dmseay

Did you hear what the old man said this morning? the older brother asked his younger brother. He was talking about being on Mars. Talking about walking on Mars. Where does he get this stuff? the older son asked. These stories. Out and out lies, he said.

He’s not well, the younger man said. Dad is not dad anymore. He’s some guy who used to know us. Now we have to remind him. Tell him who we are. Who he is.

But, the stories. These far-fetched stories. He told a nurse the other day he slept with Marilyn Monroe. Said he killed the Kennedys too.

What did the nurse say? the younger one asked. They both laughed. Come on, he said. What’d she say?

She asked if it was true, both boys howled. The older son got a beer from the refrigerator. Pointed at it. The young son nodded yes.

Was it that black nurse with the real pretty eyes? the young one nodded yes again. She’s really good to dad. Treats him real nice, the eldest said.

When we were kids we went to Mars. Remember? We used to play like we were astronauts. We’d get in cardboard boxes and pretend they were capsules, both took a swig of beer.

We were kids. Pretending, the older one said. Now dad’s pretending.

No, he shook his head. It’s all real to him. As real as that cardboard box was to us.

Yeah. We were pretty serious about going to Mars, they toasted each other. Our giant sandbox became one big planet.

Whatever happened to that sandbox?

It went away. Just like everything does.

Where have you been, he asked his younger brother. We’ve been worried about you, the younger boy looked at him. Wondering when you were going to show up. If you were going to show up, the older sibling sipped his coffee. And now, here you are. Here’s Johnny, the younger brother smiled. You got any money? Are you broke? the older brother thumbed through his wallet. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Placed it on the table. Don’t spend it all in one place, the older son said. I can get you more than that. I don’t expect you to start all over again on just a hundred, he said. The other man looked at the bill then out the window of the diner.

I’m having scrambled eggs and bacon, the older man said. Maybe some buttered toast. You want something? he continued looking out the window. I said, would you like something? Breakfast? You always liked pancakes when we were kids. Bunch of syrup all over the place, he laughed.

When were you going to tell me she died? the younger boy asked.

We had no way of getting a hold of you.

Paul got a hold of me.

I know.

Did you tell Paul to call me?

I did.

Why didn’t you ask him for the number?

Number where?

At the shelter. In Joplin.

You could’ve called me a few times, the older boy said. Could’ve called your own brother. I told Paul to call you and tell you about mom. So, in a way. I did call you.

Paul would’ve called anyway, the waitress came over. Poured two more coffees. The older man gave her his order. Nothing for me,the younger one said.

You’re always starting trouble. Always taking off. Walking around America. Got nothing but the clothes on you. Don’t you want more? More out of life?

The younger brother looked at his older brother. Slid the bill back towards him and walked out of the diner. The older brother watched as he crossed the street.

Infectious. Some kind of disease. Maybe it was her heart. Not sure what the death certificate said. She took that fall back earlier in the year. Broke her hip. There was some kind of infection from that. But, then again, she wasn’t the healthiest of women. Didn’t exercise. Never ate right. Kind of did whatever she wanted to. Kind of. Never followed doctor’s orders.

And now he faced death. At sixty-five he had made a lifetime of mistakes; same as she had. Lined up medicine bottles every morning. Cholesterol, blood pressure, thyroid, diabetes, over-weight, smoker, drinker, sleep apnea, all these ailments, the pills could only do so much. It was a breaking down of the body. His temple. And no, the Lord did not live there.

He’d stay up all night watching cable news in his recliner. A bag of chips on the stand next to him. Sometimes a bag of little donuts sat there. But, always a cold one. A tall boy of Budweiser with sweat pouring down the can was his drink of choice for TV watching; in the mornings, it was a high ball.

His son warned him, told the man straight. You’re going to die an early death, he said. All this is going to catch up, he’d watch the old man light up another one. You’re going to go just like mom did, the son shook his head.

And you don’t have Jesus in your heart, the boy pointed out. You don’t believe in anything. You’re a sitting target for the devil, he said. Better change your ways.

That was the last conversation the young man had with his father. They didn’t talk about baseball, or, movies. Never spoke of books. He just scolded him as the dad sat there in silence; watching Burt Reynolds on television; some report on his life and many loves; Dinah Shore, Sally Field, Loni Anderson, the old man just sat there watching as words went in one ear and out there other.

Maybe he was on some kind of death wish trip, the boy told his minister. Maybe that’s all he ever wanted, the son said. You think there’s folks that just want to die from the get-go? he asked.

Perhaps, the preacher said. They don’t take in all the things around them. The good things. Too much bad. It’s a slow death, he placed his hand on the son’s shoulder.

The old man was cremated. His ashes kept safe in a vase by the television set.

There’s not a prayer in the world that could bring you back to me, he said. Long time ago it ended, the old man pondered. Must’ve been thirty years ago when we called it quits. Two best friends turning into individuals hating each other.

Humans are cruel, he lit a cigarette, popped open a beer. We lie to one another. Cheat each other out of what true love really is. We don’t really know what true love is. Do we? he looked out the window. We just guess and go along. Guess and go along. Making mistakes along the way, children were swinging on swingsets across the street.

The old man felt his belly. It was getting big, round. His chest drooped. Skin tags were starting to appear. He watched the children play. And, he remembered what that was like. To play until sundown. Having mom call him in for dinner. Learning how to craft a sentence at school. Dealing with heart-break for the first time.

You think you’re fine, he mumbled. Think you’re on top of the world. A kiss in the hallway by the lockers, movies on Friday nights, parking under trees, all part of the process, he laughed. And then one day it’s gone. She’s gone. They’re gone. All the loves you ever had; gone. He put out his cigarette and drank his last sip of beer. Closed the shades. And turned out the lights. Another night alone.

There’s no warmth in February. The sun shines sometimes, but, the cold air takes over. Temperatures get around zero degrees and stay there for days on end. Cars drive by and exhaust pours out of their tailpipes. Snow lays frozen on the streets, turning gray and then into black; sidewalks have salt lines marked on them.

Little kids still hold hands in a line on their way to school; coats zipped up, hats stand tall with fury balls on top. Sports teams patches on the front of them; Bears, Eagles, Colts, some with Hoosiers knitted on in big red letters. They yell and laugh outside my window at seven in the morning as the light makes it’s way through. I wonder if my Christmas cactus is getting enough sun? It droops and there are leaves falling off. Some of the kids point at it as they stroll on by, looking inside my apartment; I say boo. They giggle and run along. Little feet in brown boots tied up with red laces. The Catholic church bell rings. Another day has officially begun.

The weather man says it will continue cold. No snow. Just cold. An Arctic burst of air coming down on the town we live in, covering the whole state. There is no warmth in February.

The couple stood in front of the bright shiny sculpture piece in Millennium Park on a cold winter’s day looking at themselves in various poses. They laughed and like so many Chicogoans took selfies in front of the piece everyone calls, “The Bean.” However, the actual name for the mirrored piece is, Cloud Gate, named by the artist Anish Kapoor.

This young couple was joined by many other people taking pictures and looking at themselves in the mirror. There was a diversity of folks admiring the piece, or , admiring themselves, but, the one thing that stood out was they were all American. At least the majority of them confessed to be when asked.

American. Yes, very American. We as a nation are obsessed with looking at ourselves. We pose, we smile, we cry, we look sexy in front of our phones, and we see ourselves for what we really are; self-absorbed fools. And, we can’t wait to send out pictures of ourselves to the world -wide audience we’ve created on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram and so on.

But, is this Kapoor’s fault? Did he want to show us for what we really are? Or, did he want to create a piece of art that reflects the various personalities that make up a city? Not sure. All I can say is, is this art? Yes. Do I have to like it? No.

His neighbor had hedge clippers. Long sharp scissors that cut through leaves and branches. The neighbor’s yard was neatly kept. Trees trimmed, grass cut, flowers bloomed in the spring, grew throughout summer. It was as if he was showing off; a yard, house, beautiful.

And, in the winter time the neighbor’s driveway and sidewalk was cleared of snow and ice. Rock salt was poured out onto the concrete. People could walk on the strip in front of the neighbor’s house. The old man’s sidewalk was full of frozen snow and ice. Folks walked in his yard. Footprints in straight lines till they got to the neighbor’s.

The neighbor cleaned it all with a snow blowing machine. The old man had never seen anything like it. He was reduced to a shovel which he stopped using years ago. Same was true with the hedge clippers and the lawn mower. He just didn’t care anymore. Maybe he never did.

Every year the grass would grow. Weeds reached the clouds. And the neighbor’s yard would look immaculate. The old man would sit inside his house; waiting. Just waiting. For his turn to have a mansion in the sky.

Notes laid on the wooden desk. A candle, old bus tickets to Gary, Indiana, a coffee mug with a picture of an old Victorian house on it, some torn up Gatorade bottle with water in it, a small stone he held in his right palm during times of stress, all laying out on the desk in front of him. The old man examined each object.

The candle smelled of chocolate when it burned. A Mr. Goodbar to be exact. That was his father’s favorite candy bar. He used to keep stacks of them in the desk drawer. When he died the old man found three or four of the peanut filled chocolate a quarter way eaten. The yellow wrapper torn down the sides just a bit. He sat in his office all day long drawing blueprints and eating chocolate bars; as a kid and as a young man, the old man was never allowed in his father’s office. It was a secret place. The wife was never allowed in there either. There was a sign on the door that said, DO NOT DISTURB. And he meant it.

When the old man took over the house, he did not move an item from his dad’s office. He kept it just as it was when he died on that day back in 2017. The old man kept looking at the tickets to Gary. He wondered what there was in Gary. As far as he knew his father had no connection to Gary. But then he remembered a fight his parents had one night. The dad said he was going to be gone a few days. Said he’d be back the following week. Told her it was business. Funny thing, he never took the car on these business trips. Always took the Greyhound. At least that’s what all these old tickets said. And, why would he hold onto them?

The fight between the two parents went on till three in the morning. The mother cried most of the time. She was convinced he was having an affair. And, maybe he was. All these tickets to Gary, Indiana. The old man let em sit there. Didn’t touch them. He regarded them as holy; the last thing the father was looking at before he died. The last thing he touched.

In his will, there was nothing made out to anyone from Gary. Nothing was given away to anybody outside the family. The old man got the house and all that was in it. Being the only son and the mother dying years before, it seemed like the logical thing to do. And even though the house had four rooms in it, the old man spent all his days and nights in his dad’s office; eating Mr. Goodbars and looking over tickets to Gary, Indidana.

She called herself a showgirl. Others would say she was an exotic dancer, or, a stripper. Whatever you call her, the old man was crazy about her. He’d spend all of his social security money down at Brandy’s watching her on afternoon shifts. Tipping her a dollar at a time. She’d shake her large breasts in his face and he was all smiles. Her long brunette hair would cover his gray head as she placed her tattooed arms on his shoulders. Bending over then turning around so he could see her round ass. He sat there in silence. Just looking- on. A beer in front of him that he sipped on.

When she came off stage she made it a point to talk to the old man before making her rounds. They’d talk about all kinds of things. Short conversations. She’d ask him how his boy was? Was he surviving the summer’s heat? The tall dancer would briefly play with his hair, kiss his forehead, then move on to the next table.

He kept an eye on her. Watched while she sat in men’s laps, doing back flips, grinding. The old man was real jealous of this. Wished he had the money to spend on special treatment. He’d sigh when he saw her take men back behind soft red curtains. God only knew what she was doing to em back there, he thought. Or, what they were doing to her. He knew she got completely naked. The sign outside said, All Nude. He’d like to see that.

But, he had a budget. Everyday except Sunday he’d take twenty dollars to the club. Buy one beer and the rest went to her. Used to be in his younger days he’d tip twenties for a lap dance. Go away at night leaving his wife at home to make his lunch for the next day. Leaving his son to do homework on his own. The old man would get in late back then and tell his wife he was playing poker with the boys. Or, had to work late; over time. She was not fooled. She knew he was up to no good. Found reciepts in his pockets when she did laundry. She’d laugh. Said to herself, As long as he comes home. As long as he comes home.

The old man’s wife passed away a few years back. Had the funeral out on Crescent Road. A preacher spoke and they sang The Old Rugged Cross. Then they prayed for her soul. The old man didn’t shed a tear. His mind was preoccupied. Thinking about the dancer at Brandy’s. He went there after the service. He told the dancer he’d buried his wife that day. Said, Funny thing though. I couldn’t stop thinking of you. She smiled, her orange skin filled with glitter. I know that sounds terrible, but, it’s true, he told her. The dancer kissed his forehead and moved onto the next table.

You have no business talking to me like that, the kid said. You just sit there and keep your mouth shut, he told him. I don’t need any advice from you. Your days of telling me what to do are over, the kid said to the old man. Just sit there and be quiet, he said, pointing the gun at him. Don’t get any ideas, kid looked out the trailer’s window. I’ve been onto you for a long time. My whole life, he said. I know where you’ve been. Know where you’re going at night. You thought you were smart. I knew. Mom knew. We all knew. Telling us stories the whole time. Lies. Great big whoppers. So now just sit there and be quiet.

I don’t have to take this, the old man said.

You don’t have much of a choice, the boy moved in closer with the rifle. A buckshot was in the barrel. How many times did you cheat on her?

Well…

I’ll tell you. All the time. Couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.

Now hold on a minute. That ain’t right, the old man stammered.

I said sit down.

I’m telling you. You got it all wrong. I provided for this family God damn it. Gave it everything I had….

Enough.

I’m just saying. I took my responsibilities seriously. I loved my family. Might not have shown it to you physically. But, the money was always there.

Look where we live damn you. Look. It was never there. You asked me for money. You old drunk. I should just shoot you right now.

Why don’t you?

Maybe I will. Maybe, he held the gun tighter. This some kind of joke to you? Some kind of laugh riot? he placed the gun to the old man’s head.

Now wait, dad said. Just you wait. I want to die in a state of grace. Give me that chance. Just give me that chance.

On the count of three…

Lord I am a sinner…

One…

I have sinned against you…

Two….

I have sinned against others….

Three…