dmseay

Bobbers attached to strings floated on the river. Cane poles stuck in the ground. Salami on hooks.

Two men sat under an oak, eyes half shut, waiting and dreaming at the same time.

Maybe it was heat dreams they were having. Legs stretched out, arms resting in their laps, leaning back in folding chairs, one eye open while the other blinked. Straw hats pulled down, covering their foreheads.

In-between the two old men was a Styrofoam cooler holding ice, Old Style beer, plastic wrapped sandwiches, and a package of Oscar Mayer salami. Little by little the salami was eaten, the two leaving pieces to tear bits off for bait. Their poles never bent.

They just ain’t biting today, Gus said.

Seems like they never do, Jerry responded. Sure is hot.

Yes, it is, Gus wiped his broad forehead with a red handkerchief.  It’s always hot in Arkansas. Hell, it could be December, and it would still be hot.

I don’t know about that, Jerry laughed. This is autumn. Indian summer. Nighttime, it’ll be cooler, Jerry grabbed a slice of salami, folded it, and took a bite. Supposed to be a blood moon tonight, Jerry said with a mouthful.

That a fact. Didn’t know that, Gus said. What time?

After midnight. Early in the morning, around four. About the time I get up, Jerry told him. Put the coffee on and just look at it from my back porch.

Huh. I’ll probably do the same. Now that Ingrid is gone, I find myself getting up earlier and earlier, Gus said. She was really something. A real hell cat, he laughed. Got to the point I couldn’t keep up with her no more. Gus checked the lines. That’s when she left me. Took off with some insurance salesman. Younger than both of us.

Did you try to keep her?

I figured why bother. She would have found a reason to leave one way or another, Gus smiled.

They always do, Jerry said. Mine has spent her whole life with me, but she checked out years ago. Now we just watch TV, eat, and sleep.

Yeah. I’ve heard that from others. Heard their women just existed these days. I guess Ingrid wanted more, Gus stretched his arms to heaven.

They popped open a couple of beers and clanked them together. They looked at each other and took a sip. 

Bobbers floated on the river.

There was a magic between them. Chemistry. They were placed in a beaker, mixed up, and came out as one.

I used to watch them at the diner. Sitting across from each other. Holding outstretched hands. Looking, focused on one another. They could care less about the coffee.

Then, one day, I think about five years ago now, he died. His liver gave out on him. Said he drank too much. Strange. He always acted sober.

The funeral was a small gathering of family and close friends. I went by to pay my respects. Told her I watched them in the diner every day. Explained I was a great admirer of their love. The gray-haired lady pulled me aside and said, don’t believe everything you see.

Brenda was her name, she said. And there was a Linda and a Marie as well. She looked back at the casket and laughed. He had women all over town. He was always bringing me flowers. His way of asking for forgiveness.

And you did?

Every time, she said. And, the flowers were nice. I had roses in the living room, tulips in the dining room, and a mixed bouquet in the kitchen. All at the same time. I never placed them in the bedroom, she sighed. Hurt too much.

Tongue-tied, I told her I never would have known it. You both looked so in love.

People passed us as we spoke. Expressed their condolences. Women were crying. Men told her he was a hell of a man, Geraldine. A hell of a man. She smiled and graciously agreed. Saying, thank you for coming, and God bless.

We sat in a pew when all had left. We just sat there. Quiet. She extended her hand. I held it. I noticed there was no ring. She was ready to move on.

Workers were sawing at six o’clock in the morning. Hammers swinging, too. Old men on rooftops tossing shingles. Boys below picking up scraps.

The noise stops for a minute or two. Coffee is poured from a thermos into plastic cups. There is discussion amongst men. Speaking in some kind of foreign languages. Spanish, Esperanto, Pennsylvania Dutch, a mixture of different dialects. Different sounds.

Climbing on ladders, old men never look up or down, just straight ahead at the white wooden siding. They carry a load of roofing tiles slung over their shoulders; Mexicans on one side of the house, and the Amish on the other. Sweat pours out of them. The mid-day sun melts their spirits.

The work is done by evening.Vans and trucks pull up to take the laborers one way, and the roofers another. Jokes are told in both. The Dutch have their stories, and the Mexicans have theirs.

Most of the jokes are about the other workers, opposite of them. The Mexicans laugh about the Amish square, which is basically a thumb and pointer finger in the shape of an L. And the Amish laugh about siesta at lunchtime. Both talk of who is the better worker. But, both know they rely on each other.

They will come the next day in vans and rusted trucks with hammers and saws to white suburbia to build another home for those who have it easier. School buses filled with kids will look on as they sweat. Housewives will look, too. Watching as they drive by in BMWs, a Lexus or two, Broncos and Land Rovers. Talking on their cellphones. The Dutch call them English. Mexicans simply shake their heads, and they both keep working.

The end of another day and an Amish elder with a stone face says, soon this job will be over. He packs his tools and scratches his beard. Yes, soon this will be over.

He sat up on one side of the bed and she the other. Feet on a cold hardwood floor. Both naked. Chilled to the bone. A small Navajo blanket barely covered them, loosely hanging on their shoulders. They’d picked it up when they were out west, driving the Dodge around in the desert and small towns; a back seat floor covered in empty gin and vodka bottles. Now they sit, not saying a word in the early morning hours.

She turns and stares at his back. Hair in some spots. A mole or two. Black hair touching his shoulders. She starts to speak, say something, anything, but she’s afraid of it sounding forced, formulaic. She turns back and looks at the brick wall, lowers her head, and places her hands on her wobbly legs, which have grown from stems to trunks over the years. Sunlight comes through the window.

He rises and stretches his arms to the ceiling, almost lets out a noise, then walks over to the chair with a shirt hanging from the back of it, boxers on the wicker seat, and pants wrapped around skinny wooden legs. He pulls the wool shirt over his head and steps into his underwear. He notices a snowflake or two. The windows sweat.

She gets up and puts on a long tee-shirt with a kitty on the front, dropping below her thick waist. The woman stands by the window looking outside as he walks over to the microwave and places a cup filled with water into it. She sees he has tea bags in his hand. He always uses two. She finds this wasteful.

There are still no words between them. Quiet. The bell on the microwave goes off. He dunks tea into the cup in an up and down motion. Two strings wrapped around his pointer finger. Honey is grabbed from the top shelf.

Do you want to start? She asks. He shakes his head slowly. Good, she says. Rather not talk? He nods and drinks his tea. At a card table, they sit in the morning’s silence. 

We walked upon the river banks. Muddy, soft, from water that had crested before. Weeds high. Dead catfish lay upon earth. Water moccasins slither. A frog croaks.

I carry a rope in one hand, a pistol in the other. He follows behind, tripping over his bare feet, hands in shackles, clothes torn, muttering the words, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

He was a member of my flock. Another sinner like the rest of them. Some sins can’t be forgiven. They just float downstream with the one that is evil. He trips and falls.

Get up, I say. Get on up. I tug on the rope a little tighter. The noose chokes him till he turns blue. Are you sorry? Truly sorry for your sin? I ask. He nods and shakes. What are you sorry for? He cries. I pull tighter. Say it.

I’m sorry for adultery with your wife. His head lowers. But, I’ll pay for those sins, he states. Just forgive her, he pleads.

Fair enough. And with that, the gun was placed to his head. Sweating, mumbling, crying to me to please forgive him. I stand cold. Stiff hand. And shoot. One man. One bullet.

I untie him and send his body down river and his soul to God. May he have mercy.

A yellow porchlight shines at night time. Mosquitoes and horse flies dance around the light. A choir of crickets can be heard. The chained dog barks.

Embroidered blankets nailed over windows. He sleeps in a recliner. A velvet Elvis picture hangs in the living room. Television is down low. Rebel Without A Cause is playing on the late late show. He snores as Plato spins philosophical  tales of not being loved.

She comes in from working second shift. The girlfriend carries a grocery bag containing a six-pack of beer, white bread, and pickle loaf. Placing the bag on the counter, she grabs his Carhartt from the couch and carefully covers his body. She removes his work boots. Holes in the toes.

There was a fight earlier before he went to work. Another fight about being behind on bills, car insurance not being paid, and  threats of electricity being shut off. No savings. No emergency funds. Checks cashed at the currency exchange in town. Money in a shoebox.

Hey, he says.

Hi.

What time is it? He asks.

Quarter till two.

Home kind of late, he says.

Went to the grocery store. Had a couple of beers with the girls, she admits.

What did you talk about? He tosses the jacket over on the couch.

Things. Just different things.

Men?

We always talk about men, she says.

What about them? He kicks the footrest under the chair. There’s a rip in it. Goes with springs coming through the couch cushions.

I don’t know. She stands in the hallway. I’m going to take a shower, she tells him. Goodnight.

He nods, goes into the kitchen, and grabs an Old Style. There’s still condensation on the cans. He pulls the tab and downs half of it in one gulp while Jimmy on the screen cries out, I got the bullets. I got the bullets.

The television is off. He’s curled up in a recliner with a quilt, snoring, wrestling back and forth with a dream.

Air has come on. It blows up through the vents. A cat lays under a window. Cacti are blooming. Purple and pink flowers stretch out from the prickly limbs, waiting for sunlight. The middle-aged man mumbles in his sleep. Talking about Texarkana and a Dodge driving through town with a woman he knew. Light above the stove is burned out.

Springs on the love seat poke her as she rolls over on her side. An old jacket works as a makeshift blanket. Some Half filled bottle of cheap white sits on the coffee table next to her. The young lady sits up and reaches for it. Cigarettes float in the wine. She reaches for the pack of Newports next to the bottle, grabs her Bic lighter, and coughs. He is awake now.

What time is it? She asks.

He looks at the wall and points at the clock. Can’t tell time? He asks.

She smiles and nods her head. Three-thirty, she says. I gotta get moving.

What’s the rush?

You were supposed to wake me up at midnight, she tells him. Damn. Can’t rely on men for anything. She slips into a pair of jeans and puts on her black tank-top. He’s fiddling around with the rabbit ears on top of the TV.

Aren’t you gonna offer me coffee? She asks. I take it with cream. She runs her hands through her brunette hair. Never mind, she says. I have to go.

Why?

I got kids, I told you.

How old? He scratches his belly.

Eleven and nine. Their father don’t do anything for them, including getting ready for school. Now. I gotta run.

They kiss. He opens the door for her. You got a phone number?

We’ll see each other around.

He watches her get into a brown Pinto. The engine struggles but starts. He waves as she backs out of the dirt driveway with weeds growing in it.

He shuts the door and goes back to dreaming about Texarkana, his Dodge, and some woman he knew.

New Mexico gets weird at night. All is invisible. Red clay, mountains, yellow lines on the highway, all of it missing. You drive for miles in darkness. Headlights on high beam till Albuquerque appears. It’s like a giant spaceship. Picking up people and taking them to a far away destination. A place that has no soul. Perhaps Los Angeles.

We drove all night and into the next day. From Amarillo to Flagstaff. Yoohoo drinks, a thermos of black coffee, two cartons of Marlboros and shotguns on the rack hiding behind a thin black veil. No music on the radio. Talk coming in from all over the West. People arguing without a point. The sky turns into orange and purple sherbet.

That truck got up to fifty-five out on the open road. Wouldn’t go any faster. Fears of throwing a rod or breaking a belt. Tires thin. Oil stick showing low.

We pulled into the rest area at the tip of Arizona. Semis humming. Station wagons filled with luggage. Kids holding dads hands as they go inside to take a leak and hit the vending machines. Looking at maps of highways and freeways, towns and cities, mountain ranges. Places to go and get lost for days, maybe years. The Grand Canyon.

A Peterbilt from Arkansas pulled in at daybreak. His plates were the ones we were looking for. We waited for the right time.

You know where you’re going? I asked Frankie. He nodded and took a shotgun from the rack on the back window. I’ll stay right here till you take off. Frankie extended his hand, and I shook it. Tight grip like it was the last flesh he’d ever touch.

As he approached the truck, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Gun shots rang out, and Frank laid there on the pavement, all ripped apart, as if he was waiting to be killed. Air-brakes released. The Peterbilt with women drawn on mud flaps took off .

The sky was turning blue.

A light over the stove. Water drips from a faucet. Knives in a block. A refrigerator hums and leaks. He sits at the kitchen table, glancing over the day’s headlines.

A sixteen year old male shot an elderly woman on the red line last night at 95th Street. Two men robbed a bar on Chicago’s North side last night and got away with the ATM. Although caught on camera, the two are still at large. The Bears are considering a move to Hammond. He rubs his temples and feels a headache starting to throb.

The hall light comes on. She walks into the kitchen. Good morning, the wife says.

Is it?

We’re alive, she tells him.

Are we? He asks. Sometimes, it feels like we’re watching all this hell from up above, he says. She starts the coffeemaker. A fly buzzes by the old man. He swings wildly but can not make contact.

She pours coffee in a Thermos to the top and spins on the lid. Here you go, dear. Sugar and cream. Just the way you like it.

He grins. You’ve been pouring my coffee for thirty-five years now, he says. Getting to be about that time.

Yes, dear. She kisses him goodbye and watches as he walks out to his truck. She waves, and he waves back.

She turns on the morning news. The elderly woman shot on the red line didn’t make it. The boy now faces a murder charge.

Outside, the day begins.

A booth in a diner. Menus with pictures of breakfast items on them. Coffee pot sits on the table. Willie Nelson sings in the background. A man and woman sit in silence; not sure of what to say. The waitress comes over to take their orders.

I’ll have pancakes, she says. Do you have a sugar-free syrup? She asks. The young girl nods her head and takes notes.

You sir?

I’ll have the bust your belt special.  Sunnyside, bacon crisp, links, not patties, hash browns and buttered white toast. Oh. And a large orange juice. He smiles and hands her the menu.

It’ll be up shortly.

They stare out the window at cars passing by. Dodge, Fords, Chevys, old rusted out vans, beat-up pickup trucks. Sun is coming out. Streetlights fade. Still no words between them. Conway Twitty sings in the background.

OK.  Here you go, the waitress says , placing plates in front of them. Is there anything else? The couple shakes their heads and smiles. Well. Let me know.

The food sits there untouched. Maybe a bite of bacon. A sip of coffee. But, pretty much untouched.

She picks up her purse, unzips it, pulls out a small velvet black box, and pushes it towards him. She places her hand on his, smiles, and walks away.