14
Recent ramblings of usually unresponsive ex-lovers led Rudy to places only the Roy Orbison lonely dared venture. The dirty fingernail of memory dug into the still festering lies he has told in the name of authenticity. Rudy visited the websites where dreams supposedly surface, seeking their next emotional victims. He chose carefully. Recently widowed, abandoned, not too skinny, not too fat. He looked for someone who liked Doo Wop and Motown and classic rock. Anything from the big hair 80s and beyond was a no-no. Linda was not perfect but was the best of the latest matches and ripe for destruction. Recently divorced, great smile, not real outdoorsy, liked the blues and hated rap. Later, he watched the mosquito land on his forearm, choosing to let it nourish and then fly off to die. Another Sunday.
29
Walking up and down College Avenue after saying good bye and good luck to Linda (with the laugh of increasing criticism) hoping to find God with the hope of an answer, Rudy walks into another Starbucks, baristas with green aprons and tutored smiles and orders a latte, no foam, lots of Splendas, looking for something in his life that means more than just walking up and down another street, walking, waiting for the epiphany that never comes, walking and hoping to find someone who just wants to be with him and not change him and that he feels he doesn’t have to be more than he is, walking up and down the street not looking for an emotional handout, hoping the latte will give him the comfort and certainty that he never has had, walking up and down College Avenue, latte in hand, seeing nothing, feeling nothing he turns gets into his rebuilt car and heads west, just another journey.
44
Years and years later. . .Rudy pulls on the Santa suit which smells of decades of other desperate men. He wonders who will speak for him as he takes abuse from the girls who will only get one unicorn toy? From the boys whose parents refuse to buy the latest blood sport video game? Who will step in front of the number 24 bus to protect this now aging Santa hauling his Salvation Army kettle barely half-filled with change?
Rudy shakes off the snow and city grime and opens the door to the untidy apartment he shares with the feline queen and dreams of sitting in after hours at the Village Vanguard hoping for the bandleader to point at him for a solo with his always polished flugelhorn.
He sets the bulging second-hand backpack on the dusty floor. The sound of the cans of vegetables from the food bank fighting for space, a musical bridge. Somewhere between desperate and thankful, Rudy turns on the decades old stereo and sets the scratchy “Kind of Blue” album on the worn turntable and closes his eyes. He sips his Four Roses to the rhythm of “So What” and wonders if Linda thinks of him if she’s still alive. And who will write his obituary when he falls asleep for the last time? Who will speak for him?
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Jess Nadelman is a frequent Lightwood contributor. He lives in Colorado. Read more of Jess’s work here in Lightwood. Scroll to the Search button in insert his name.
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