Motorcycles, brushstrokes, Bill Evans and pigeons

As Pokey stood on the roof, he felt the wind picking up. It was going to rain again. The pigeons milling around him didn't pay any attention to the clouds hovering over them. Their slick grey, shimmering feathers lifted slightly and then settled. Pokey tossed the crumbs across the roof. He walked over to the edge of the roof. He used to be afraid of the edge, but every time he would come up onto the roof, he would step one step closer to the edge. Now he felt no fear.

Besides, Pokey heard something in the vacant lot. The fellow with the strange accent and who owned the scooter was walking through the lot. Pokey had difficulty understanding him. He seemed patient enough with Pokey, but still Pokey wasn't comfortable around him. He unlocked the cage door and Mr. Eros would say something about "chow," and then drive off. Pokey never saw him in the diner.

Pokey's eyes were caught by a movement. Around the corner of the adjacent shop, Pokey's upstairs neighbor, the man in 211, was watching. He was always watching.

When the Mr. Eros moved in, Pokey had to clear more space in the motorcycle cage. He spent the whole morning cleaning and dumping old car parts, old batteries, strange scraps of metal and old boxes that had long lost their owners. Pokey wondered how people could just abandon their things. Only Mr. Jason's motorcycle had room to sit. Pokey was told to make more room. By the time he was finished moving things around, he was covered in dust.

Mr. Jason kept his motorcycle in the cage. He never let Pokey move, much less touch, the motorcycle. Pokey was relieved about Jason's command. He didn't like the motorcycle. Even when Pokey had on his headphones, he could still hear the motorcycle. Once, when Pokey was going to dinner, Jason almost hit him when he was coming out of the garage. Pokey was listening to a Bill Evans's ballad. He needed to concentrate really hard to hear the piano notes and he forgot to look before he crossed the garage entrance. Jason swerved, then shouted something at Pokey and zoomed away.

As he stood looking over the edge, he saw Ms. Keller walking with Mr. Barnaby toward the old Barnaby house. It seemed as though she was telling him something important. Mr. Barnaby kept nodding his head and Ms. Keller would motion with her arm.

"I should get Artie to come up here sometime," thought Pokey. "He could really draw a whole lot of things from up here. "

Pokey heard the cooing from the pigeons. He turned to see a few flutter into the sky and rest on the empty cages that stood muted in the the grey clouds. Pokey walked to the other side of the building and looked over to the tavern. Mr. Everett was walking leisurely toward the diner with the big brown envelope with the evening paper tuck underneath his arm. He walked along with Mr. Harry. Mr. Harry always had a book with him. Mr. Harry handed Mr. Everett one of the books. Mr. Everett nodded. They seemed casually discussing something. Maybe the weather. Mr. Everett talked with Pokey about the weather almost every day.

"It's going to rain again. Mr. Everett, maybe even snow some." Pokey whispered. The pigeons had finished the crumbs and were now pecking around Pokey's boots. They didn't seem to mind the coming storm.

The soft, paced notes from Bill Evans piano filtered into Pokey's mind. He watched the pigeons for a few more minutes, turned and felt the first few drops hit his ear, his hand and his cheek as he made his way to the roof-top door.

As he went down the stairs, he heard Ms. Keller mumbling as she was coming up. She glanced his way as he paused to speak. She kept walking and mumbling about the birds. Pokey turned to go down the stairs. He thought it strange that she would come up to the roof when only this morning she had given him a bag of crumbs. He turned to ask if she wanted him to spread the crumbs, but the door shut before he had a chance.

Rain, Weather Report, peas and James Gibson

Pokey’s days moved like a jazz song. People weaved in and out of his baseline theme in a seemingly random fashion. As if life moved in a specific pattern, yet each character added their own various ideas of that basic rhythm. The two fellows that ran by the garage entrance every morning as Pokey was arranging his items in their places gave Pokey a start to his day. He would see them briefly sweating in the summer or see the puffs that preceded them in winter. Everyday, they would run. Only the weather was the variation. They seemed as if in a trance. Everyday, the same. The down beat of the day started.

When he worked the Sunday shift, Pokey also witness one of the runners walking into the tavern and staying for hours. Often, if Pokey worked the Sunday shift, the guy would still be in the tavern when Pokey was relieved from his shift. His eyes still held the trance as if he was drawn by something inside the tavern.

Pokey has only been in The Tavern a few times. Each time he goes, he feels a strange, uncomfortable tingling on his skin. He feels dirty and can’t breathe very well. Once Leo made him drink “a beer for Pokey.” Mostly people drag him in so they “can talk.” Pokey can’t concentrate because his skin feels strange. He prefers the diner. The grime isn’t much better but the scent of food is much more comforting than the scent of depression, isolation, mixed with a heady shot of self-absorption.

Pokey was thinking of the tavern as he ate his dinner. Friday: fried fish, onion rings, corn and peas. His coke made him think of the beer. It fizzed that same way—that’s why Pokey was willing to try the beer. Only as he left the tavern, bumping against the chairs and the door, he couldn’t seem to control himself. Like the first time he heard Chick Corea and Weather Report, he felt dizzy. Leo only laughted at Pokey. Mr. Mamet and Harry both swore at Leo and told him to leave Pokey alone. Leo only laughed harder.

Pokey had just finished his peas. His mother always scolded him if he didn’t eat his peas. He reluctantly ate them last. He noticed the rain had started. He buttoned-up his coat and made sure he buckled his galoshes.

He started out the door to see the shadow come around the corner of the block, and stop and start. Pokey knew it was James. Pokey’s mother told him to watch-out for James. She had known his mother. What had happened to James’ mother is the reason she moved from Thallow Flats.

“He’s cursed, Pokey.” She said as she glared over her reading glasses. “Ms. Gibson knew that street like the back of her hand. There’s no reason why she should have fallen.”

Pokey could only listen.

His mom continued. “Everybody said that it’s that Barnaby ghost. That ghost did this, that ghost did that. I never listened to that foolishness until Ms. Gibson died. Now look at that son of hers. Skipping and stuttering around the building, clutching that box. Creepy. Pokey you stay away from him. He’s cursed.”

Pokey’s brows furrow as he watches James jump as if he’s trying to avoid the raindrops.

“He just needs a good raincoat and a pair of galoshes.” Pokey thinks to himself. James sees Pokey and presses himself against the wall.

Pokey pauses in front of James, “Hi James.” Pokey looks down as James seems to fold into the box he is carrying. “ I have an old raincoat in my apartment. I live in 111. If you want it come to my apartment. Apartment 111.” Pokey turns and walks home.