dmseay

Winds whistled down the street. Almost knocked him over. The old man couldn’t have weighed more than a buck and a half. Legs wobbly. Grey hair disheveled. A bottle in his hand; Cutty Sark, or, J&B. Mumbled to himself. Something about the second coming. Asking strangers if they were ready? Shouting out words of the apocalypse, the four horsemen, fire and brimstone. He’d take another drink.

At home she waited. Up all night with a pot of coffee. The radio on some classical station; Bach and Mozart kept her company. She tried to hum along, but, didn’t know the pieces. She just liked the way the music made her feel. Like she was someone else. A high society woman. A person of intelligence. She’d smile and finish off another cup.

The door stayed locked. Day-time, nights, always locked. She’d shut it every morning when he left and open it when he came home. The old woman would hear her husband drop his keys in the hallway. She always knew it was him. She knew that sound. A ring of keys falling to the floor. And the old man swearing as he bent over to pick them up. Shhh, she’d tell him. Your gonna wake up the neighbors, she’d say. He’d come to her. Arms stretched out. Smelling like a distillery. Come on now, she would whisper. Get inside.

And he would. The husband followed the wife’s orders. He always had. Always told her he’d be home by midnight; he was. Said he’d always be faithful; did that too. Promised he wouldn’t blow all their social security. He didn’t. They only had so much to spend. Money was allocated; groceries and his booze. She gave him enough to be dangerous. Then she’d take care of him.

First she would force him to sit down in his recliner with his legs stretched out. The housewife took off his shoes and socks. A quilt was tossed over him. He’d go to sleep to sounds of violins, cellos, keys on the piano. She would turn the sound down and then kiss him on the forehead. Goodnight sweetest, she said every night. Goodnight.

It smelled green outside. Parsley, alfalfa, lettuce, growing in the moonlight. Water dripped from leaves; morning dew. The sky was purple. Some stars shined. Particularly one to the west. Like it was leading him somewhere. Wanting him to come. Take him away from this land. The old man’s land. A farm that’d been in the family for generations. Changing a little through the years; watering, tractors, harvesting. It’d all improved over time. The Mexicans still picked by hand. Cleansed it.

It’d been years since the old man’s death. Some say he haunted the farm. Said you could see him out there in the rows of green at night time. Feel his presence in the barn. Said he still walked around the house in his bare feet. The old man did everything in his naked feet. He’d walk out into the feilds and let his toes sink down in the coolness of the dirt. Sprayed his feet ‘fore he came inside. Said he still did.

You’re born with a love of the land. The old man tried telling him that. Told him to take seeds and watch em grow was magic. And only a certain kind of people had that magic. People grew up in Indio and never left. They’d stay till they died. Bury them in the ground. Their bodies would turn to minerals. Feeding the land that fed them. This was ritual. This was true. Magic.

The boy was growing tired of the land. It was no longer magical. But, he had nothing to compare it to. He’d never been outside of Indigo. Maybe a couple of little towns north and south of Indigo when he was younger. But, no. Indio was all he knew. He’d die here too, he thought. Pass the farm onto his boys when he was gone. Come back and haunt it too. Just like the old man. However, unlike the old man, he’d live a miserable life.

Often he wished he could just drive off the land. Get out of Indio. But, it was too late for that. Shouldn’t have got that girl pregnant. Shouldn’t have married her. His life had become one of regrets. That smell of green made his stomach turn. He wanted to shoot the silver moon in the sky that shined down on em. Some nights he did. The old boy would get drunker than a skunk and go out into the fields with his rifle and fire towards the full moon.

Mexicans would find bullets on the property and wonder if he was shooting at coyotes. Took em years to realize that he was just crazy. But, that’s what Indio did to ya. Made men crazy.

In his will the boy said he did not want to return to the land. Asked if they could drop his body in the ocean. He’d never seen the ocean. He always wanted to.

They honored his wishes. He left Indio.

What is more important to a writer? To be read or to just write. I write about everyday. Send it out on WordPress. Hope it gets through to somebody. And then disappointed when I see my numbers are low. Two, three readers a day maybe. Send it through Twitter. Makes no difference; have people stopped reading? Or, am I not a good writer?

To me writing is cathartic. It’s a therapy. I do it because I have to. And, feel guilty for wanting more readers. The work is what’s important, I tell myself. But, my ego wants more. I want to be noticed. Maybe this is the life of the artist; the struggle with the ego. It is for me.

They didn’t speak to each other anymore. Used to talk all the time when they were younger. Held hands too. Then over a period of time it just got strange. They didn’t even acknowledge each other anymore. She would ask him how he wanted his eggs? For years the wife would do that. Not anymore. That died out with Sunday dinners. She’d make a roast every holy day. They stopped eating together. He’d take a TV dinner out to the living room and watch the afternoon movie. She just stayed in the kitchen. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He’d complain about the smoke for years. The smell of the house. His clothes. He stopped. Didn’t see the point anymore.

The two were bound by a legal contract. That’s the way they saw it. Infidelities on his part over the years almost broke the deal. Anger stirred up inside of her. Until there was just silence. She didn’t even cry. She would just light up another and pour some courage in her coffee.

That was a long time ago. She used to follow him around town in her Chevy Cavalier. It was a four door. They bought a four door with hopes of children. The backseat would remain empty.

And he’d go all over the place. Bars, massage parlors, Chinese spas out by the highway. She’d drive by and see his car parked there in the lot. The old Dodge Charger. Orange. Had a Confederate flag on the roof. His favorite show was Dukes Of Hazzard. He’d speed around town in it. Took it out on country roads and let her rip. He was always looking for trouble. And it usually found him.

They were growing old. He had to sell the car. Needed the money. The old man blamed her for that. Blamed her for the miscarriage too. Said it was all her fault. Shouldn’t have smoked. That’s what killed that baby, was what he told her. You couldn’t go three months without lighting up, he said. You don’t even sneak em. You just smoke out in the open, he yelled. For all to see. A woman with a baby bump smoking a cigarette, he said. Didn’t say anything about coming home drunk and beating her. She used a lot of make-up.

This angry house was now quiet. No one yelled or cursed anymore. Was there ever any love? Maybe. But now it was just a contract.

The old man hurt all over. His body, legs, feet, ankles, arms, were sore from his walk. He couldn’t sleep. The traveler tried sleeping in bed, but couldn’t get comfortable; tossed and turned. He then went downstairs and laid on the couch. A crocheted blanket covered him. Sewed imprints of moons and stars wrapped ’round his wrinkled body.

He watched television with the sound down. An old episode of The Rifleman starring Chuck Conners was on. Black and white images of a Western town. His daughter came downstairs. The steps creaked. Front room was dark except for the light from the TV. She offered him hot tea. Camomile. With milk and sugar. The old man shook his head. Whispered no. You got any Aleve? Advil would be better. Not Tylenol, he said. It’s magic just kind of wore out on me over the years, his face winced in pain. The young woman said she’d look.

She went back up the staircase. He pulled out a flask from under the couch. He’d strategically placed it there early in the evening. The same way he had one placed behind the flush box in the bathroom. He thought she didn’t know. Thought he was pulling one over on her. His girl knew. Sometimes she had fun hiding the bottles and the flasks from him. Then putting them back after awhile. She liked to watch him silently get flustered. She liked to see him in pain.

In this episode, Chuck Conners finds out that there’s a man who isn’t who he claims to be; an imposter. And he’s got Conners’ kid admiring him. This town fake was fooling everybody. Everybody except the rifleman.

I got baby aspirin and Tylenol, the mother said in a whisper as she came back downstairs. It works just as well, she said. I gotta child. Therefore, baby aspirin. And the Tylenol is what I use, she mentioned, handing him bottles. Giving him a choice.

My body just aches, he said. I’m worn out. This might be the last time I see ya, popping both pills in his mouth. Just getting too old for this. All this walking. It kills me, ran his fingers through his gray hair. And the bus. Being cramed on the bus with all those niggers and Mexicans, he spouted. Just makes me hurt more, he drank some water from ice cubes in a Pepsi that’d melted throughout the night. A brown water. Everything was brown. The carpet, couch, walls. Said she liked things that matched. He just kept looking at the TV.

No. I don’t think I’ll be seeing you after this, he looked over at her in the dark. You can turn the lamp on, old man said. I’m not gonna sleep. Second thought, it hurts my eyes, he held the flask and drank quickly as she got up. Said she was going to fix him that tea.

How many miles you think you’ve traveled in your life, she asked from the kitchen. I mean, you took off a long time ago. Years. Momma didn’t know where you went to. She said you just started walking, the daughter brought the tea to him.

Your mother has an imagination.

Had dad. Had. Past tense.

Right. She got the story wrong. Told it wrong. Said it in a way that people would feel sorry for her. Especially women. Maybe a few gentlemen ’round town. No. She told it wrong, he said.

She did huh?

I was kicked out. Put out of my own house. She saw to that. I got proof, he snarled. Barking like an old dog. Ask your uncle. He’ll tell ya. She came to having a problem with men.

She came to having a problem with you.

Whatever.

You never contributed. Out chasing whores all night. Always drunk. And then one night you got real drunk and left. Never came back till it was too late.

Too late for what?

To make amends. To say you were sorry, she cried. This time he drank from the flask in full display. No shame in it. Still hurting. He laid down. Mumbled, that’s not what happened. And fell asleep.

She covered him with the blanket. Pulled it up under his chin. And kissed him on the forehead. She could taste his sweat. Tasted like Wild Turkey. She patted him on the head and whispered, goodnight.

He slept till the sun came piercing through the front window. Quietly he got dressed and took a drink. He placed his things in a bag. Then he walked out the door. It was the last time he saw her.

Train horn sounded. She laid there in the dark. Could hear it chugging on the tracks. Blowing its horn. Making all kinds of racket. Pulled blanklets up over her head. No one slept beside her. Used to have a man. They were supposed to grow old together. Till death do us part and all that stuff. He didn’t remember his vows.

Often at night she’d stare into the black. Never any light. Kept it dark. Outside a street light shined. Glowed like a candle in church. Curtains blocked it out. It was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The young woman didn’t want to see anything. She wanted silence too. But, even ear plugs didn’t work. She’d lived by those tracks for nearly twenty years and she still couldn’t get used to the midnight noise. Couldn’t block it out. Same way she was unable to stop thinking of him. Memories came to her in the night.

She knew he was unfaithful. Slept with anything not nailed down. He had women all over town; throughout the country. Found out about one woman in Las Vegas. Said he was always going there with the boys to gamble and smoke cigars. Drink Hennessey from a snifter. That’s where she thought all the money was going. That’s what she thought.

Found photos of women on his phone in various states of dress. Some wore nothing at all. There were emojis by the pictures; a pair of red lips, $100, a tiny blonde with a wink. He had no answer for this. Just filed for divorce. Said he no longer loved her. Let her have everything; house, car, kids, he just wanted out. She’d heard he moved down to Dallas. Said he sold insurance down there. Bought a convertible and left town. He had a woman down there too.

And she laid there in the dark thinking she wasn’t good enough for a man. Maybe her hips had gotten too wide. Perhaps her breasts sagged a bit. Could’ve grown jaded; cynical. You just do things on your own, the woman told her young daughter. Can’t rely on anyone, she said. People will let you down. Especially men, the kid would listen. They’ll promise you the moon, but, never deliver, she was broken.

She laid there in the dark. Listening to the trains go by. Never wanted to see morning. Didn’t want to see the sun reflect off her Ford in the driveway. All that money and he left her a Ford. A Taurus none the less. Gave it to her daughter. Let her drive around town. She just wanted to stay in the dark.

She told him time heals all wounds. Said he’d come around. Just a matter of waiting it out. Started talking to the kid as if he were a teenager getting over his first heartbreak. The boy listened. But, only a little. He’d heard this lecture before. Back in high school when he couldn’t get a date to the prom. Went stag. Just all by himself. Came home drunk that night. That was the beginning of things to come.

There was a ’67 Dodge Dart sitting out there in the driveway. It belonged to his dad. The old man took care of it. Washed and waxed it religiously. You’d think it was a Mustang or a Charger. Some kind of muscle car. A hula girl stood on the dashboard. Sundays they used to go for a ride. The old man would drive through the country with the windows down. It could be twenty degrees outside and he’d still have the windows down. Said the cold air was good for you. Said it made you healthy.

The old man never let the boy drive that car. Told him to get a job and save his money. Buy a junker. That’s what he had to do. They don’t make em the way they used to, the father said. Said kids today felt entitled.  Nobody ever gave him anything, he told him. This was before the old man went away. Hadn’t seen him in years. And that car just sat there. The boy didn’t wash it. Didn’t polish to make it shine. It just sat there in the driveway. The keys hung on a small rack in the kitchen. The boy would often look at them. Held em in his hand when his mom was asleep. She told him it was best to just forget about the car. Often threatened to sell it. Kept waiting for the old man to come back.

Time. When you’re young all you got is time, his momma said. And you can spend that time wisely if you choose. Start acting like an adult, she’d tell him. That girl will come around if you do. No one wants to play with a kid. Remember. Your days are numbered. You think you have all the time in the world, but you don’t, the boy would nod his head. You’ll wind up leaving her anyway, mom said. That’s what men do. They leave. Whether it’s running away, going to jail, or, dying; men leave. Just when you think you’re settled they take off. Then you gotta find a new one. That’s what you’ll do. Just like your daddy, she slurped her coffee. Added a little more Bailey’s. And you’ll leave me too, the old woman said. I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be gone, she stirred her drink. Yeah. You’ll be gone.

In the middle of the night the moon shined down on him as he sat out on the front porch staring at that Dodge. Thinking about what his mother said. What kind of logic was that? he asked himself. Where’d she get all that from? he felt insulted. Maybe she was right. There was the moon, there was the car, the keys hung inside. He was going to prove her right.

Your daddy was a real son of a bitch, she told him. Left me here with nothing. Nothing, but this old trailer. Sure. I got some nice things. But, what do they really mean. I still got the ring he gave me. Probably not worth much. But, it’s pretty. Shines. Sparkles. Well, it used to. Haven’t had it cleaned in years, she mentioned. Momma poured another beer. Have one, she motioned to the refrigerator. Don’t make me drink alone, she said. Don’t be a party pooper. You think you’re better than me. Don’t you? he just shook his head. Looked at the pictures on the thin walls. They were all of her. Kind of like a shrine. It was all mom, all day, all night. He’d noticed this before. This time it really struck home with the kid.

Yeah. Time heals all wounds, she mumbled. Then a long stretch of drool fell from her bottom lip. Her eyes wide open. He was free.

He asked him where he went? Boy said, no where. Asked him where he was going to? No where, was his reply.

Well. You must’ve been somewhere. Look at you. You can tell. Your forehead is sweating. Those eyes. You can’t fool me. I been on to you since you were young. Caught your act. I’ve tried to keep you on the straight and narrow, the old man said. That’s my job. I’m gonna ask you again. Where you been?

Boy looked down at the floor. Swept the dust with his shoes. Told him, I been lots of places. Texas. New Mexico. Arkansas in the middle of the night. Smelled like alfalfa.Driving in the dark. Outside of Memphis. Heading towards El Dorado.

What were you doing that for? the old man looked at him. There was silence. Real quiet for a couple of minutes. Then the boy spoke.

Said, none of your business. 

It is my business, the father said. I’m making it my business. You been all these places. And what? You can’t tell me the what for? Again there was silence. The boy sat down on the sofa with plastic covering it. The old man got up to get another beer. You want one? he asked.

One what?

A beer.

I don’t drink. ‘Sides. It’s Sunday. Keep the sabbath holy.

Know a lot about that do ya? the old man shook his head and stumbled into the kitchen. One left, he said. One Milwaukee’s Best left. I had a case in here. Bought it at the liquor store. It was on sale. Always buy what’s on sale. Can’t afford otherwise, he came back in and plopped in the old Lazy-Boy. Had flowers on it. Mom had picked it out years ago. Before the boy was born. It’d lasted all these years. The old man sat in it, slept in it, farted in it, lived in it. He did not move. Except to get another beer.

The old man pulled out his wallet and took out a twenty. Go get whatever is on sale, he held the money out in mid air. The boy did not take it. Come on now, dad said. Go get me some beer, he demanded. 

Keep the sabbath holy.

You little shit, the old man wadded up the bill and threw it at him. Who do you think you are? Billy Graham? Got a lesson to teach me boy? kid shook his head. I didn’t think so.

The money laid on the floor in a tight little ball. Old man kept staring at it. Again. There was silence. The boy just kept looking straight ahead. I was going to El Dorado to meet a girl, he said. Real pretty girl. With a golden soul. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you? the old man kept staring at the money. Said, you wouldn’t know anything about that would you? the father looked up at him. They locked eyes.

I’m going to give you ten seconds to pick up that twenty and go to the liquor store, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. A folded knife. He pulled the blade out. Ten, the old man said.

Yeah she was pretty. She was a believer too.

Nine.

I met her a long time ago on the computer. We hit it off right away.

Eight.

Is that supposed to scare me?

Seven. Keep mouthing off boy. Keep it up. Six, he said.

You don’t scare me old man, the boy said. Don’t scare me at all. I got the Lord on my side.

Five.

Four, three, two, one. Keep counting. All you are is talk. All you ever been, the old man got out of his recliner. Stood up. He was slouched. Back was bent.

The boy stood up too. Kicked the money with his foot. The old man laughed. Held the knife in air above him. Boy punched him in the nose. Red blood began pouring out all over the brown carpet. He laid there on the floor covered in his own blood. The boy started kicking the old man like a bad dog. The old man began to yell. Calling him every name in the book. The boy continued kicking him. The old man wept. Screamed out in pain. Go get your own beer, the boy said. Kept on kicking him until there was silence. The old man’s beaten body just laid there. His eyes stared up at Heaven.

I’m going to El Dorado.

Noises throughout the night. Trains, semis, cars running up and down the highway, kept him up. Years of living there and he still wasn’t used to it. Made him think of moving. Always thinking of moving. Maybe out to the country; rural area. Get some chickens. Start a worm farm. Sell bait to fishermen. A quiet life.

Highway 30 ran through town. Vagabonds and folks down on their luck took it to Ohio, Western Indiana, always looking for opportunity. Sometimes they’d take 69 down to Indy, up towards Michigan. Looking for that elusive dollar. The American dream. All he wanted was peace and quiet. The city is a young man’s game. He played it for many years. Now was the time.

Thought of heading down to Arkansas; the place of his birth. Cheap land, rivers and streams. Green in the spring. Golden in autumn. Maybe go down there and live like Rip Van Winkle. Take a long, long, nap. Perhaps never to wake-up. His final destination. He thought about it. Thought real hard.

He wanted the easy way out. So, he started selling his possessions. Got rid of all his furniture; a table, chairs, a bed, TV, only took what he could get in his Dodge. A few albums, books, some blankets, a pillow. He was on his way to peace and quiet. On his way.

He waited for her at the train station. She was coming from out East. Long trip to the West. It’d been a long time since they’d seen each other. Years had gone by. He wondered if the two would pick up where they left off. An intense love affair that didn’t last long. Both were divorced. They were sowing wild oats.

She picked up the phone one day and called his number. She hoped it hadn’t changed.  Hoped that he had. Sitting in a coffee shop, the middle aged woman reached out to him. A long distance kiss. Told him she thought about him often.  Regretted the affair ending the way it did; sudden.

The older man told her he felt the same. He stood on the back porch smoking a cigarette. Rain was coming down. This old man with a paunch sticking out, said he missed her as he exhaled; crushed out the butt with his cowboy boot. I’ll buy a ticket and come to you, she said. Where are you these days? she asked. As fast as he could he told her. She was on her way to Albuquerque. 

The brunette sat in the bar car staring out at the West Texas red clay. Soon she’d be in New Mexico. She wondered what he looked like these days. Sure, he’d gotten a bit older probably, but, older men are sexy, she thought. It wasn’t fair, she whispered to herself. How men got sexy and women were just discarded. She still could hold her own. But, she had her doubts. She was a little wider in the hips these days. A little extra weight. She blamed her kids. Said she never recovered. 

He hoped he’d recognize her. Remembered running his hands through her thick hair. Thought of how she kissed. They were like two teens. Couldn’t get enough of each other. Then one day she stopped calling. Left him dead in the water. He remembered that too.

The train came into the station at three in the morning. He anxiously looked for her. She saw him first. His jaw. She remembered his jaw. He used to be clean shaven. Now he had a five day beard. She walked towards him. Thinking the whole time, maybe he’ll change. Maybe. And, he thought the same. Maybe this time she’d stick around. He had his doubts.

Some things are best left alone. They did not kiss. A friendly hug was all. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, he thought. She had her doubts. Were they desperate for each other, or, just somebody? No one wants to admit they’re lonely.