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[sid] => 14836
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Night Crawler
[time] => 2003-03-24 18:45:00
[hometext] => My poem, Night Crawler, in it's entirety, all in one place. (about 2900 words)
[bodytext] => Part 1
He took a slow final drag On his cigarette Before snuffing it out In the full ashtray before him. It had been one of those days. His wife had had an abortion Just the night before, And took off that morning Without saying a word. He only wished for rain. He had never imagined that In three hour’s time, Such a painfully hot beverage Could cool to an undesirable temperature. Maybe there was a microwave nearby. The man’s waiter broke his gaze Out into the fog of The bustling city in which he lived. “I’m sorry sir, but we’re closing.” He already knew where he would go next. The newsstand on the corner Stayed open late Saturdays, And he needed more cigarettes. After that, the night was his for the taking. Maybe she left a note at home. Home. He hadn’t been there in two days. He walked downtown thorough miles Of perfectly identical apartments. He believed that the spirit of the night Would take him to where he needed to be. He passed, without hope, in front of their place, And saw to it that no lights were on. Maybe the delirium from the pennyroyal Would wear off shortly. He wanted his wife back. Tonight, though… Tonight was his. He reminded himself of a poker house Not too far from his home, And took off in that direction. Maybe somebody there would know what to do. This was a classy establishment. He was the only one in the place That ever bothered with cigarettes. The rest smoked pipes, or ever better, Rolled their own cigars. Upon opening the doors, The young gentleman was overcome By the thick essences of many foreign tobaccos. Tonight, it seemed, was tournament night. He was just in time. Part 2 The buy-in was one hundred dollars. The winner got sixty percent, the runner up, thirty. The house kept the rest, and turned profits Off of drink services and lap dances. He felt perfectly natural in this man-haven. He sat down at the table nearest the rear exit. He wanted to be prepared, in case a fight broke out. Within the hour, he was up two hundred, Mostly due to some foolish bluffing On the part of some poor guppy. Normally, he would have walked away. But tonight was tournament night. He had to stick it out. His ears would spend the next few hours Full of the sounds of shuffling cards and rattling chips. By sunrise, the tournament was over. He walked outside with twelve hundred dollars in his pockets. He could have had twenty-four. He could have had none. All in all, he had accomplished nothing. He still missed his wife. He walked a few more blocks To the doughnut shop by the interstate. They had just opened. It was during that brief window when the night owls Had to co-exist with the early birds. He hated early birds. They had no appreciation of their own personal freedom. He looked around, however; and saw nothing but. He could tell that they were all early birds. They were all drinking coffee. He hated coffee too. He ambled up to the register and asked for a maple, whatever they’re called. All he had was quarters and hundreds, So he gave the cashier a tip of ninety-eight, fifty, And she gave him a free glass of milk. It had all worked out perfectly. By noontime, he was passed out on a park bench, Scraggly like a hobo, and carrying eleven hundred dollars cash in his pockets. A few hours later, he was startled from his sleep by a police officer Warning him that the park had closed for the evening. It was dark once more, and he had work to do. He sat up, thanked the officer, and had Three cigarettes before heading on his way. He went to the nearest pay phone and called up a friend he hadn’t seen in years. They set up a meeting and abruptly ended the call there. Once again, he had some time to kill. He wandered without caring through The musty and dank alleys of the old business district. He had a broken pocket knife to defend himself with Just in case the need came up. The more he walked, the more the unending puddles seeped into his shoes. He worked his way down to the Smithfield Harbor. The smell of dead fish washed over him Wave after sickening wave. The air reeked of brine and disease, And he still had twenty minutes to wait. Part 3 The salt crystals on the beach made for a beautiful sight in the lighthouse beam. The foghorns and waves breathed tranquility into his ears. The fish… I’ve said enough about the fish. The salt in the air dried out his nostrils and his mouth. He caught a glimpse of a lovely piece of driftwood out of the corner of his eye. He walked over to the soaked green stick And began spelling out vulgarities in the coarse sand. He smacked his tongue against his palate a couple of times In a wasted attempt to stir up some saliva. Just a few minutes to go. He squatted in the sand and watched patiently As the waves censored his sand-etchings By blurring them into nothingness. A dark cloud dissipated the moonlight and left everything Stained copper and blue from the lighthouse. It was one in the morning. He saw the feet at the top of his field of vision. His friend was waiting for him to make his move. He was waiting for the ocean to take him away With his violent words. The rack from the gunshot overtook all other sounds And pierced his ears like its projection pierced The jellyfish that had washed up on shore that evening. He couldn’t hear a word. His friend had certainly won his attention. “It’s too early for loud noises,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It’s not late enough for wierdos,” his friend replied, “besides, I have people looking for me, so we need to make this quick.” The man pulled out his wallet. “I need thirty, and I need it at my house by noon on Monday.” The man’s friend didn’t know what to say. He had never dealt with such a large order. “Here’s the address. My watch says 1:06 right now. Don’t be late.” That was all that had to be said. The two parted ways and disappeared once again Into the mists that rule the night. The man was starting to get hungry, And he needed a drink. Part 4 Mike’s Grille had once been a Waffle House. Now, it was just a run down building That served liquor and a pretty good philly cheese steak At four in the morning. Fortunately, it wasn’t that late yet. The sound of a light rain against the restaurant windows Soothed and relaxed him. He sat and ordered a “whipped nigger,” Or a glass of spiced rum with a splash of coke in it. They started on his philly as soon as he had walked in the door. He was eager about his coming delivery. He hoped that his wife would be pleased. He had devoted the last seventy-two hours To trying to win her back. Hopefully, his plan would go off perfectly. He lost himself in Mike’s glorious philly. The whipped you-know-what drowned away his worries And made his body numb. He paid his check and left the grille with a smile. Now, he decided, was time to go home. Part 5 The stumble home took about three hours. Not only did the man spend a half hour trying To score some drugs off of a fire hydrant, But he also lost about four hundred dollars to a grifter. It only took him nine tries to win. The pleasantly spaced street lamps cast Large copper circles onto the sidewalk, Which was losing its battle against the dandelions That grew through the cracks in the ground. The man noticed there was a full moon that night. In his drunken stupor, the man reasoned with himself. He had already broken his mother’s heart, So there was no need for him to break her back as well. He danced along, trying to avoid to the tears in the pavement. He fell down a lot too. Still thoroughly drunk, thoroughly bruised from his falls, And completely lost in the thought of getting his wife back, The man ran, after a three hour stumble, up to his front door, And began pounding on it, begging for his wife to let him in. His right hand was still bleeding from some shards of broken glass he had fallen on. A stranger answered the door. A scruffy old man in a blue and white striped nightgown, And a matching nightcap with a little yarn ball on top. He looked just like something out of an old cartoon. The man became furious with jealousy. He started shouting incoherently at the grandfatherly figure in the doorframe. After five minutes, though, he forgot why he was mad, And the stranger was able to calm him down. “This isn’t your house,” he said. “You live next door.” “Damned woman must have moved on me.” He went over to the next house and found familiarity in the porch swing there. He was pretty sure this was where his wife had moved to, So he took off his shoes and passed out in the porch swing. He didn’t feel like coming home drunk. Besides, he was tired. Part 6 He awoke the next morning to the sound of a robin Singing in his ear, and the tickle of a daddy long legs Wiggling around under his shirt. It was a beautiful morning, Except for the part about the daddy long legs. For the most part, he had sobered up. He tried his key in the door, and luckily enough, it worked. It had been more than four days since he had left out that same door. He took a deep breath and went into his bedroom To look for his wife. The bedroom door was shut and locked. He decided that she must still be sleeping, So he got himself a glass of water To take care of his headache. He decided that a little TV would be nice to pass the time. He turned on the four inch black and white unit That he and his wife kept at the dinner table, And heard the familiar sound of Rod Roddy’s voice Announcing the next contestant on The Price is Right. This would certainly do just fine. After about forty minutes, during one of those Wilford Brimley, “I have diabetes. Check your blood sugar and check it often.” commercials, There was a loud knock at the man’s front door. He opened it to find a young man in hospital scrubs Who looked like he was ready for bed. “Good morning, sir.” the doctor said. “How can I help you?” the man replied. “I’ve come to collect payment for services rendered unto your wife over that last few days. Are you her husband?” Part 7 “Services? What services? Is she okay?” “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” “Tell me what happened to my wife.” “She’s dead sir. I’m afraid she killed herself last night.” dead “How did she wind up at the hospital?” “A woman claiming to be her sister dropped her off four days ago with an acute case of poisoning.” “Her sister… I knew I should have gone there.” “This is all news to me. Look I’ll pay the bill. I just need to call her sister up and figure a few things out. Do you know how much our share is?” “Just one second, I’ll check for you.” After the week he’d had, now was not a time for waiting. “That’ll be six hundred and fifty dollars even.” “Lucky me. Here you go.” The man pulled out the rest of his poker money, Counted off all but about forty of it, And put the wad of bills into the doctor’s hand. “Thank you sir, and once again, I’m sorry for your loss.” “No you aren’t, they pay you to say that. Now get off of my property before I kick your ass.” With that, the young doctor ran to his car and drove away. The man decided that he needed to call his sister-in-law. As he was dialing, there was yet another knock at his door. He hung up the phone and went and answered the door. He was surprised to see his friend again. He had lost track of time. It was already Monday. “Hey there. I didn’t realize it was already noon.” “Yeah. Here’s your order. Right on time.” “You got thirty?” “Yeah, thirty dozen roses, hand-picked from the queen’s garden.” “Oh wow… that’s a shame.” Part 8 “What do you mean, a shame?” “Well, unfortunately, I don’t need them anymore. My wife passed away last night.” “Well, what am I supposed to do with all these roses? People put their lives on the line to break onto palace grounds and steal these. “We had to smuggle them onto a plane from England And fly them all the way over here. Then, we had to get past customs on this side of the ocean. You know that authorities had been alerted be then.” “Look, I’m sorry.” “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You made this order. I can’t sell off five hundred illegal roses On the streets or anything.” “I know, I know.” “So you need to pay up for them.” “How much is it?” “You know the rate. Twenty dollars a dozen. Thirty dozen. That makes six hundred dollars.” “Look, here’s forty. That’s all I have.” “Forty isn’t enough. If you don’t give me six hundred dollars, Right now, then I’m going to kill you.” “I already told you. My wife died. I can’t pay you now because I paid her medical bill.” After all that. The story ends, And I think you know how. The police found him lying there Six months later. The scent of rot filled his house. Part 9 As for his wife, here’s what he never lived to learn. The abortion was a horrid and bloody one, Courtesy of her pennyroyal. She became terribly ill just a few hours after consuming the drink. She called her sister for a ride to the hospital And there was diagnosed with acute poisoning From the pennyroyal in her system. She recovered slowly over the next couple of days, But she suffered from severe depression over the loss of her baby. The whole time she was there, She asked the doctors, every hour If her husband was at home yet. She called for him constantly And wanted nobody else. The longer he went missing, The more deeply depressed she became, Wallowing in her self-loathing and sorrow Until eventually, she just decided that nobody Cared about her any more. A misplaced scalpel was her weapon of choice. She was so mad at herself for letting go of her baby. She destroyed her uterus as best she could, Until she passed out from the blood loss. With all the Prozac, she never felt a thing. She never knew, that the whole time, Just as much as she was looking for her husband, He was looking for her. He went to get dinner that fateful night of the abortion And returned to an empty home. In his quest for self-redemption, He searched high and low for the best gift that he could give her. And his efforts put him on his front porch, Tired from his drinking, just five minutes before the final time his wife would call him up to see if he still loved her. And to see, once and for all, If life was worth living. Part 10 In her death, his life ended as well. Alexander was a good friend to me, you see. I had spent much of the last four nights of his life Walking around that city with him. And though he didn’t know it, I was there to see him die as well. Just as I was waking up from a night spent with my wife, In Alex and Janine’s home, Waiting for his return. I heard his conversation with the flower dealer. I heard the shots fired. My wife was there to see her sister die too. She watched as the surgeons fought to undo The wrath she had brought upon herself. We cried for three days after that. Listen to me though. I’m rambling now. He was a good man. She was a good woman. They were the best friends anyone could ever ask for. And they loved each other, literally, to death, And on into heaven. Keep this story in mind, my friends. For I know that anyone who is willing to Lend me their attention for this long Has to be impacted by this in some way. Love. Their love was so strong that they died without it. Don’t you see? I love my wife too. I love everybody. Without love, where would any of us be? Without love… argh… I can’t even think about it. I’m on the verge of crying for another three days. Forget about me though. You’ve listened long enough. I’m all done. I’m all done. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 145 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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