dmseay

Blank walls. Nothing on them. No pictures nor paintings. Just white. Even the baseboards are white. Window frames white as well. A real sense of nothingness.

He sits on a torn couch. Rips in the seats exposing foam cushions that browned over the years. Marks on them. Stains. Spilled beers. Wiped off mustard streaks. Piss.

A coffee table is in front of him. Old pizza crusts in a box. Stale. He teeths on one like a baby with a toy or a dog hanging onto rope. He chips a tooth.

Goddammit, he says. Not another one. The molar is stuck to the crust. The old man pulls it out and examines it. Brown. Yellowish brown, he says. Years of bad dental hygiene. He drinks half of a warm beer. This is living, he laughs. This is living.

Streetlights shine through the windows casting shadows. He stands up and goes to look outside. The sound of a train in the distance is getting closer and closer. He digs through his pockets, looking for cigarette butts or loose change. Nothing, he says. I got nothing.

The train whistles louder. He’s thought of jumping it. Leaving this behind; the bare white walls, ripped couch, littered floor. Jump on that train and leave, he says out loud. But, where would I go? Some other town? Another rented room?

Stick with what you got. He lights up an old Newport butt. The taste of menthol is gone. Tastes of ash.

Watching three flies climbing the front window. They’re going nowhere. Trapped between glass and blinds, escalating to the top, then climbing back down to the wood frame. They do not move side to side. Just up and down.

They’ll never be caught. The flies are too smart for that. Sure. People kill their kind all the time with newspapers folded, fly swatters bought at the dollar store, a broom sometimes for high places, ceilings, and such. A can of Raid.

Looking at the insects, wondering how they manage to escape most times. Quick movements. Rapid speed. Faster than the human hand. People think they’ve caught them, but they really haven’t. The species will never die. Just multiply.

They’ll out live us, the old man said. We really can’t stop them. He blew smoke into the air. We have a short time on earth. The flies? They’ll live through the apocalypse. The second  coming.

He stood up and looked at the flies. He laughed at himself. Alone. Always alone. They’re all I’ve got.

Where did you go this time? Kenny asked. I’m curious. Where did you land?

Up and down 95, Lynn responded, winding the telephone cord around his right hand.

Just drove up and down I-95? Kenny crushed a cigarette in a coffee can. From where to where? He asked.

Maine down to Virginia. Stopped in cities and towns along the way, Lynn said. I was up in Portland one day and down in D.C. the next. Drove throughout the night. Drove all the time, he told him. Spending money till I had none.

Is it all gone? Kenny lit up another Viceroy. All of it?

All of it. I’m here in Montpelier with nothing. Gas tank is on E, Lynn said.

Montpelier?

That’s Vermont, Lynn wrapped the phone cord a little tighter.

That ain’t on 95. You’re way off course, Kenny laughed.

I veered left in New England the third time. Decided to see something different than Philly or Baltimore. New York. Just got tired of driving all the time. Every day. Taking off aimlessly. Going nowhere but winding up somewhere. It became nerve-racking, Lynn said.

How’d you come up with Montpelier, Vermont? Did you buy a map? Kenny asked his friend.

Nope. Just landed here, he said. After going through five grand and all those women, I just landed here. Lynn let go of the black cord.

Did you meet some nice women? Kenny poured himself a cup of coffee and stared out his window at the stars. Noticed mosquitoes dancing around his porchlight. Were they good-looking? Kenny laughed.

Meet some real nice women, Lynn laughed as well. They’re all nice when you’re spending money. There was silence. I did meet this one waitress. Real nice. Real pretty. She could only make love with Dr. John playing in the background. Or, Barry White. 

Where was this? Kenny’s interest was peaked.

In Philly. Met her in a bar, and we talked all night. Talked till the sun came up. She was something Lynn told him. Had blonde curly hair and brown eyes. Little meat on her. Nothing small about her. When she laughed, she really laughed. Real nice lady. Had two sons. Her husband blew his brains out. Left them behind. Sad, really. I think her name was Tracy. Can’t remember.

That was in Philly?

Yeah. Lynn answered.

Why did you leave? Kenny kept looking outside. A dog barked. A pickup started up.

Just did. Left in the middle of the night. Took off. Next day I was in Maine. Then Vermont.

Sanctuary. Kenny laughed

Yeah. Sanctuary. Say Kenny. Can you send me a couple of hundred? Just wire it to me. I’ll pay you back.

The Ouachita River runs through Southern Arkansas. Big, muddy waters traveling through poor communities. Old men on the banks cast fishing lines two at a time, hoping for a bite, tugs from a cat, or a buffalo, maybe a blue gill. Something to take home and fry with cornmeal. The Ouachita rushes on.

He used to take me fishing there. Dad sat in a chair while I stood up, casting against the wind, my line tangled in tall oaks.

You’re fishing for squirrels, he said. Here. Give me that. He took out a pocket knife and cut the line, leaving the bobber up in the trees. Now, he said. Start all over again. He handed me a bobber and a small piece of bologna to throw out onto the brown water. We’ll make a fisherman of you yet, he said. Just you wait. He laughed. He laughed at me.

His catch was always plentiful. We’d stay out there till he caught at least three, maybe four. From sun up to high noon, we fished. Him with his six pack of Pepsi in a cooler along with egg salad sandwiches and a bag of Fritos. Me with a leftover chicken leg or cold hamburger mom would throw in there. She knew I hated egg salad.

You got plans in life? He asked one day. Real plans. Something you can use to get ahead, he said. I shook my head. You gotta hustle, he told me. You gotta hustle. That’s all I’m saying. To get ahead, you have to know what the next guy is up to. Capesch? I nodded. Not knowing what capesch meant.

If you know of something, don’t go blabbing about it. Keep it quiet. Go get it yourself, he lit his pipe. That’s what you do. That’s what men do, he said. Opportunities seldom come to those who wait. Go out there and get it.

I think of those words from time to time. His advice. I  often wonder if I’m hustling enough. If I’ve explored every opportunity in life. Probably not.

The Ouachita makes you think. Daydream. Now I cast my line, and it does not get stuck in trees. I do  bring home fish for my family. And I go from job to job just like he did. Hustling. Wanting the American dream to come true. I’m not waiting on it.

I’m a journeyman just like the old man. Hammer and saw in my pickup. A square to keep things even. And a fishing pole. You never know when opportunities are going to strike. You got to be ready.

Two chairs in the kitchen. Items on the table spread out like a hotel continental breakfast. Mandarin oranges, cream cheese filled danish, bananas, hard boiled eggs, buttered wheat toast, and a couple of cherry yogurts in a bowl of ice wait to be devoured. Coffee from a carafe is poured in a cup with a picture of sand and ocean, which reads, Wish You Were Here on it. He bought it years ago while on vacation in Myrtle Beach. They went there often.

He sits at the table and sips his coffee, opens a yogurt. Do you remember the time you opened a yogurt in Myrtle Beach? He asks. And it exploded on you. Covering your whole face with cherry yogurt, he laughs. I couldn’t help but laugh at you. You always had a sense of humor about you. He took a bite of toast.

Music plays in the background of his morning ritual. Easy listening music. The kind that plays in hotel lobbies. Elevator music.

It’s a rendition of Eleanor Rigby played with violins and piano. He hums along. Do you remember me putting suntan lotion on you? Rubbing your shoulders and back? He looks at the empty chair. You always wore a one piece, he says. Kind of shy. He cracks open a hard-boiled egg by tapping it with a spoon and rolling it on the table. I remember, he says. I remember.

Can I take your plate? Are you done? He places the paper plates in the garbage can and pulls out the empty chair.

After you, my love. After you.

You have to ask yourself, he said. Is it worth it? Is it really worth it? He asked her. I mean, I sit here each day in this office accomplishing nothing. Nothing done, he told her. And for what? A paycheck every two weeks. A lousy pay check of commission sales adding up to no fulfillment whatsoever. It’s a wonder I haven’t slit my own throat at this point in my life. Or somebody else’s.

Maybe you need a change of scenery, she spoke softly into the phone. I don’t know. Maybe Idaho. Or Montana. Someplace away from everything. Become a ranch hand. A cowboy, she told him.

I don’t know how to ride a horse, he said. He lit up a cigarette and blew out the match that read, Meet Me At Henry’s on the pack. He looked at the matchbook and said to her, everything changes. Lives change. People change. The old hangouts have changed. Henry’s used to be cool. Then it got bought. Sold to the highest bidder. Now it’s filled with rednecks listening to country music. Bad country music combined with bad art on the walls. Things change.

Yes. Things change. Maybe you’ve changed, she said.

I doubt it.

Life goes on.

He sits on the couch naked. Belly overlaps his sexual prowess. Chest has become a size c bra. Hips stick out like an old tire on a ’72 Ford truck. Hair is greasy. The fat man’s in need of a shower; a good cleansing. Areas he can not reach.

A bottle of Evans Williams sits on the coffee table, along with a dirty glass. The fat old man pours three fingers full; neat. At first, he sips at it. Washes it around his gums and yellow teeth, then drinks the rest in one fell swoop. A cigarette is lit.

There is a knock on the door. Go away, he says. The knocking continues. I said , go away. Get out of here. You mutt. The knocking continues.

I’m here to offer salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, is said in a squeaky voice of fear.

The old man picks up his bottle and says he’s found salvation already. He pours another drink.

So you’re a Christian, the boy says. What church do you go to?

The church of spirits, the fat man says. The holy trinity. Williams, Paddy’s, and Schlitz. Now go away.

I’ve never heard of them before. Are they saints, the kid asks.

Yeah. My saints. The fat man adjusts his balls. I’m giving you a warning. On the count of three, if you’re not gone, I’m opening the door. And you are not going to like it.

Sir. Just a moment of your time, he requests.

Three. The fat man stumbles to the door and opens it. Exposes his naked flesh. Places his pointer finger on the boy’s chest. Now leave. He blows unholy smoke in the kid’s chest and growls like a bear.

I never thought I’d see Satan here on earth, the messenger says. But, here he is. Right in front of me.

The fat man slams the door. There is no more knocking. He pours another whiskey and turns on the radio. ‘Round Midnight plays through the tinny speakers. He raises his glass. Here’s to Miles, he says. Here’s to life. He laughs. Dear sweet life.

Riding on a Greyhound through New Mexico at dawn. Most passengers are asleep. Some dreaming of seeing an old friend or lover. A grandmother longs to see her first grandchild. A few on their way to Los Angeles seeking stardom with guitars in hand. Young women apply makeup with a small hand-held mirror. Me? I just look at the mountains of red clay, dry land, a cactus, or two. A long way from home.

The one-way ticket to Los Angeles was purchased in Indiana, costing one hundred dollars. I had saved money from a paper route and planned my escape from Fort Wayne. I wanted to see the ocean. Wanted to find out how far fifty bucks would get me. My journey began at midnight. Two days later, I was marveling at red clay and the desert.

I wanted to get off the bus in Albuquerque and stick around New Mexico for a while. Who needs the beaches of Southern California. They couldn’t have been as nice as you see on TV, I thought. Nothing ever is.

Wandering around the Greyhound Station, I decided to get something to eat. Food was a luxury. But when you’re seventeen, nothing is saved.

I ordered a bowl of red chili. As red as the clay. I took my time savoring every bite. It tasted different than the chili I ate back home. This was authentic. This was euphoric. This was real.

My ticket said Los Angeles. That was my original goal. I thought of L.A. and then ate another bite. It was a hard choice.

My father always told me to finish what you’ve started. And, so I did.

Wherever you are is where you’re supposed to be, Mike said. Prison? You’re supposed to be there. In the arms of a whore? You’re supposed to be there. Walking down the aisle? Yes, that too. Even in death, there are no mistakes.

His friend listened. No reply. He sat on the barstool, moving his drink side to side, hand to hand. Looked up at the television and saw an old movie starring Gregory Peck. Thought to himself. He’s where he’s supposed to be.

Neon signs on the walls. Lights flashing Old Style and Hamm’s beer. A calendar turned to November with a woman wearing a bikini hung behind the bar. The bartender changed the channel.

Hey, Mike said. I was watching that.

Jeopardy is on, the barkeep told him as he poured a draught. You know the rules.

I guess this is where we’re supposed to be, his friend said. In this bar. Watching Jeopardy. Not getting our wishes granted. You know. I’ve never seen the ending. Won’t be now, he told Mike. He sipped his whiskey. Tipped back a small ginger ale. What happens?

Read the book.

A wooden door leads down into the basement. Dirt floor. Wood beams run across the ceiling. Shelves with canned tomatoes and Hungarian peppers are lined up and dated. A light bulb dangles above.

He tries opening a jar of the peppers while she sits in a corner, knitting a sweater for their grandson. Colors of red and yellow are woven together.  The old man taps on the jar with his fist and tries to turn the lid.

Why did you have to put these on so tight? He asks. I mean. I know they got to be tight, but these are impossible to open.

She shakes her head and places the fabric in her lap. Give me that, she tells him. Come on. Give me that jar.

He hands her the jar of yellow peppers. You’re going to break your wrist, he says. Break the bone right in two.

She gives a little effort and opens the jar. Here, she smiles. Have at em. She then continues her needlepoint. She begins to sing a song. Humming at first,  then singing out loudly. Cause when she gets behind closed doors, she belts out. And no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. She laughs. I love that, Charlie Rich, she tells him. He sure can sing that sonofabitch.

Right. He munches on a pepper. These ain’t that hot, the old man says. Not hot at all. Kind of sweet, he tells her.

They’re Hungarian peppers,  she says, still knitting. They’re not supposed to be hot. She holds up the small sweater. You think he’ll like it?

Honey. He’s gone.

Gone where? She asks.

To heaven, he says.

Ohhhh. I forgot. Ain’t that something. Me, forgetting that. You could have reminded me before I stitched this, she throws the sweater down in the dirt.

Hey, he picks up the sweater. Don’t do that. You worked too hard on that. We’ll give it to the kid down the street.

Nevermind. I’ll just put it in the cedar chest with the others, she says. Besides. I don’t like that kid down the street. Looks like Chairman Mao.

All Chinese babies do, he laughs.

Yes. And white ones look like Winston Churchill, she looks away. Why didn’t they adopt an American kid? She asks her husband. Nobody buys American anymore.

Right.

I miss him.

So do I.