it waded in shallow water. She had wanted children— a whole house full of the little darlings—but with all that was trapped in her, this wasn’t a real possibility. “You feel awfully warm, dear, ” she walked to the sink and filled a pot of faucet water for tea. The stove fired like a blank round and finally lit a a loud and hissing blue. The only card left in the deck snapped on the table as it exited Charlie’s hand and, relieved, he smiled at her. Each morning for fifteen years he tried to beat his record. This wasn’t his morning, but with the game finished the day could begin. She reached over near the sink and snatched the cup that stored his teeth. Under a stream of cold water she rinsed the teeth and placed them, on a napkin, in front of him. It always took a few tries to get the damn things in his mouth.

“Ah, there we go,” as he tried to fit them in just right his face tightened and made crooked shapes. Charlie had lost all of his teeth a few years back and needed a false set to talk and eat and all. He hated the way they felt on his gums. It was like wearing a cotton cloth pinned around his waist—made him feel vulnerable and childish “Thomas, let me have some of that,” pointing to a glass of water. He gargled a sip to make sure they were snug. “I bet you wish I lost these,” Charlie said.

“Wouldn’t have to hear you go on and on all the time,” Thomas said. The words leaving his mouth were muffled. His head was loaded and droopy and raised on his chest with each new breath of air. Thomas was the kind of kid that would drop by the apartment for a few days at a time and then bust out the place with nothing more than a word goodbye. This got to be so much a routine that no one worried when he didn’t show up for weeks and months. When it got to be the time for worry he came knocking at the door tired and straggly looking, usually hunger and smelling of cheap booze or other such things that he never liked to talk about very much and neither of them even dared to question. He had somewhat of a short temper, but was a kind and gentle kid at the core of his soul. Charlie sort of thought of the boy lovingly and all. That vacancy was never spoken of.

“You’d miss it. Tell him—,” he said. Charlie walked over to his desk and turned on a box radio that was leaning on the wall behind the desk. His father had given him the radio the night he died. The room had been too cold and together they listened to the evening jazz station, curled up in the covers of his bed. The radio disc jockey had been playing Yardbird straight through. At the end of the set Charlie turned to his father. His eyes shimmered pearl white. . “I want you to have that radio, boy,” he said. “It may be the only friend you ever have.” A heavy wood chair was pushed beneath the desk. Although it was messy, it was manageable, and had noticeable use. There was an old Smith & Corona, a rusty soup can full of black pens and sharpened pencils, a matchbook, two perfect pink erasers, abandoned paper clips, bent push pins, and all his lucky pennies arranged neatly on the space not occupied by the radio.

“I’m not sayin’ a thing,” she said. “Can’t be the sort of woman getting in the way of men.” The water began to slap on the inside of the steel pot, getting ready to whistle. She brought three mugs to the table. As the water left the pot, it left a trail of steam in the air. “Sweetie you really don’t look good. All the color is almost out of you,” she said. “You make sure to drink that up.”

“She’s right boy. Look at them toes of yours,” Charlie said. He came back to his seat and pushed it back a bit so that his legs were stretched beneath the kitchen table. His shirt was still unbuttoned. The blue linen almost touched the floor.

“Huh?” Thomas said as he swept dirt on the floor into piles under his feet. His head rose and settled on his chest.

“Your toes, kid—they’re curling,” excitedly pointing his finger at the floor, his arm pulling and retracting like a piston.

“What about my toes?” He said.

“They’re curling,” Charlie said. He went to grab at his toes and pull them taut.

“So?” He said, as he pulled his legs up and into the pit of his stomach. Thomas didn’t like anyone to touch him, especially an old man, and especially Charlie.

“Rub some lotion on ‘em,” he said.

“What?” He said.

“It could keep it off for awhile,” he said.

“What?” He said.

“I’m just sayin’, kid,” he said.

“Here, make him happy,” handing Thomas a bottle of lotion. “Please, please stop all this talk so early in the morning.” She said.

“Make sure you get it all up between the toes,” he said. “How ‘bout some breakfast?” Charlie said.

“Excuse me?” She said.

““Darling, would you mind making us some breakfast?” He said.

“It will be ready soon.” She said.

“Don’t worry about me. I better get going,” Thomas said. “I’ve got things to take care of today.” He got up from his seat, said goodbye and walked out the door. They could hear him on the stairs. The door slammed and he went off down the street.

“I worry about that boy,” she said. The eggs were finished cooking. She carried the plates in one arm and set them on the table. The light had moved off the table and met on the ceiling, complete and absolute. In the light, her eyes were a strange and dangerous green.

“Yeah, he’s a piece of work. No one is ever going to set him straight. “ He said.

“That’s what they said about you.” She said.

“He doesn’t have a woman like you. “ He said.

“He could.“ She said.

“Not like this.” He said.

“You do.” She said.

“They’re ain’t many people like you and me anymore.” He said.

“Somewhere.“ She said.

“Maybe.“ He said.

“I sure do hope so.” She said, kissing him.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“Almost nine.” She said.

“I better get going. “ He said.

“Me too.“ She said.

Chapter 2

The big old moon died. All the trees had turned out their green. People had come into the city for the fall spectacle, but the color had long since passed, and they had gone away. November made everyone nervous. It was near winter—the long and indecent winter, a winter like nothing else, a winter of pure, white, snowy death. Not a real death or anything, like that, but a death of motion more or less. And if people aren’t really getting out and around and all there really isn’t any reason to live anyway. The branches would be naked, stripped for the cold. A false orange glow would permanently beam from family homes in square swatches onto the sidewalk. The sad sun would briefly sing in the dying day and then fall void of permanence. An empty light would then fill in everywhere.

The staircase that went to the street had marks of former occupants. There were signatures of forgotten lovers and old friends scratched on the paint of the walls. A stiff, sultry air fussed around the narrow space that was somewhat like a missile silo and slowed him as he walked. He got to the street through the side door of his apartment. He never liked to get out for the first time in the morning and be greeted by a busy rush of sidewalk traffic. Charlie stood in the alley between his own building and the one that came up close next to it and breathed in a pocket of cold morning air. The space that separated the buildings and created a view of the street was about twenty feet wide. He looked toward the street, the people flying past and off to work or school or wherever really. He took his time and stepped onto the sidewalk when it seemed safe. About ten steps from his apartment stood a roadside diner. It had been in the neighborhood for twenty years and he has been in each morning since then. He pushed through the glass door of the diner and poked around with his grey eyes, nodded to Joe—the owner—who sat on a bar chair behind the counter reading the sports page out of the newspaper and went forward toward the back of the short room. He saw his friend through the thin slit that allowed plates to held hot before serving below a clothesline of receipts. Since grade school the two had been inseparable. They met on the schoolyard playing a game of red rover, red rover and waved to each other in the way old friends did, sort of throwing up the hands in recognition each other. Ray untied his apron and came from the kitchen onto the main dining floor. It held only had a few tables. The men sat at the far end of the long bar counter, near the swinging doors of the kitchen.

“You watch the game last night? They had it. Goddamn Yankees,” Ray said as he threw his soiled cap onto bar.

“Hello to you, too,” he said, sarcastically. He had a raw wit to him and thought it necessary to jibe at his friend from time to time.

“It just makes me so—“ he said.

“ I know, I know. You’re gonna go mad, man,” he said. There are some people that get real worked up over baseball. It’s a sort of sickness that comes into someone in there youth. The feeling after a game your team losing is kind of like the feeling of when a girl walks out. Only the difference is there’s one hundred and sixty five game in a year.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he said. “If they don’t win then, then I got the day after that and after that and then there’s next season and the one after that and after that—“

“I get it, man. You don’t need to keep going on and on like that. Better hope they win real soon,” he said. “I don’t wanna see what happens to you on a losing streak. You ought to find yourself a real lady.”

“She is my lady,” he said. “There ain’t any use fighting it no more.”

“You’re getting too old to run around,” he said. “Maybe find a nice gal, settle down, and make yourself a real home.”

“Man, shut it. I will do all that when I am fine and ready. I still got some game in me,“ he said. “When that runs dry I’ll come ask you for some advice on the matter of settling down.”

“Look forward to it,” he said.

“See that girl over there?” He said.

“The pretty-eyed gal you hired last week?” He asked.

“I came straight from her place this morning,” he said.

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Honest, man,” he said. “She’s a mad one. I got her all tripped up.”

“You’re terrible,” he said. “This is what gets you into trouble. What every happened to treating a woman right?

“She didn’t say nothing,” he said. “I mean, she seemed to like it all fine and well.”

“They never say nothing when you come on all sweet and proper,” he said. “You should want to treat her nice. That’s what being a man is all about.”

“You used to feel differently about that if I remember correctly” he said. “You had a different woman three times a day.”

“Really, you’re awful. That was a different time of my life, man. I realized something when I met my girl, ” he said.

“Guess it hasn’t happened to me yet,” he said. “Why do you keep coming in here each morning, huh?” He asked.

“I like you too much,” he said. “Need the entertainment.”

“I ought to cut you off,” he said.

“You’d miss me too much,” he said.

“Maybe so,” he said.

“Up to anything tonight?” he said.

“ “She could be keeping my busy,” he said.

“How ‘bout you two come ‘be busy’ at our place?”

“You cooking?” He said.

“Sure. Something nice.” He said. “It’s been awhile since we’ve had good company.”

“What about that boy you always have coming by?” He said.

“Thomas? He’s in and out,” he said.

“You should keep from worrying about him, man,” he said. “It’s only gonna hurt—“

“Keep that to yourself, “ he said. “You know why I do what I do.”

“Alright, alright.” He said, “But you really should—“

“Ray—“ He said.

“That’s all I’m sayin’,” he said.

“Good. Ring the bell after work,” he said. “Should I look for two of you?”

“I would,” he said. “You don’t see how she looks at me?”

“I do,” he said. “That’s why I asked.”

“She’s really something,” he said.

“Keep up on her,” he said. “You may have something good.”

“Maybe.” He said. “I better get back to the kitchen.”

“Go, go,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

He sat a little while longer and watched the people talk and eat and felt a loneliness move over him.