dmseay

I sit at the kitchen table. Drinking coffee. Looking through books and instructions for various gadgets; an emergency light for a car, a handwarmer made by Zippo. There’s a small cactus garden in a pot. Prickly, dying. A Ball jar is also on the table next to a pack of American Sprit cigarettes. There’s nothing more American than cigarettes.

The coffee has gone cold. It smells of hazelnut and cream. There are stains on the cup from my lips. I take another drink.

This is a daily routine. I wait for the sun. Soon life will begin again. That is the woke life. The aware life. No daydreaming though afternoon naps. Just the confrontations of everyday. Do I dare go outside? Or, am I pleased to be alone with coffee and dying cactus?

In my medicine cabinet there are bottles upon bottles of prescription drugs. Some of the bottles are empty; too lazy to throw away. And, others are half filled. I look at the different drugs. Metraformin, Lamictal,Welbutrin, Vraylar, pills for an under active thyroid, pills for high blood pressure, cholesterol concerns. What happened to me over the years. The body and the spirit are broken. And, pills will not help. Questions run through my mind. These are thoughts best discussed with a professional. Then again, maybe a priest. Or, perhaps a friend. But, like throwing empty bottles away, I’m too lazy to do anything with these questions.

Suddenly, a wave of energy hits me. I open the remaining bottles and pour the drugs down the toilet( therefore ruining our ecosystem even more) and flush. All gone. No more cures. I can breathe.

There is $300 in my bank account. The sun is shining. It’s a good day for travel. I pack my bag. Underwear, khakis, couple of shirts, a toothbrush and toothpaste; I am ready.

I step out the door. January’s wind hits my face. The train whistles. And, I catch a freight car. It is cold. Other bums huddle for heat. Where’s this train heading? I ask a fellow traveler. He tells me west. West. All the way out to California. I nod my head. I sit with my legs up in my chest; rocking back and forth.

Soon I will be home.

This house. This home where a family lived. A yellow A-frame in the middle of the street. Swingset in the backyard. The garage where pop would stay for hours; working on the car, sawing wood, drinking whiskey; it poured out of his skin. He’d trip over the threshold every night. Mom would just smile.

There was always music playing in the house. Old jazz albums lined the bookshelves. Pop would sing along with Chet Baker, or, pretend to play drums on Kind Of Blue. Music flowed from room to room along with the smells of mom’s cooking. She made something from a foreign country every night. The kids were well educated in cuisines.

The two boys were raised to be kind and giving souls just like their parents. They always packed two sandwiches in their lunch bags. Pop told them to give a sandwich to a kid who needed it. He said, don’t make a big deal of it. Just give em the damn sandwich, they did as ordered.

And one day, they were gone. A van pulled up in their driveway. And, they were gone. Nobody knew where they moved to. They just left. A new family moved in. It wasn’t the same.

I miss those sandwiches.

Watching snow fly. Wind bellowing down the chimney. Cats chasing a mouse. Winter has just started. Landscape covered in white. Windows frost bitten. Sounds of shoveling. The scraping of metal on concrete. An old man cursing his car.

Autumn came and went. It’s colors did not last but a day. Bare brown trees along the highways. Looked upon by travelers in a country of norms; institutions fading. A place where we long for the familiar. For the old.

This winter is typical. Cold in the Midwest. Snow blows across harvested cornfields. Picked over by crows flying south. A butternut squash on the table.

And I am alone now. She sleeps down the hall. Her name is Spring. Soon, she will awaken.

The Christmas lights reflected in the windows. It was late February and they still hung on a small tree turned brown. Colors were brilliant; red, green, yellow, blue, large bulbs wrapped around the once full symbol. Cats played with the strung popcorn.

He thought about taking the tree down. Everyday he woke up he thought about it. But, he knew, once he dragged it out to the street Christmas would be over. The old man wanted to hang on to Christ’s birthday a little longer.

It had been three years since the passing of his wife on Christmas day. She died in the house they had shared for fifty years. Right there on the couch. She just leaned over and fell asleep. A long lasting sleep of peace. He prayed and then covered her with a favorite throw.

She loved Christmas. He Vowed to never let it end. Gifts remained unopened, her hot chocolate sat cold. And he no longer looked at a calendar. Time just stopped for him. Therefore, every morning when awakened, he’d turn to where she sat and whispered, Merry Christmas. And the tree would shine brighter.

He spent his time watching the Weather Channel. Brush fires out West. Tornadoes throughout the Midwest. Balmy temperatures in the South. And the East, a snow storm was brewing.

The old man looked out his window. Sunny skies. Patchy clouds. He could still see the moon. A full moon. The winds were starting to pick up. He could hear it wrestling the trees.

This was his morning ritual; coffee and weather. It was just what he had done for the past fifty years.

It was him and his wife for the longest time. They never talked. Just held hands on the couch and watched the weather. She’d look at him and smile no matter how bad the weather was. He’d smile back.

Now she was gone. It was just him and the television. It wasn’t the same. He looked out the window.

They traced his steps. Dogs sniffed along a dirt path that led down to the river. The sun was out making leaves glow in the autumn morning. The officer poured a cup of coffee from a Thermos. Kept looking across the river.

He couldn’t have jumped in? The current would’ve taken him under. But, this was it. The dogs barked, sniffed hard. Didn’t look east or west. They were just stopped dead in their tracks. The river was rolling.

The water was deep. Murky brown water. Had mud at the bottom of it. If he jumped in, the sheriff knew the body would show up in a day or two downstream over in Jefferson County. He decided to inform the department over there that a body was coming their way.

Drowned, the cop said. Figure he just drowned? the sheriff nodded his gray head, lit a cigarette. Was he thinking he’d make it? he asked. The sheriff rolled his eyes. Wouldn’t be the first, he said.

And, sure enough his body washed up in Jefferson County four days later. The short, squatty man’s neck had a gash in it. He was blue. What a way to end up, the sheriff said. Guess this is an admission of guilt. Bet he killed that girl. And the other one over in Newton. You get what you deserve, he noted. You get what you deserve.

He drove over to the boy’s mom’s house to tell her. On the way over he noticed the sun shining brightly over-head. The red and yellow leaves glistened. It was good to be alive.

She had not seen him in a long time. It’d been twelve, maybe fourteen years since she’d heard his voice. For awhile he’d call her. Especially if he needed something; money, food, someone to listen to him.

He’d call in the middle of the night. Wild stories ’bout being chased by cops and criminals along I95. Sent her pictures of the Atlantic Ocean up in Maine. Told her he was flat broke in Philadelphia. She’d wire him a hundred and tell him this was the last time.

The middle-aged man was always grateful. He’d get the money and go blow it on food and booze. Buying rounds at a bar. Trying to relive his glory days. Then, within twenty-four hours, the thin man was back to normal; broke.

He never called her again after that one time in Pittsburgh. That’s when he ditched the Dodge and began his journey on foot. He had tickets piled up across America. Sold that piece of junk for a grand. It lasted a week. But, for that one week, he felt human.

There was a newspaper article he read in a magazine ’bout her. It was Fortune 500. Said she’d made her way to the top. Some CEO of a financial firm. This made him smile. He was glad that one of em had made it in America.

And then, sitting on a bench in Central Park, she saw him. Long greasy hair, shabby clothes, long beard, red eyes. She barely recognized him…She kept walking.

He sat in the corner of the bar reading Proust. There was a small gold color lamp beside him. He would pull the chain to make it brighter, or, more dim. It had a red lampshade on top with dangling pieces of black rope. He would touch the cords every so often as he turned the pages of Swann’s Way. He sometimes caught himself touching the lamp shade too fondly. He would place his hand on the bar and whisper, Bad hand.

In front of him was a snifter of Grand Marnier and a short dark stout. He’d drink from the snifter and roll the alcohol around in his mouth; tasting the burnt orange flavor. That was followed by a drink of stout. He preferred Guinness, but, Murphy’s would do. He continued reading.

A young lady seated in the middle of the bar asked the bartender who the man was? The man reading Swann’s Way so intensely. The bar keep chuckled. Told the girl, A regular.

A regular you say, the bartender nodded. Why there’s nothing regular about him, she said. He looks as though he’s violating that lamp, the bartender laughed, caught himself, then quietly chuckled some more.

He’s been reading in that corner for the last ten years.

Always Proust?

No. He’s read other books as well. Joyce, Beckett, Camus, a lot. Never without a book that one, he said. Never.

And, he always drinks the same drinks?

Very routine. Yes, very routine. I make sure we always have Grand Marnier and stout. Never been caught without it.

I see. How long does he sit there? Reading.

Leaves at 8 every night to catch the last bus home. He pays his bill, places his book in the satchel, tips his hat and leaves. When he stops the world will end.

What does he do?

He doesn’t. Not that I know of. Knows how to nurse a drink. I’ll tell you that.

Outside it was dark. The man could tell it was getting late. He placed money on the bar and put his book away. He tipped his hat. Then walked out into the night. The young lady looked on from the front window as he continued down the street.

There he goes, the bartender said. The last of his kind, he smiled.

Yes. I suppose so.

Watching. Looking at this dog on TV. It’s a puppy. A black one with traces of brown and white. He’s running through the snow into the arms of a pretty blonde lady next to her husband. It’s her Christmas gift.

And then, because she loves this man so much, she whistles and a brand new pickup truck appears. He’s thrilled. The snow is flying. A real sense of holidays.

Every time that commercial came on, the old man would watch like a kid salivating over chocolate. It wasn’t the truck or the puppy he loved. There was no warm feeling inside of giving. It was the blonde. That’s what he wanted.

The gray haired widower would lay there in the hospital bed with his children nearby. He’d hold his son’s hand a little tighter when the commercial came on. His daughter would pace the halls on business calls and check in on him every once in a while.

You see her? he asked his son. Look at her. Go on. Look, holding his hand tighter. I’m gonna marry her someday. She’ll be my girl, the old man told him.

Really? the kid asked. What makes you think that? he rubbed his eyes. The old man just kept looking at the television.

She’s mine alright. She’s gonna dump him for me. And, she’ll get me a truck too. Then we’ll drive around the U.S. in style. Holding each other’s hand as we walk the dog, the old man smiled.

Is that what you want pop? the old man nodded. You want her huh? She looks like a heartbreaker to me. Sure, she’s pretty. But, I’ll bet there’s a mean streak in her. She’s gotta be high maintenance. Women like that don’t come easy.

The old man nodded. So, he said. I don’t have a chance? his son shook his head. OK, he said. I’m ready to die.

Never. The old man told him to never lie. He said, one lie leads to two, then three, maybe four. Then you gotta mess on your hands. Have to back track. Retell your story over and over again. Hoping that it sounds right, he told him.

The young kid didn’t listen to the gray haired prophet. Thought his words were silly. Not realistic for this world. Thinking that sometimes you had to lie. Just had to. Sometimes a lie will protect you, or, others, he thought. Protect you from what? The truth. The sometimes unspeakable truth.

He told her everything. Almost. All about his childhood, messy teen years, and his time now, here and now. A man with a career, a family, grass cut on Saturday afternoons. A man who kept up appearances. Went to church on Sunday. People would never guess, he thought. His secret was safe.

And why would he keep this secret? To protect his wife and family, he told himself. The biggest lies we tell are to ourselves, he remembered the old man telling him this. He dismissed the advice. Didn’t want to hear it. Heard this voice inside his head. Telling him to tell the truth. But, what would he gain from that. This confession. A lot of guilt would be relieved. He’d feel better. Could go on with his life with no compromises. Again, lying to himself.

Sometimes we don’t have to tell the truth. It’s told by others for us. Without permission. Without any deal struck. A phone is picked up. Dialed. And they start talking. Telling the friend, minister, kids, spouse, all about your lie. You cheated on taxes. Unfaithful to your spouse. This phone call at night, or morning from them. Meant to disrupt lives. Hurtful. Damaging. This is what people do. Especially when they are slighted.

She never intended to do that. Until now. He told her he loved her. Said to the young lady that she made his life complete. Said he couldn’t get enough of her. Lied and said he was leaving his wife and kids for her. That’s what he said. And, like all of em, he wasn’t. Had no intention to. Thought he could break it off at any given time. And, so he did. He did.

Besides telling the young man to never lie, the old man also told him to never scorn a woman. Said there’d be hell to pay. She would make your life miserable. Cut you off from society, make you look like a fool. And, they’ll do this just for the fun of it.

Again, he didn’t listen. Dropped the one on the side like a bad habit. She was a bad habit. He knew it couldn’t go on forever. And that’s when he was confronted with truth. The truth. The stories of working late at the office. Business trips in other cities. All night poker games with the boys. All lies.

This truth was told to his wife. And it was mean and spiteful. It was the end of everything.

Now he sat on the bed of a hotel room with a bottle of whiskey and a white rope. He knew his time was over. And it was lies that killed him.