Color

Chicago is brimming with color, trudging, crowded paint. Color, seeking shade in the searing summer heat under tattered awnings as the sun pounds relentless. The broad-leaved trees have been reserved for the shady avenues of Lincoln Park and Gold Coast to the north, where a cool breeze freshens three and four-story brownstones of the fairer skin, a far cry from the smoldering south—where black children sit listlessly on stoops. Tenants lean dangerously out windows for fresh air. The whole lot: stifled by heat and poverty and scorching discrimination. Yet, relentless is spirit, and a sense of false hope prevails in the street—a sense of relief offered by the frayed edges of tattered awnings.

As I near downtown, a river of people widens and quickens to the likes of a spring-swollen stream of whiteness scurrying about in well-shined shoes, shoes with purpose, making their way around “The Loop.” Shoes: With determination—if not to fool you or me—to fool oneself in the glimmer of their shine. Pale faces: file hypnotized toward corner offices scraping the sky. Pale faces shaded by fedoras and adorned with steam-pressed suits too thick for the boiler room that is Chicago stroll on by. Newsboys hawk papers in the street, shouting headlines depicting the light and dark happenings that is the roaring twenties.

I suppose I have no clear idea of where I am heading, a change of venue, I suppose, as my coin purse has run dry—cash flushed down the toilet which each swig of gin in the night. Making an exodus for the North, I stroll, rather, scuff my shoes below the L-train that squeals and deafens overhead, showering sparks upon my stiff shoulders as I struggle with an overstuffed suitcase of Grandpa’s books. Utterly aware of my destitute state, my prospects dim increasingly with each step I take toward the golden shimmer that is the North. I carry forth nonetheless when suddenly, one out of a pack of whiteboys with a handful of stolen candy runs smack dab into my leg. Sweets scatter about my feet, and passerbys crush them under foot, hustling oblivious in shiny shoes. And with a chrome whistle, the boy splits before the policemen can catch him and give him a slap on the wrist.

I let the crowd wash around me as an abundant number of Model T’s honk in my ears—comical in nature. If I were not too sick, I might just laugh. The rumbling of the city rattles my bones—the rumbling of the city, a roar so very far away from the provincial silence and unmoved marrow of my childhood. It has been five years since I left home and ten since I’ve thought of you. Ten long years. The exhaust nauseates me, and the trumpets still scream in my ears—drums stubborn to head on home even as the sun rises high noon. The city’s depth lingers deep, where the speakeasies pour the forbidden fruit freely into my heart—where the fruit that poisons my blood causes me to poetically heave into the first trash can I see. Up here on the surface street, I ignore the onlookers; however, I doubt they excuse me.

You see, the problem is vision—I see double. In one eye: A revolutionary, a cultural soldier fighting for freedom of soul, of spirit, for spirit, and by spirit. And you see, that’s the problem. In the other: I spot a boy caught in a grown man’s body with a gut swollen with stale spirit, a spirit diminishing the soul, a spirit drowning my days, drowning my memory of you in the night. This wild abandonment manifests the unquenchable thirst that the sun might fizzle to a dull hue and pop of darkness—an obscure vision my bloodshot eyes can finally digest. When I sit back and relax and melt in the dim. Melt to a degree in which that tormented eye can no longer gauge my sorry self so clearly. When that eye is drunk blind, and blurry and can no longer see me the way my father must. But truth be told, I haven’t set foot for some years now in that godforsaken hamlet. In fact, I never plan to, again. I’d rather just forget. I’d rather ignore him and you, hell, I don’t think of you—not for ten long years.

So, I spin and sway away. I sweat and spit and shove my swollen gut down the block for the next trash can, where I leave my memories and walk away. That’s the consequence of swallowing too much rye; you see, when you swill all life serves up, it comes right back up. Oh, how my sternum aches, how my throat burns, how the bass thumps my brain, leading me on with strange hope, from deep within my inner being to the next trash can down the block—the bass slapped like a baby’s ass.

You see, the bassman knows the ways of the devil, I tell ya what. And how the devil seduces me so—oh how I long for the night, the night that takes me away, away from you, away from such bright, bright light I can’t take anymore. And when played well, the chords take me on, carry me on, and you, and him away. Far, far away. Away from that pitiful place. And for now, the bassman carries this boy on with echoes of bliss into the blinding, swirling city light as I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. And with each step I take on the hard pavement, my dance-worn shins shatter my soul, and a shiver overcomes my heart. Sweat drips down my brow as the heat simmers on the street, as tall buildings do little to soothe the vertigo in my mind. I must say, not only has the great migration brought color, but I am not too uncertain that I am not the only pale country boy to haunt these streets as they run away from their own fathers, their own lost loves, their own tragedies.

But I don’t think of you. I think only of them—these many young women, county gals on their own, who’ve found themselves citified and gracing the newly paved streets in search of sales jobs in grand-department stores. I wait for them, to find themselves naïve and empty, to discover the thirst, wander wayward for a mystery room, in search of mystery, after drink and dance, and answers to questions only to be answered when they learn to knock twice in that certain way, when and where they can swill, spin, and freely forget. You see, I think only of them, not you. Their long-long legs, their heavy lids, droopy, begging for forgiveness in the night; yet, with an AHOOGA, I wake to the day and remember it is undoubtedly the Ford era, as old Henry has taken over the world—at least on the surface streets, at least on the headlines. But what does old Henry know of down below, of the small type, of the back page, where we are left buried, and you...?

The day takes my breath away, and I hear my sternum crack and spin around as the world spins twice. I see traffic lights and traffic jams. I stop in my tracks, pat my pockets, and shake my head to the AHOOGA. I shake my hands. And throw my suitcase, packed with Grandpa’s books, right back the way I came, back through the crowd that is life, back for the Southside that’ll have me, broke or not, where the broke belong, well out of sight, beyond the oaks and maples of the high part of town. I make the long trek, not knowing what I was thinking. And by four, I find a dingy hotel on the corner of 38th and South State. I hand the man the money, what is left of it, I suppose—money not quite pissed away—to a man who has seen countless Oscar’s come and go—a wad of bills he shoves deep in his pocket—surely to be spent more wisely than I—and for this, he deserves it more than I.

The room smells of onions. But I care not. I collapse onto the sprung springs, swollen feet throbbing, and dream only of women, saxy blues, and sexful jazz, it’s all here, down below, but no, not you—no, not you. I don’t think of you, not for ten long years. I remember nothing. I dream of nothing. I go alone, long into that place where ghosts go, panting silently, no longer walking amongst the living—hovering above the bed of countless lives, atop a damp blanket moist with late July heat and sweat out into a sheet stained with countless unmentionables I’ve learned to ignore. I ignore my dreams. Nightmares. AHOOGA, I’ve learned to no longer miss you—nor mourn for you. You no longer spin about my dreams, nor my ‘mares. Not even vertigo can make you turn ‘round my mind. Not for some time. A long time, in fact. A long time, indeed. I pant this hot air—the clothes on my body sticky, clinging like flesh, dirty knees, the filth of ages—face deep in a yellowed pillow damp with someone else’s breath. I sweat of love and dread, arms spread wide, heart curled up inside, trying not to care about the heat, trying not to care about you. You see, you come with the sickness. And all I need is drink. And poof!

The bassman, he beats on. And in a slow, thick thump, I curl about a blue haze that glazes me within a glow through the window. It shimmers on, vibrates, and shines within its own kind. A dark luster. A shine: seldom seen by the surface bunch, let alone by old Henry on the surface of things, plastered on the front page. You see, I dwell below. Deep below his wildest dreams, where I know—I know I will not think of you. I huff and moan for a dime—for gin. You see, it drowns me, so I drink my medicine. Thirsty, I roll over, stare at the ceiling, and whitewash my mind with cracked and peeling paint, so dry. I search under the bed for a wayward dime but come up empty-handed. Awful tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I bounce on squeaky springs and throw my face in my hands. I crack my knees and open my suitcase for a pencil and pad. I pull out a chair, the witching hours upon me. I scribble, curse, and yank my hair, fantasizing of throwing myself out of the window to the street below, where I might bleed out onto the brick to be pissed on by drunkards with their own poetry. The wastebasket is filling with written words, but not of you—no, not for ten long years, not of you.