dmseay

Several hours passed. Alone. Sitting at the kitchen table. Contemplating. What’s next? he asked himself. How much worse could it get? the old man continued. He took a calendar down from the refrigerator. Stuck there by a magnet. Got a marker out of the drawer where there were rubber bands, Q-Tips, steel wool pads, junk collected over the years. He started marking off days till his death, or, what he thought would be. Planned it out. Black exes drawn on dates leading up to December, 1st. He wanted one more autumn. One more birthday. His last Thanksgiving. Just one more November and he would call it quits.

October came along with Indian summer. Warm fall days and cool evenings.The old man sat on his front porch and watched the leaves change. Green to yellow. Red to rust. Piles raked up in yards around the trailer park. Young boys placing them in black plastic bags. He remembered when he was able to rake. Dragging the metal comb over the yard. His father paying him a dollar a bag. The old man smiled.

Maybe everyday in heaven is autumn, he thought. Maybe there’s piles of leaves along streets of gold. Is that true God? he whispered. Is my old dog Norman rolling around in them? the old man laughed. Then he was reminded of why he wanted to depart; joints ached, constant coughing, fat gut, lonely days, not being able to remember simple things, like where he placed the newspaper, the year, felt he was losing his mind.

It was no fun getting old. His wife gone, pets passed away, the old man was by himself. Every once in awhile neighbors would check on him. They’d bring a tuna casserole and make small talk about weather, last night’s football game, did he need anything? He always said he was fine. Just fine; sitting in the chill until darkness came.

November went by quickly. Just like life. One day was the 1st, then Thanksgiving was over. His calendar was all used up. December was here. It was time. It was time.

Neither knew what the other wanted. They used to know. Could read each other’s minds. Tell thoughts without words. They communicated with their eyes. He’d look at her, she at him, and they knew. They just knew.

But, now there was no magic. The old married couple would sit in silence each day. Wondering what the other was thinking. They came close to asking, but, would get distracted; a plane would fly above. Crickets chirped outside. A squirrel running around in the backyard. Their minds would wander. Sometimes forgetting the other was in the room. Sometimes asking themselves, Who is this next to me? The answer was always the same. You can be alone without being alone.

There were old black and white photographs throughout the house. Pictures of when they were younger. She wore a beautiful wedding dress. He looked dashing in his monkey suit. Photos of old cars he used to drive; a ’67 Dart. A yellow Chevy. They asked themselves, Who were these people? What did they do? Were they in love?

And, they sat in silence. Wondering who the other was. Minds turned off. Eyes a million miles away. Souls left years ago. Now, they just waited. For what? They did not know.

He looked around the house. Saw a tear in the leather couch. A rip in the easy chair. Pots and pans piled up in the sink. All the clocks were off by ten, maybe fifteen minutes. And, it was dark. A dim light bulb swung from the ceiling. Mice ran across the kitchen floor.

Some day, he said. Some day this will all be gone, the old man opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer. There was spoiled lettuce and rotted fruit in the bottom drawer. An opened box of baking soda sat in the back of the ice box. Nothing will exist anymore, he tapped the top of the beer can before opening it. Everything we take for granted, he smiled, Will be gone, he took a gander at his son standing in front of the television, adjusting the antennae. You hear me? It’ll all be gone. Everything we worked for. Gone, the old man moved his hands as if he was performing magic.

Which way is north? the boy asked. Or, is it east? he shook his head. Somewhere out there is a TV station with a big dish sending out signals. Awe hell, he said. Why do I even try? the old man handed him a beer. They both sat quietly, watching blurred lines go across the screen.

That thing never worked, said the old man. It’s always been on the fritz, he stared up at the dangling light bulb. The old man grabbed a broom standing against the wall and began toying with the bulb; hitting the cord it was attached to. Making the light swing wildly. It’s all going to be gone. And that’ll be that, he continued swinging at the cord.

Be careful with that pop, the boy said. It’s the only light we have. You bust it and it’ll be dark in here till morning, he told him. And, what do you mean it’ll all be gone? Maybe you want it to end. Put you out of your misery. Is that what you want? the old man now was trying to hit the bulb. He kept missing it as it swung back and forth like a clock.

I’m telling the truth, the old man said. Soon it’ll all be gone, contact was made with the light bulb. A thousand pieces went everywhere. It was nearly pitch black.Colored lines ran across the television. They sat in silence.

Always late. He was never on time. His schedule ran opposite of everyone else. If the old man was supposed to be there at two, he’d show up at three. He’d make you wait. You can drink a lot of beer in an hour. By the time the father showed up, his boy was ready to go home; questioning why he waited for him to begin with? The boy figured it was owed.

The old man and the kid were both night owls. Boy would get to the bar around ten each night. The old man came in an hour before closing. He’d spend the better part of the night walking around town with a pint of whiskey in a brown paper bag. Dad would go from shop to shop looking inside the windows at televisions on sale. He’d watch Johnny Carson behind glass without sound. Lips moving. Johnny laughing in silence. His guests sitting on the couch beside him laughing quietly too.

He walked past the beauty shop and see women’s heads with different wigs on them. Blonde, brunette, redheads on man-made Styrofoam. No eyes, or, mouths. The noses were gone. The old man laughed at this. He’d talk to them. Whisper with his lips against the glass. Drink more. Then kept on walking, stumbling down Main Street. Lighting cigarettes one after another. Talking to himself about the great rapture coming. Jesus will be back soon, he said. All this will be gone in the great fire, the old man would raise his hands to the heavens. He continued his nightly journey. Going into bars for a cold beer on tap. Something cheap. Drank from a frosted mug. Would add salt. The old man would only stay for one. Just one.

Boy sat there waiting on the old man. The bartender knew both father and son well. Around two he’d pour the old man’s beer and set it beside the kid. Thanks Patty, the boy always said. I’ll have another as well, he’d tell him.

The father was always pleased to see a beer waiting for him. The old man made his way to the bar through heavy gray smoke, stepping on peanut shells that made a crunch sound with every movement, sitting down in a pleather chair with a rip in it next to his son; all the family he had left.

Conversation was the same every night. Boy would ask how his evening was? The old man would smile. Told him everything was just fine. He was always just fine.

Waiting on Jesus, the old man said every night to the boy. Waiting on Jesus. He’s coming soon, the dad would say. Any minute now, then he’d lay his head on the bar. The bartender would give the boy that look of it’s time to go. Boy nodded his head. Threw the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him out every night.

Goodnight, Patty.

Goodnight.

I wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Wanted to see what was in the bones amongst marrow and fat. All those promises he made. Never once coming through. I’ll pay you next week, he told landlords. As soon as I can I’ll take care of you, he said to friends. Thousands borrowed. Had good intentions. Just no delivery.

The old man moved us from state to state. Job to job. Never settled down. He’d take a job for a couple of years and get tired of it; either quit or get fired. We’d leave in the middle of the night. Packing the station wagon with only essentials. Mom left pots and pans on the stove. Some gas grill dad had bought got left behind as well. We’ll get brand new ones, the old man said as we left trailer park after trailer park under the moon’s light.

We lived in Mississippi, then Kentucky, moved north to Ohio and Michigan, before settling in Pennsylvania. The hills were green in the spring and had a combination of colors in autumn. Leaves would pile up in the front yard. I raked them into piles then placed all the colors into garbage bags. Dad paid me a dollar for every pile. I was sure to make several.

You’re gonna break me too, he said with whiskey on his breath. Everybody wants money from me, he mumbled. Can’t keep up, he’d take another drink. Every time the phone rang my dad would tell mom, Don’t answer it. Just another bill collector, he said, flipping through channels. Surely they know we can’t pay em, mom would shake her head. The phone never stopped ringing.

I’d run into buddies of his down at the VFW. They’d ask, Where’s your old man at? Haven’t seen him much, they’d smile. I started answering the phone. The trail of debt was miles long. A hundred here and there. In some cases a grand. Time was running out.

When he was dying, I asked him,why he didn’t pay off his debts? The old man looked at me. Did you always have a roof over your head? I nodded. Did you ever starve? I told him no. Did I always pay you for raking leaves?

Impossible

that she waits for me

and not someone else.

Sometimes fortune smiles

on fools.

Of a million souls I was picked

by her (in a country where windmills are slayed).

And, lying in wait, she makes her choice.

Can it be?

Sometimes fortune smiles on fools.

It has grinned at me.

Happy Birthday my love.

Crickets. Heard crickets throughout the night. Sounded like they were inside the house. Loud. Making that sound that crickets make. Singing away. They might’ve been outside my window. Kept me awake.

My dad used crickets as fishing bait. He’d put em on the hook and cast way out. Said bass liked em. And blue gill.

I used worms. Big long red worms. Some were fat and others skinny. Would wrap em ’round my hook and let em fly. A worm soaring through the air. Till it landed in the trees.

You fishing for squirrels? my father would ask. What’re you doing all up in those trees?disgusted that his son was not a fisherman. Cut the line, he said. Cut the damn line, he told me in his Northern Texas accent. Here, he took the pole from my hands. Pulled out a pocket knife from his front pocket. A big knife. With several blades folded into one. Just sit back and watch, he said, cutting the line. Just sit over there and watch how I do it.

For hours I sat and watched him fish. Casting over the green waters of Arkansas. He’d pull em in one after the other. Made me real jealous. Actually, just made me wanna go home.

Heard crickets throughout the night. Thought of dad. To this day, I hate fishing.

He followed the moon. Drove east towards Ohio. Passed small towns; Monroeville, Decatur, on into Lima just up the road a bit.

Kept the radio on an AM station out of Toledo. Came in clear as a bell. There were no clouds in the sky; frequency ran pure. Men and women from all over America calling in to pitch their two cents worth. Talking about the price of gas, groceries,war, blaming Democrats and Republicans, calling for an uprising, a real revolution with guns and militias coming from all over the country. They were ringing a bell. A calling out over radio waves at two in the morning. He checked his gun to make sure it was loaded.

The young man kept driving into early morning. Chasing the sun. Headed towards New York. Took the Lincoln Tunnel into the city. Drove fast in the tunnel. Turned off the radio and listened to sounds of tires rolling on pavement at high rates of speed. No passing.

It was New York City. His eyes wide awake. Open to any possibilities. Bums asking for money. Pregnant women asking for dollars. A sign read, Gotta get back to Jersey. The young man drove around Manhattan not knowing where to turn and where not to turn. Wound up in the Bronx. Up on Hunts Point. Saw hookers walking around, pimps on corners, junkies laying on sidewalks. Homeless men and women following a zombie trail. He was a long way from home. But, then again, he had no home. Just a pickup and a gun. And in America, that’s all you need. He had work to do.

It was his job to cleanse the country. God had given him this assignment. That’s what he thought. The blonde hair, blue eye boy was here to save the United States. That was the task at hand.

I’ll have this place cleaned up in no time, he whispered. He then prayed for guidance. Rolled down his window. Stuck his gun out and looked through his scope. The job had begun.

What’re you looking at? he asked. She continued looking at him. His face, green eyes, brown hair, she took it all in. I said, what’re you looking at? the young man lit a cigarette. You’re watching me huh? Can’t keep your eyes off me, he said. She nodded. Kept on looking at him. I wish you’d stop, he said. Making me nervous, the young woman walked over and ran her long fingers through his curly hair.

It’s been a long time since I really looked at you, she said. Last time I really looked was on our wedding day, she took the cigarette from his fingers and puffed on it then placed it in his mouth.

Is this some kind of ritual? Some kind of voodoo thing? he asked, she continued stroking his hair. The tall blonde stood in front of him and placed his hand on her breast. He smiled. Tell me what you want, he said. Tell me, he kicked off his cowboy boots. She put her finger on his nose and told him, nothing.

I don’t want a thing anymore, she proclaimed, removing his hand from her body. It’s been too long. You haven’t looked at me in the longest of times. And now I look at you and you’re not looking back, she said. I looked into your soul. And there’s nothing there. Just misery, she said. The young woman opened the door and looked outside. A storm was coming. Wind was blowing over trees and trash cans. A hard rain fell. See that? she asked him. That used to turn me on, she said. Remember? Minute a storm hit we’d be in bed. If there was a blackout, all the better, she lit a cigarette, continued watching the storm. Now. Nothing. You don’t even look at me when I walk around here naked. What is it? Why?

He didn’t know what to say. She was right, he thought. I’m done with this. He looked at her briefly. Mumbled, you want a divorce? You wanna end this thing?

There was silence. Neither of them said a word. They avoided each other’s eyes. She nodded her head, yes.

The young man grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and looked. Just looked in her direction. Opened the can with his finger. You want one? he asked her. She quietly said no.

They couldn’t see each other. They stopped looking years ago. Not just him. Her too. There was nothing to say. He turned on the TV and sat in his favorite chair. Flipped through channels. She went to bed. Wide awake throughout the night. She heard the car door shut and the engine start. The woman ran to the window and watched as he backed out of the gravel driveway.

Goodbye she said. Goodbye.

Coffee grounds. There’s coffee grounds at the bottom of my cup. Can’t you do anything right? Make a cup of coffee? Boil water? Did you accidentally tear the filter? Or, were you just sloppy? Over-filling it? There’s not much of a science to it. It doesn’t take physics to figure this out, he lit a cigarette; spit black dots back into the cup. You wanna try to make another pot? she shook her head. Practice makes perfect, he said. If at first you don’t succeed…

Make your own damn coffee, she mumbled.

What was that?

I said. Make your own damn coffee, she said clearly. The old man laughed, flipped through channels on television. You think you’re real cute, she said. You’re a bully. Always have been. Going all the way back to grade school. Don’t know why I’ve stuck with you all these years, she cried. Don’t know why.

That’s it, he said. Go on. Get it all out. Can’t take criticism. That’s what it is, he went to the refrigerator. That’s the boy’s problem too, he remarked. Can’t take a lick of criticism. The question is, why did I stick around all these years? ‘Cause I’m no quitter, he said. Look at you. You gave up years ago. And that boy is going down the same path. You’re like two peas in a pod. Always against me, he moved items around. Bologna. Salami. Turkey. Where’s the ham?

We don’t have any, she sobbed.

Didn’t you go to the store?

I forgot.

How do you forget ham? It’s a three letter word, he said. It comes in different varieties; honey glazed, brown sugar cured, country ham…

Go get you some, she yelled while walking out the front door of the trailer.

Get back in here, he yelled. We ain’t done talking.

I need air, she said. Fresh air.

All this over coffee grounds. You making a scene. He grabbed the keys to the truck on the counter. I’m gonna go get some things. Like ham and a decent cup of coffee. You want anything?

I’m fine. I’m fine.