dmseay

You don’t know what you’re saying, he told her. Just making up stories. Lies, the refrigerator moaned. Ever think you were crazy? Something mentally wrong with you? he asked, she stared at him. Coming up with these tall tales. Accusing. Saying I did this, and I did that. You’re not right, he told her. You’re not right.

The young woman sat in the corner rocking back and forth on the linoleum floor. She kept looking down. Scared to raise her head. The woman knew how violent he could get when he came home drunk. Smelling of whiskey and perfume. He walked over to her and crouched down. The young man lifted her sharp chin with his hand.

You got no evidence, he said. All you got is a bunch of he said, she said gobboly gook. You and the girls been talking again, he lit a cigarette. Bored with your own lives, you gotta go out and ruin somebody else’s. Y’all think we’re all cheaters. Every last one of us. Men can’t keep it in their pants, he blew smoke in her sunburned face. How do I know you don’t cheat? You’re no church goer now are you. How long you been with me? How long, she held up five fingers with her right hand. Five years, he smiled. And that whole time you think I been cheating on you, he laughed. Sitting on the floor like some patient in a psych ward. That’s where I ought to take you, he crushed out his Kool. Come on now. I’m taking you to the hospital, she shook her head violently. Come on now, he bent down to lift her. Be still, he said. She kept bending her body every which way she could. He grabbed her wrists and she slipped to the floor. Banged her head on the counter. The woman laid there crying, kicking, screaming.

Shhhh, he said. Quiet down, her yelling became silence. Just stay there. He walked away from her. Went to the front door of the trailer and grabbed the keys on the hook next to it. See you around.

She heard the pickup start. Heard him drive off. The young woman remained on the floor. She sat up with her back against cabinets. Placed her head between her knees and said, He’ll come back. Always does.

Light shined in the window down the street. Was it a lamp? Or, a streetlight reflecting off glass? It was black outside. No stars were out. Moon didn’t glow. Just that light in the window; a yellowish color exposing nothing. He looked closer. A couple of dogs barked. Cars with music playing drove by; teenagers out on a school night.

He didn’t know the people at the end of the street. Nor did he want to. He kept to himself. Mowed the yard when it got high. Shoveled the driveway in the winter. Planted flowers in the spring. He did all that was required to be a homeowner. The middle-aged man had lived in Avalon for years. His neighbors waved at him; he’d wave back. But, he never talked to anyone. Sat in his front room mostly. Watched television and drank coffee. He’d go to work at the assembly line early in the morning and get off in the afternoon. Tried to sleep, but thoughts kept him awake. Questions ran through his head. Why didn’t I marry that girl from high school? Why didn’t I ever become a father? he asked himself as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The loneliness kept him awake.

And so, he stood there, looking out the window at the light shining down the street. Did somebody forget to turn it off? he slurped his coffee. The tall, lanky fellow noticed there wasn’t a car in the driveway. There usually was at this time of night. And that light was never on. There was no shining object at this time of night, he thought. Something wasn’t right, he lit a cigarette.

A woman opened the door. He’d seen her before. It was a shadow at first, and then she came into the light. She was smoking, too. Pacing back and forth on the front porch. Just this figure walking back and forth; smoking. He wondered what was going on. Maybe her husband had left her, he thought. Perhaps one of the kids never came home. He looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was two in the morning. The woman walked back into the house. The light was turned off.

The old man drank coffee and looked out the window of his mobile home. Crows lined the telephone wires. A rusted air-conditioner sat on a porch next to a tricycle. An American flag was waving in the distance over at the used car lot. Coffee was dripping into a pot near the stove. He took out some milk and sat it next to his cup, which read, Best Grandpa In The World. The tall, lanky old man poured some into the mug. He lit a cigarette and stirred the coffee. When he looked out the window again, the crows were gone. Nothing stays, he said. Everything leaves, took a seat at the kitchen table.

She’s gone, he whispered. Boy’s gone. Don’t know where my grandson is, he said to himself. Maybe Omaha or Tulsa. Nothing is the same. Nothing, he took another drag off his Marlboro.

The television was left on overnight. Some infomercial about improving your sex life was on. He turned the channel immediately. Turned on the local news and kept the sound down. Swatted a fly with the evening paper. There were several flies. All of them swarmed around the trash can, filled with outdated food and beer cans.

It’s the loneliness, he thought. Being by yourself all day and all night, the news showed a clip of trucks coming off an assembly line. That’s what I need, he said out loud. That’s what I need, he crushed out his cigarette. He went back to the window and looked out at the huge American flag waving in the wind. The crows were back on the wire. He noticed how they had the freedom to come and go. He smiled. Looked in his wallet. There was no driver’s license. Just a state identification and a social security card. He had a ten, a five, and a lucky two dollar bill. He sat back down.

Where’d they all go to? he asked. Took another swig of coffee. The old man placed his head on the table. He felt the coolness of the metal. Closed his eyes. When he awoke, he looked out the window again. The crows were gone.

It’s cold in this house, he said. Freezing. The thermostat is at fiftyty-eight. You trying to kill us? he asked. He turned the heat up to seventy-two. There. That’s where it should always stay. I don’t want it any colder than that. You hear me? Think we’re a couple of polar bears? Penguins? Look. There’s frost on the windows for Christ’s sake.

I like it cold, she said. It makes me feel things. The cold puts me in a mood. I feel at peace under a blanket. I like sipping on hot tea when it’s cold, she turned on the television. Some talk show was on. A man and a woman talking about nothing. Saying words and smiling. Drinking coffee from big mugs. Sitting up right and nice. The woman had perfect blonde hair. The man looked like a child.

Why do you watch that?

There’s nothing else on, she handed him the remote. Go ahead. Flip it around. You’ll see. There’s nothing on.

Then why have it on? he turned it off.

Hey…

You’re wasting your mind. If it’s not frozen to begin with. Don’t you read? Books. Read books, he said. That’s what you need to do. When you get older, you’ll thank me. It helps your memory.

Dad read. Didn’t help him. The old man lost his mind. Thought he was an astronaut. Thought he was something special. He always did.

What?

Think he was something special.

Your father died, and that’s how you remember him? Some old crazy man.

He said he went to Mars.

Well, maybe he did. Maybe in his mind, he went to Mars. Maybe he saw those craters and that red dust inside his brain. Maybe he transported himself there. Had an out of body experience. You don’t know what humans are capable of. Do you? Or, maybe he was there in another life. Did you ask him?

This is silly. It’s getting hot in here.

Don’t touch that thermostat.

What are you going to do?

Shoot ya, they both laughed.

You’re going to shoot me if I turn down the heat?

Yes. I will.

Have you lost your mind?

No. I have not. My mind is fine. It’s my body that is losing the battle. Don’t touch that thermostat.

She got out of her chair and waddled over to the thermostat. On the count of three, I’m going to turn it down. One…

Don’t you touch it.

Two…

I mean it.

Three…

Not a word written. Thoughts inside my head, sentences, paragraphs, but nothing put on the page.

I look through books for inspiration. The cactus in my window is drooping, dying. That, along with Mishima, makes me think of death. Another poem on death. That’s just what the world needs.

So bright outside. The sun casts shadows. Grass is actually green today; there is life after winter. All these thoughts and nothing on the page. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Maybe this is an exercise in futility. Thinking out loud. Waiting for the perfect combination of words to start with. And then the mind goes blank.

My greatest fear is to never be able to write again. To not think clearly. Everything in a haze. This is my greatest fear.

There’s no peace in this, he said to her. No solace. It’s just you and me, arguing all the time. Fighting like two dogs. You say one thing, and then I say another, then we’re off to the races, he lit a cigarette. There’s nothing I can say that’ll make it better. It’s best you go your own way and I go mine. Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll hitch up again, he laughed. I suppose you’re going back to your parents.

Hmm hmm. I suppose so, she said. The young woman got out a gym bag and started stuffing it with clothes; jeans, tee-shirts, bras, a couple of pairs of panties, the pink ones, the ones he liked.

I’m heading out west, he said. Going to San Diego, or Bakersfield, maybe Indio.

You don’t know where you’re going, she threw in a pack of gum, some lipstick, a little blush. You’ve never known where you were going. Always just taking off . I was a fool to take off with you, they looked at each other. You get these crazy ideas from movies and songs, she told him. Bakersfield? You never heard of Bakersfield till Buck Owens sang about it. And Indio? That just sounds like some place where crazy people go.

It smells good out there, he said. I like the way it smells.

When have you ever been to Indio, California?

When I was a kid. ‘Bout sixteen. Ran away from home and wound up there. The bus stopped at three in the morning, and I could smell this alfalfa smell. This rich farm smell of crops growing. It smelled fresh, he lit another cigarette. And, it was pitch black out there. You couldn’t see anything. Walked through town, and everything was closed; people were asleep. It seemed peaceful.

Why’d you leave?

I was a fool. Young. Went into Los Angeles. That was too much. All these homeless people asking for money all the time. All these hookers and teenagers just like me. Hopeless, he said. I thought I could be some kind of movie star, he smiled. I didn’t even know how to go about it. Figured somebody would discover me. Just walk up to me one day and ask if I’d like to be in a movie.

Ha.

We all have dreams. We all have dreams.

Yep. I suppose we do.

He slit his throat. The old man no longer saw the beauty in life; youth had faded. There was blood all over the garage; a real mess left for someone to clean up. A wife, his son, sat in the living room watching Good Morning America, sipping on coffee, eating pastry he’d bought the night before; cherry turnovers. They didn’t hear any screams or yells. It was done in silence; like a Japanese warrior. A neck dangling. A butcher knife dropped to the concrete floor amongst oil and anti-freeze. Some say he killed himself. Others said it was America that did it to him.

A loss of a job. Financial ruin. Your wife’s cheating with the paper boy. The killing of the middle class. Walmart has become the temple. We flock there on Saturdays to buy goods and support the economy of foreign lands complete with self checkout; cut out the middle man. Sales, sales, sales, everything must go. It’s what we thrived on until there was nothing left; goodbye dollars, so long credit, adios to lay away. These are the things that killed him.

Mom had a ham in the oven she was preparing for Easter Sunday. The day Christ rose from the dead. Families used to believe that story. They believed salvation was possible. Not anymore. We put our faith in politics, symbols, flags, signs, catchy sayings and commercials. Soon, we’ll all have a chip in our hands, We’ll be traced where ever we go; whatever we think. All done so the rich can get richer and the poor stay poor. Maybe the old man knew this. Maybe that’s why he ended it next to a lawnmower and Glad trash bags.

He did it. And, no one noticed till days later. The death of an American male. Coming to a suburb near you.

He’s watching you. In your bedrooms, bathrooms, dens, your hidden, most secret places. All your desires he knows.

In the car at night, smoking your last cigarette before pulling into the driveway; he knows. He sees you plain as day. Your lies, misgivings, affairs, nothing is closed off; sealed. There are no secrets.

At meetings in boardrooms across international waters where you lie, cheat, and steal; he knows. You think you are hiding something. It’s been a secret for so long. It eats away at you. He knows. He picks at the scab. Blood runs a little, then a lot. Soon, everyone knows of your fraudulent behavior. You go down a path by yourself. Alone. He knew the whole time you would wind up this way. You never asked for his help.

And now you stand there, waiting for a reason to live. A wife, child, career, a mistress, you need a reason to exist. He’s been there the whole time. He knows.

I hear the rumblings of garbage trucks. Picking up canisters and dumping the contents into the back amongst the bad fish that Mrs. Yablamowitz threw out. The empty milk containers with the expired dates on them. Banana peels all black and bruised with stickers saying Chiquita. Dog shit that yuppies downtown pick up in plastic lunch baggies. Q-Tips with wax on the ends. Old prescription bottles of meds emptied and flushed down the toilet. All kinds of notes and letters to former lovers letting them know just what bastards they truly are. Pens out of ink. Fried liver, Ms. Smith’s kid didn’t eat. And, pieces of cloth with blood dried on them. Cotton balls, cotton balls, cotton balls. And beer bottles broken with labels peeling off.

All this noise. My head aches as I lie in bed ,staring at the copy of Brothers Karamazov on my nightstand. Too loud, too early to take in Dostoyevsky. The Russians would understand. Fyodor is to be savored, adhered to, read out loud with coffee stains on the pages. A bottle of aspirin is next to it. Russian literature and pain killers. It’s that kind of morning.

The garbage trucks have left my neighborhood. They’ve gone on to disrupt others. Lawyers cheating on their wives. Mechanics hungover. Grocery clerks crawling into bed. Cops counting the days till retirement. Criminals counting too; one more job, and I’m done, they say. Folks in diners eating bisquits and gravy. All of them awake on this planet. And, the snow falls. blankets are kicked off my bed. I am naked.

The mirror does not lie. Some say it makes you look bigger, but that’s not true. It shows you your true reflection. What you are. I stand before it and pledge allegiance to the common man. The ones on the back of the garbage truck. The ones without student loans to pay back. Those that find themselves in a hell called marriage. My hand is on my heart for you.

It is morning. Go get ’em boys.

The candle burned brightly as he wrote down notes for the day ahead. Go grocery shopping, he wrote. Pick up some Grape Nuts, he continued. Milk, grapes, chicken, cigarettes, was added to the list. He wrote down that he needed beer; he was in constant need of beer. And, a jug of wine. Some dago red from Gallo Brothers. The kind with the screw top. A loaf of bread, he whispered. That would be nice. Something I can spread butter on to. A hearty rye with seeds, he smiled. A jug of wine with rye bread and butter, he said out loud. Living like a king.

There were a few items in the refrigerator . Strawberries growing mold on them. Bananas turning black. A quarter of a jar of grape jelly. The beer was gone. The trash can overflowed with cans of Old Style, Black Label, Miller High Life. Empty cartons of cigarettes laid beside the food bowl for the cat. The whole trailer was in disarray. The old man lit a butt and finished his list.

Pineapple, he said. I want pineapple in a can with the syrup, he wrote down. And cling peaches, he licked his lips. He would often sit in the dark and drink the cold sugary syrup as he watched television late at night. Three o’clock in the morning and he was watching television. Old westerns with Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood. He’d get up during commercials and grab a beer or two. These were his nights; alone. Making promises to himself till morning broke. Saying things like, one of these days, I’m going to leave this earth just as I came into it; naked and afraid. Screaming at the top of my lungs. But, I won’ have a woman to comfort me, he thought. No breast to cling to.

The old man went back to writing his list. Ramen Noodles, he wrote. The spicy flavored ones, he said. Oreo cookies, a Twix bar, get some Q-Tips and clean out the wax in my ears, he wrote down in a hurry. Maybe a bottle of Wild Turkey, he told himself. Come home and slowly, slowly pass out.

He read over the list. Made sure there was nothing he forgot. He blew out the candle and went to bed on his twin mattress. The TV was left on. Clint Eastwood was spitting in the dirt.