They didn’t know what they were doing. From one day to the next they played by ear, couldn’t read music.

The two of them would talk, but, that always became an argument. Yelling back and forth at each other about small things, petty things; you left the seat up. Why isn’t there any beer? You took the last piece of bologna. Little spats leading to all out wars, or, conflicts. Some say there’s no difference. Ask the men who fought in Korea.

She got real angry one night. Accused him of sleeping around. Said he’d brought home a disease. Picked up a skillet and started swinging. Wild swings. Like a rookie trying to hit a softball. She kept striking out.

He had a beer in his hand. Shook it up real good. Shot the foam at her from across the kitchen. Asked her, You like that? took out another beer and shook it up. Like a line of ammunition. Foam flying everywhere till she began to laugh.

What are we doing? she asked. You want to fuck other women? Fuck other women. I just as soon not sleep with you, the tall blonde said. Just as soon not be with you at all, she adjusted her glasses that sat on her bent nose. It’s always something with you. Always. Am I not good enough for you? she came towards him, dropping the skillet on the tiled floor. Do I not make you happy anymore? There was a time when I did. Remember? she placed her hands on his hips. Don’t you remember? she looked him in the eye and moved in for a kiss. The wiry man stepped back from her. Took a gander at her. Didn’t say a word.

I remember when I used to dance you’d tip me real well, she said. Used to stick tens and twenties in my G-string. Used to do private dances for you, he took a drink from his beer. You found a new dancer? she asked. Found someone younger? A new model? That’s me, she said. Traded in for a new model. Never saw that coming.

Come on now, he said. I ain’t been screwing around with no dancer. Or, any other woman for that matter, he declared. You ain’t got nothing, but, a urinary infection, he said. You ain’t got no std. I’ll guarentee that.

You better hope I don’t, she said. You better hope, she placed her ring finger on his chest. Where do you go at night? Huh? What are you up to?

Nothing.

Just walk ’round aimlessly? Looking at streetlights? The moon? Stars? What’s caught your eye at midnight?

Fish.

What fish?

Asian carp. They jump out of the water. Huge things. You can’t see em in the dark, but, you can hear them splashing around. It’s gotta be the Asian carp. Catfish are bottom feeders. They wouldn’t jump like that. And bass, they’re just lazy. Maybe a walleye, I don’t know. But I think they’re thoseAsian carps. I saw a show about them once. Dangerous. A real menace to fishermen. I just like the sound of them splashing in the water, she laughed.

Asian carp huh?

Yeah.

She opened a beer herself. Sat down in the living room and turned on the television. It was on the nature channel. She watched how apes would fight each other for supremacy in the jungle sometimes. The young would take on the old.

Ain’t that somthing, she said. Ain’t that something.

He put on his jacket and headed out the door. It was a shining moon. Maybe he’d see some fish, he thought as he lit a cigarette. Maybe.

She watched him from the window of the trailer walking down the road. She kept watching till he disappeared into the night.

Look at how he sweats. Salt water running down his cheeks, ‘cross the forehead. His droopy chest is wet too. Broiling like a chicken thigh in 375 degree heat. He’ll be done in an hour.

The fat man wasn’t even moving. Energy was used just sitting there. Watching television. Swatting flies as they landed on the rim of his glass of Coke. Ice was melting.

A harvest moon was up in the sky. Yellow light shined down through clouds. Heat lightning was going off in the distance. You could hear a little thunder, but, not a drop of water fell. Windows were open. Fans were blowing. And the fat man flipped through channels. Jerry Springer was on. More and more about a man who cheated on his girlfriend. The man defending himself till an uncle or a cousin or a brother or a something comes out and beats the hell out of him. Fat man yelling at the TV, Get him boy. Get him, he shouted, opening up another soda; grabbing another piece of chicken from a KFC bucket. A ball of sweat dropped from his nose.

He fell asleep on the couch with a drumstick dangling from his fingers. Sound down on the television. People saying words in silence. Jimmy Stewart talking, but, nothing coming from his lips. Giving a speech to Congress in a movie; black and white. Piles of papers on his desk. You could tell he was upset about something. Looked like he was sweating too.

Fatty rolled over on the couch. Middle part sagged. His round face was turned towards the back of a pillow. Breathing heavy on the pillow. Snoring away. Loud. There was no one there to hear him. He was alone. He had always been alone. TV kept him company. He’d dream about shows he watched, movies, infomercials. Had visions of chefs making him food and trying to sell him a non-stick pot, a frying pan. Said the 1-800 number in his sleep. Talked out loud to a telephone operator standing by. Said he’d take one of everything. Pots, pans, plates, rotissery cooker. He had plans. Big plans.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Grabbed a piece of chicken. Turned the sound up. People talking with laughter in the background. It was Al Bundy trying to sell shoes to a fat woman. He laughed too. Then turned the sound down and cried in his sleep.

What was that sound? All kinds of noises coming from outside. A buzz saw, wrecking ball, trucks going beep beep beep, dogs barking at cars as they fly by down Broadway, cops cruising, ambulances telling everyone to get out of the way, the day has yet to begin. And here I sit telling you about it.

Last night was an all new low. Drunkeness, tomfoolery, a thousand laughs with waitresses and bartenders, local characters with red noses, fat men salting beers, old ladies drinking Manhattans, on the rocks with a cherry on top, a one legged dog running around the place.

We drank to the upcoming autumn; Indian summer. Clanked our glasses in a toast to colorful leaves falling from trees and candy corn. To temperatures turning cool then cold. Breath seen from our mouths as we sit around the fire. Drinks were raised to the Bears and football, which not always do the two go together. We drank and drank and drank. The abyss was well on it’s way. Somebody punched a wall.

And finally we drank to Linda, George’s dear friend. May she go on in peace, he said. And her glass always be full. Amen.

Trucks at a construction site beeping as they back up into the street. Garbage collectors driving down alleys. Cops cruising side streets. Last week a boy was shot on the corner at the stop sign. Nobody saw a thing.

He watched it all unfold from his rented sleeping room above Calhoun. Trash in the street; a constant reminder of where he lived. Whores walking around at midnight. Junkies howeling like dogs at a silver moon. Drunks arguing over the last drop. The taco stand where a gringo got slit last week closed upon further investigation. Untrimmed shrubs growing in front of condemned houses on Dewald. Things get worse before they get better.

And down in the street the old man saw a black kid kicking a can between cars. Running back and forth on Harrison behind Saint Patrick’s. He drank coffee and watched the child play. Maybe he was pretending to be an athlete. A soccer star. Maybe he was just bored on a summer’s afternoon. The old man said a short prayer for the kid. He said, Lord get him out of here. May he leave this place some day for a better life, the old man crossed himself. Kissed the crucifix around his neck.

He never saw the boy again.

It was too big. A whole map laid out in front of him. He saw it all; mountains, highways, oceans, lakes, major cities and small towns, hamlets. There were interstates running north and south, east and west; follow the blue lines.

He wanted to see it all. America in his rear view mirror. Deserts in the west stretched out forever. Pick wild blueberries in Maine. Live the romantic life. Sleeping under trees on cool autumn mornings. Walking on beaches as the sun goes down. Longed to listen to jazz in Washington Square Park while eating fried egg sandwiches on kaiser rolls. Drinking beer wrapped in brown paper. This is the life he wanted; nomadic life.

The middle aged man left his old life behind. Took off in a Dodge in the middle of the night. Saw lights of metropolitan areas. Sprawling suburbia from one end to next.

Crossed the Mississippi at sunrise. Watching colors bounce off brown muddy water. Eating a piece of watermellon at a truck stop in Tennessee. Drinking coffee in a diner with a piece of cherry pie. Listening to locals complain about Indian summer. Looking outside at leaves floating to the ground.

He later would cross the Ohio River. Walk across a bridge that separates Ohio from Kentucky. Mingled with bums in Cincinnatti. Hearing tales of men who’d traveled all their lives. Running from something, but , never avoiding it. The past was always close. Addiction, children they’d fathered, women left. These stories sounded familliar.

The man wondered if he’d done the right thing. Leaving his old life; a wife that loved him. A child playing peewee football on Saturday mornings. He decided to call home. His former home. Did he even have a home anymore? He wondered.

Hey, he said into the pay phone.

Where are you?

I’m in Pennsylvania. Around Pittsburgh. Going north to Philly. I want to see the Liberty Bell. Have a steak sandwich. I like Cheese Whiz.

I know you do, she paused. Why are you doing this?

Don’t know. Just got a wild hair up my ass to get moving. Go out and see America.

Now’s not the time for that, she said. You’ve got responsibilities. You just gonna run all your life? What are we gonna do? Wait for you?

He paused. Began to speak, but, nothing came out. Just stood there in silence with his finger in the coin slot. I’m sorry, he said. I’m sorry. And he hung up the phone.

Some men take forever to face themselves. Some never do. We just run. Whether that’s far away, or, stationary. We’re not at all there. Part of us in Albany and the other part in New Orleans; stretched too far. We never come around the bend to completion. And that is what makes the man.

Green. She wished colors to be gold, brown, rust, orange, yellow, red. The young woman wanted to hear a crunch and crackle under her feet as she walked her dog each morning. She wanted skies to be gray with a mist of rain showering down on her. Wanting to wear a knit hat and hiking boots, trapsing through woods in New England. Memorizing Simic and Kerouac; Ginsberg and Snyder. These were dreams.

She lived in a Midwestern trailer park. A hoosier by birth. No formal education to speak of. Just weekly trips to the library where she checked out Frost, Whitman, Plath, Hughes, Dickinson among others. She read every night. And dreamed. Beautiful colorful dreams of New England morns and water splashing on rocks. Of trees tall as buildings in New York. Falling in love with the smells of nature.

But hers was the smell of gasoline and burnt garbage. It was tin houses rusting. Water damage in the bathroom. Hers was the job of checking out customers at Krogers. Of bagging groceries for Mrs. Smith. Noticing a husband staring at her plump chest. Wishing she had a love.

So at night she would read her latest selections; Yeats, Rilke, Garcia, along with short stories by O’Conner and Harrison. She read Anais Nin as well; always wanting the wanting.

She had no dog. Just dreams. And sometimes that’s all we have.

He looked at him. Stared while he slept. Snoring away. Television remote in one hand and the other resting. The old man had The Andy Griffith Show on. Going in and out of sleep, he’d laugh sometimes out loud, then fall back into a state of unconsciousness. A beer was on the table beside him.

Where did it all go wrong for you? the son asked in a whisper. You just fell apart. Maybe you were never all that together, boy went to the fridge and got out an Old Style for himself. Popped it open. You used to drink Miller, again, whispering. What happened to you? the old man laughed briefly then fell back asleep. Look at you. Passed out pretty much, the boy tried to take the remote from the old man’s hand. The father gripped it hard. Even in his sleep he wouldn’t give it up. The old man smiled.

I’m stronger than you, the old man said. Boy went and sat down on the couch that was falling apart. Had a dip in the middle. Wooden arms scratched up.

This place is a real shithole, the boy said. A real shithole, he got up and grabbed another beer.

Nobody asked you, the old man said. Nobody values your opinion, boy laughed. That’s right. Laugh. Laugh at me, the dad said. You think it’s funny don’t you?

That we live this way? No. I do not find that funny. This is a nervous laughter, he said. Nervous that the whole trailer could fall apart at any given second.

I worked for all of this, the old man said.

You got this off of Social Security Income dad. You never earned anything. Could never hold down a job. Mom always said you were crazy.

She was crazy too, the old man said. Besides. It’s how you define crazy that’s important.

You were never around when I was a kid. I remember visiting you in the hospital. I think the psych ward became your second home. It was either that or a bar. Drunk and delusional is no way to go through life old man, boy took a swig of beer.

I always provided for my family, he told him. And this is the thanks I get? You should be more appreciative. One day this will all be yours.

The son looked around the trailer. Saw pictures of his mother on the wall next to Crayola colored pages. Colorings of lions and rainbows. Dark clouds and lightning bolts. He knew his dad was never right.

I’m going to get some more beer dad, the boy said. You got any money?

Asking me for money. I don’t have any money. Ther’s plenty of beer in there.

There’s only one left dad. There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Dad slowly got out of his chair. Passed the boy on the sofa. Uhhuh dad, boy got up and grabbed the old man from behind. You’re not getting the last beer, he picked up the old man and body slammed him to the floor. Opened the fridge and took out the last Old Style.

Get up dad, he yelled. I said get up, boy poked him in the ribs with his boot. Get up you old fucker.

The old man never moved. His body stayed there on the floor. Motionless. Boy took the remote from his father’s hand. Walked over him and sat down in the old man’s chair. Popped open the beer and flipped through the channels.

He took his finger and ran it over the desk top. Dust was collected. On the bookshelf someone had drawn a heart with an arrow through it in the dust. Placing the initials J and M on top of it.

There was saw dust on the hardwood floor. Piles of it. There was a table saw over in the corner and a sledgehammer up against the dull white wall. Sheets of drywall were off to the side by the windows. This project was taking too long.

It was in the spring of last year when he started. Knocking out walls, tearing apart bathrooms, remodeling the kitchen. All because she wanted this done. She wanted this old house to be cured of it’s disease. Brought back to life. Modernized.

She told him whatever it takes. Just fix it. Make it liveable. He always thought it was. He liked the old woodwork of the house. He liked it’s creaks when he walked on the floors. Liked the wooden flush boxes above the toilets. He would often hide his bottles behind them. She knew they were there. Never said anything about it till she left. Then she let everything spill. His drinking, womanizing, gambling, God knows what else. She said he wasn’t fit to be a husband. He agreed.

All this time they were playing house. No kids, just two dogs. The wife would take them for walks in the evening to get away from him. She would go on trips throughout the year without him. Always saying she needed time alone. That’s when his affairs started. She’d leave town and he’d hit the bars in search of blondes, brunettes, red heads, white women, black women, it didn’t matter. He was not choosey. Anything to get him through the night.

She used to call him from the road. Check in. See how he was doing. After a while those calls stopped. Or, she’d call in the middle of the night and hang up.

Alone, she would lie there in her hotel bed talking to the television. Having conversations with Tom Snyder, or, Larry King. She kept the sound down and mumbled to herself.

Do you love me, Larry? she’d ask. Do you still find me attractive Mr. King? The middle-aged wife would talk till she fell asleep. Saying goodnight to her television lovers had become a ritual. It was the only thing in life she looked forward to. Her misery was always on her sleeve.

So, at the age of forty-five she left him and the house that was falling apart. Headed for the West Coast. She wound up in Oregon. Lived in cheap hotel rooms. Continued her affairs with Tom and Larry. Some said she’d gone crazy. Others said she’d had enough.

And he never finished fixing the old house. He sold it. Took a loss. Wandered around aimlessly from town to town till he got to Oregon. Wound up in the same small town she was in. Their paths never crossed. She never enetered his mind. And he was just a ghost from the past.

He looked at her picture for a long time that morning. It was actually a black and white of the two of them. She leaning back in his arms and he with his cheek against her red hair. That was a long time ago. Back when they loved each other. Or, pretended to care.

Over the years the couple would go their separate ways. He turned to the bottle whereas she turned to church. She would judge him and question his motives. He’d take off on weekends to far away places just to get away. He was always buying a bus ticket.

During their time apart, she would call and call and call. Asking him where he was staying? Wasn’t he spending too much money? Isn’t there a chance you’ll get mugged?

He stopped answering the phone. He turned it off. Didn’t want to hear from her. That was the whole point of getting away. And, she’d ask, Why don’t you bring me with you? He told her the truth. He just wanted to be alone for awhile. Take in cities all by himself. Go to art museums, poetry readings, see films. He asked her, Do you have an interest in any of those things? She would tell him, no. She said she only had an interest in him.

It became too much for him. The old fat man had now gotten to the point where he would be gone every night. Out drinking in bars. Sitting alone in the park with a bottle of whiskey and a beer chaser. Going home at strange hours and sleeping on the couch. She would stay up and wait on him with the front room light on and a cup of coffee. They didn’t talk. They both went their separate ways.

Curdled cream in coffee. A mass floats on top of the liquid. Looks like a map of North America. Actually, the curdled cream looks more like Russia. Not the former Soviet Union with it’s attachments. Just Russia in it’s current state. One mass of white.

It’s separating now. Going in different directions. He takes a drink. The flaky white substance sticks to the side of the cup. A John Deere coffee mug with tractors on both sides. He’s got the complete collection; mugs, plates, silverware, bowls. Each with the tractor on it. Inside the cup is the John Deere logo. A yellow deer with a green background and the words, John Deere. It’s getting close to the bottom.

Open blinds let in sunlight. The room where he sits is quite warm. August has begun. The fat man looks outside at a park across the street. No one is there. No children playing on the swingset or slides. No teenage boys playing basketball. Just an empty park. His coffee is growing cold.

He looks at candy wrapers on his desk. Fun size Snickers and Butterfinger. He tries to scrape off tiny bits of chocolate on the silver insides. Fatty licks his fingers and takes a sip of coffee. Rarely does he throw anything away. Candy wrappers, cigars and books pile up on his desk that has been in his family for years. His grandfather made it out of cherry wood. It has drawers and side shelves. Kind of in the Shaker style. He runs his fingers over the smooth top. Dusty.

Fat man opens up Moby Dick which is lying on top of Tropic of Capricorn. Takes the last drop of coffee and sits the mug down on the desk. He begins to read the first paragraph. Then realizes this is a monumental task. He places the classic atop bills and a post card advertisement of Russ Meyer’s film, Motor Psycho. Pictures of cleavage and motorcycle riders. A man with a gun. An Amazon woman leaning on a car in a bikini. He can hear her now. Saying, Go daddy go. He tosses it to the side. Takes his mug into the kitchen and washes it. He then starts his day.