PROMISEVILLE. Comfortable three-bedroom Ranch,
Meticulously maintained with
Many updated features.
Beautiful hardwood floors,
Oversized windows,
Porch,
Patio and
Two-car garage. Asking $326,000.
He died of a heart attack on a Tuesday night
in the garage.
She called 911 screaming.
Took twenty minutes to get there.
They couldn't revive him.
After months of deep depression,
And a barrage of bills,
She fell behind with the mortgage.
Their son joined the Marines
To escape,
Choosing danger over grief.
Their daughter is on drugs.
Don't know where she is.
There used to be joy here.
Noise and laughter
Danced
Through the hallway,
Out the front door and
Onto the patio.
Now
A thick grout,
The varnish of grief.
Regret still lingers,
An alien odor,
Somewhere in the abandoned two-car garage.
Last Tuesday
I drove past a man
Riding a girl's bicycle.
It was a blue and white girl's bike
And he pedaled that bike with
A ferocity, his unshaven jaw
Extending forward in an almost
Mystical concentration;
Perhaps in a parody of the Hapsburghs,
Or even Jay Leno, with his gaggle of cars;
With his churning hairy legs
Under his blue black shorts
And his T-shirt with a union logo on the back
He rode. Driving by, I couldn't tell which labor union,
But there he was,
Riding a girl's bicycle around Beacon
At ten, on a Tuesday morning.
I couldn't help but wonder:
Was bicycling at 10AM on a Tuesday morning
Perhaps a privilege of his union membership?
That after achieving a certain level of seniority
He could spend Tuesday mornings,
Fully compensated, riding a girl's bike?
Or, was this perhaps part of his union's
Wellness program? But there was
Something about the look on that grizzled face,
The intensity of expression...
Had the union, whose logo he wore
Somehow let him down?
Was he, in fact unemployed, impoverished,
Homeless,
And riding this girl's bike his only means of
Transportation?
Was he, in fact, a union man at all?
Had he simply acquired that shirt at a thrift shop?
In a church basement somewhere?
Could the shirt have belonged to his brother?
His father?
It used to mean something, wearing a
Union shirt. It used to mean that you belonged to
A community that would protect you. Samuel
Gompars with his smelly cigars. He'd protect you;
Walter Reuther, with his head still bandaged from
Being beaten in a Dearborn street, he'd make sure you
Had a job at the Buick factory; John L. Lewis with his
Frightening eyebrows; he'd scream until you had
Decent work in the mines. Jimmy Hoffa,
Until he met Jesus in the end zone in East Rutherford,
He'd make sure you drove that truck, until
You could bring home a paycheck to
Feed your kids and strut with your wife on a sunny
Sunday afternoon. Or bicycle with your daughter;
She with her girl's bike, and you with your
Helmet, Speedo Fastskins, knee pads and shiny
Blue Schwin.
