dmseay

He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Years ago, she would fill his Thermos with coffee before he went to work. She made breakfast, too. Eggs, bacon or ham, and toast with fried potatoes. She even added salt and pepper to his liking. He’d kiss her goodbye and head out the door. The old man never said, I love you. Nor did he say thank you. Just a peck on the cheek, and he was gone.

The husband never came home on time. Always late, one sometimes two hours. Dinner was left in the stove. The wife asked where he’d been? Always the same answer. At the bar or talking to coworkers in the parking lot. She got used to eating alone.

She got used to doing everything alone. The two could be in the same room watching television, and she’d feel alone as he laughed and carried on. She knitted and smiled. Till death do we part, she would say to herself. Till death do we part.

Both of them began to tire easily as they got older. They both went to bed around eight. Laying in darkness. Turned on their sides. Laying in total silence. No words. Just an occasional cough or hiccup.

Is it over yet? She asked herself. Are we done? I should have ended this years ago. Back when it all began, she said. Thirty years of nothing. No kids. No trips. No love, she laughed. Why?

He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Till death do we part.

He sat on a park bench, counting his money. Nine hundred and ninety-four dollars. No loose change. Just bills. He did not look at the sky. He did not whisper a prayer of silence. The old man just sat there, counting twenties and fifties over and over again, placing each bill in his pocket next to his watch. The other pocket was empty.

The two brothers sat in the diner across from each other. Frank looked at the plastic menu while Fast Eddie watched the waitress walk by.

That coffee smells good, said Frank. I always liked the smell of coffee. Smells like you’re starting something new. Waking up. A new day.

Yeah, Fast Eddie responded. He continued looking at the blonde server.

You said you had something to give me, Frank said. Fast Eddie nodded. What is it?

Out of his pocket, he handed Frank his ATM card and a piece of paper with the code on it for withdrawals. Take this, he told him.

Eddie. What are you doing? Frank asked. What is this?

The eagle flies tomorrow.

Right. First of the month, Frank said as he tried to flag the waitress down.

Look at me, Fast Eddie told him. I’m serious.

I know you are.

I’m not going to come out of this surgery tomorrow. Too many cards stacked against me, Eddie said.

Come on now, Eddie. You’ll be fine.

I don’t think so. Not so easy. The ticker is always tricky.

It’s done every day, Frank laughed. You’ll come out of it brand new.

Just take it. In case I don’t, take all my money out and walk down to the park.

Where the fountain is?

Right. Take that cash and give it to the first homeless person you see. Just say it’s a gift from Fast Eddie. Actually,  better yet. Don’t say nothing. Just give it away to someone who needs it.

Some bum?

Hey. I was a bum once. I was on the streets till I got SSI. Just another crazy person. Remember?

Yes. Yes, I do.

So do this for me. Will you?

I will.

He saw him. Walked right by the man in the park. Talking to himself. Talking about myths and legends. Frank didn’t know what to make of the man. He didn’t even say hello.

Here, Frank said to the older gentleman with the torn Cubs hat on. Take this. He took out the wad of dough and handed it to him. That’s a gift from God, Frank said. A gift from God. And he walked away.

The bum laughed with joy as Frank walked on. Thank you, sir. He said. Thank you.

Frank held his hand up and waved. His way of saying, you’re welcome.

I’ll drink to that, the old man said. I’ll drink to that.

Stomach growls. Foot twitches. He feels his unshaven face. Hands run through thick greasy hair. The couch sinks.

Fireworks boom all night long. Loud. Like bombs going off in Tehran. But, there is no death. No destruction.

He looks out the window into the street. The loudness has stopped. Blue light shines down. An alley cat chases a rat. Trashcans wait curbside for morning’s pickup. The fat man turns away and mumbles to himself. Four in the morning, he says. Four in the morning.

A kettle of water is placed on the stove. The flame is on high. He waits for the whistle. Two spoons of Sanka are dumped in a cup that reads Greatest Husband. He pours the hot water into the mug and stirs. Adds sugar. Some expired cream.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, he drinks in silence. There are no fireworks.

A motorcycle speeds through town at two in the morning. Streetlights shine down on Main Street. A red traffic light flashes. Drunks spill out onto the sidewalk. The crow flies east.

It’s Memorial Day weekend coming to a close. There’s a chill in the air. Folks wear jackets and long sleeves instead of swimsuits and tanning oil. Still, some refuse to budge to the last blows of spring. Parties on pontoon boats, beach volleyball, and everywhere the smell of burnt hotdogs. Sunday, fun day, everyone gets a free dog, he says. Yes, yes. Sunday fun day. He pops open a beer as the momentum from waves carries the boats back to the dock.

Monday’s parade down Main Street has been canceled due to rain. Funny, the vet says. The war was never canceled due to rain. He carries an American flag in his right hand and lets the wind blow it straight. He waves it just a bit. You’re a grand old…you’re a high flying flag… and forever in peace may you wave…he sings in a whisper. People stare.

A small boy looks at the vet and smiles. Don’t look, honey. His mother says. Let him be. Just let him be.

Wilted flowers next to tombstones. Men and women who served lie in rest. Tomorrow is Tuesday. They’ll be forgotten about till next year when everyone gets a free hotdog.  Mustard ’round the mouths of children. Beers in hand.

You’re a grand old flag…you’re a high flying flag…and forever in peace may you wave…

I thought I’d call, he said. Wanted to talk, I guess. It gets lonely. Very lonely.

Yep. It sure can, she said. Men call me all the time and tell me how lonely they are. Like I can jump through the phone and be with them or something. She wrapped the phone cord around her wrist and unraveled it. A cigarette burned in an ashtray.

Maybe that’s why we call, he said. Just to escape loneliness. You think that?

Could be. Hard to tell sometimes. A lot of men want to just jack off and hang up as soon as they come. That sort of thing. Others want to scold me. Thinking they can save my soul afterward. Of course, they have to jack off first.  She laughed. Usually ministers spreading the word of God and shaking their seed upon the ground of the earth. Or some shag carpet in their den while the wife’s upstairs asleep. Oblivious.

Ministers, huh? He said.

Oh yeah. Business executives, cops, always someone important.  Or at least they say they’re important. They all sound the same. Heavy breathing and cursing. Terrible things, they say. Real hard on the ears if you’re new to this. I caught on real quick. Just let them do the talking and moan a lot. Tell them how big they are. Things like that, she told him.

Yeah. I could see that, said the male caller. He laughed. We always want to be what we aren’t.

Ain’t that the truth, she laughed. So. Why did you call?

I’m not sure.

Are you married? She asked.

No. I’m all by myself these days.

So, you were married?

Had a girlfriend out in Flagstaff.  She left me for some guy in Phoenix. He owned a few car washes. Had money. I think they married. Not sure, he told the woman.

I see.

Yeah. It hurt. At first, it hurt really bad, he said. Rejection always hurts. Everybody gets the blues. Even cowgirls get the blues, he laughed.

Cowgirls?

Book by Tom Robbins. Same guy who wrote Still Life With Woodpecker.

Never heard of him, she confessed.

Not a lot of people have. People don’t read.

I read, she said.

What?

Huh?

What do you read?

She took a drag off her Marlboro. I read Jant Evonovich. True crime stuff. James Patterson. I’m well rounded. They both laughed.

So. You wanna get off?

Not sure, he said. I just like talking.

Weird. You can talk to anybody, she told him.

Not really.

Shy?

Just uncomfortable around people, he said.

It’s your money.

Yeah. I just like to talk.

A light on in the hallway. Pictures on walls. It’s May, and the heat kicks on.

Blinds are closed. Windows locked. No noises. Just quiet. He sits on a love seat alone. There is no one else.

Do you have a girlfriend? She asked. Are you having an affair? She demands an answer. The phone cord reaches across the kitchen, where she sits at a table, drinking chamomile tea. I’m here by myself, she said. Just me. What are you doing? Please come home.

I am home, he said.

After all this time, you’re just going to leave? There were promises made.

Yes. Yes, there were, he said. By both of us. Funny how that works. Neither able to hold up their end of the deal. Maybe that’s what happens to people. They live in resentment, he told her.

Do you resent me?

I started to. He paused. We had become roommates. Arguing roommates. People who walk on eggshells. Scared. Always scared.

People change. They can change, she said. The cat walked on the counter. Do you believe people can change?

I believe people change. Whether they want to or not. It just happens. Some accept it and keep their mouths shut. Others? Well, they leave. They go.

Are you happy? She asked.

I’ll never be happy.

I saw you at the paint store, he said. You were choosing colors. Talking to some salesman about interiors. Speaking to him with great enthusiasm. Asking him questions about certain reds and yellows, a nice squash color or plum. Did he answer your questions? Put you on the right path? He asked. I’ll bet you stuck with plain old cream white. You were always very vanilla.

I went with lavender, she said. Lavender for the dining room and, yes, plum for the hallway. I haven’t decided on the bedroom yet. Maybe a wine. A burgundy.

Something new, he said. Trying a fresh start. Erasing me. Covering over us, he told her.

Something like that, she responded. Look. I’m not the one who left. You took off. Leaving me with nothing. No money. Bills unpaid. Why did you do it? Had you been plotting this? This escape.

No. In my life, nothing is planned. It just happened.

Falling out of love just happens?

Yes.

They looked at each other. Each pretending they were better off. A masquerade.

He picked up the check. I’ll take care of lunch, he said

Thanks.

Sure.

A torn couch. Snake plant in the corner.  Blinds closed. The air-conditioner hums loudly. Ceiling fan has dust on it.

There’s a painting on the floor. A still life of fruit in a bowl. A bottle of wine by its side. He wonders which wall to hang it on.

Hammer and nail in hand, he starts making holes in the drywall.  Looking for a stud. He hammers and hangs the picture facing the sun.

He steps back and looks. Begins talking to himself while jazz plays on a public radio station.

This is what you wanted, he whispers. Alone. All by yourself.  Away from the normal American dream. The wife, children, swingsets, slides, station wagons, dinner at five, all of this forfeited. Just to be alone.

The arts are a selfish business, he told her. It calls for the artist’s focus on a constant basis. Whether you’re a painter, a writer, or some actor, it all calls for abandonment of the good life. The comfortable ways of most. You want to make money? Sell insurance.

He takes the painting down. Hammers a nail into another wall. He is not satisfied. Maybe he never will be.

I’ll listen to you, he said. I’ve got nothing better to do. He rolled up the car windows and parked under a streetlight. Go ahead, he told her. Spill your guts.

She applied Chapstick to her cracked, swollen lips. Looked in the mirror above. Ran her hands through her hair. Looked at him and said she wanted fifty bucks. That was her rate. Fifty bucks for a blow job. Windows steamed up. Other women walked by. A man leaning against a stop sign watched. What do you want? She asked.

I want you to tell me a story, he said. A true story. Nothing made up. Then I want you to kiss me. Really kiss me. With passion. Like you mean it.

She laughed. Looked at him. You want a story and a kiss? She asked.

Yes. Very much so, he said. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed. Years.

I don’t kiss.

Really? Why not?

Kissing means I love you, she said. It’s something honest between two people.

And you’re not honest?

I’m a whore, she said. Never trust a whore. We’ll tell you whatever it is you want to hear. But, never honesty.

So you probably won’t tell me a true story either, he laughed.

She shook her head. Probably not. We’re like emergency room doctors. Just fix you and send you on your way.

Sometimes, people die in emergency rooms, he told her. They die with no confession. No state of grace. Poof. They’re gone. Shot. Stabbed. A heart attack. Finished. The doctor could not save them. Sometimes, dead on arrival. What do you do then?

Just move on to the next one.

He’s yelling again. Screaming at the top of his lungs, Paul said. Where does he get the energy? Just loud. As if I were the only one here.

What’s he yelling about? Ben asked.

Not sure. But I can barely hear you. You’ll have to speak louder, Paul told Ben.

I hear him, too. All that foul language. What’s he like?

I’ve seen him only once, Paul responded. He’s big. Really big. I’d say around six feet three. About two-fifty.

That is big. Ever talked to him? In the hallway? Getting the mail?

Once. At first, he just looked at me. Took me all in. I said hello. He stood there in silence at first. Nodded. Said, hi. He looked angry. Mad at the world. Seemed like he had something taken from him. His pride. Dignity, Paul whispered.  Maybe he lost his wife. A loved one. Who knows. You never can tell about these things.

Right.

The screaming stopped. No more sound coming from next door.

Hear that? Paul asked.

What?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Paul placed the phone up against the wall. He’s just stopped. No more yelling. No more rambling. Listen. He placed the receiver against the wall again. Quiet.

Paul was still. Ben was not speaking.

Gun shots were fired.