dmseay

He didn’t say anything. Stood there. Mute. Kept looking down at the floor. They told him his public defender would be there soon. Meanwhile he waited in the cage. Black and brown men stared at him. A white man came over to him and whispered, it’s us against them. He continued looking at the concrete floor. His head did not move.

Dressed in orange, the boy had already accepted that his freedom was stripped. He kept thinking of the night in question. It wasn’t his idea to go down to the river. She wanted to. Said she liked the sound of running water in the dark. Said she liked to wrestle in the tall grass.

And he did. He took her down to the river and they made love in the brown weeds. Winter was ending and spring was on its way. He felt the full moon on his back; inside his head. Telling him to kill her. The moon told him to place his hands on her neck. Said to squeeze the life out of her. The sound of the water got louder. The moon shined brighter.

They said he didn’t mean to do it. Said it was an act of passion. He sat there and thought about it for a long, long time. Years went by. He felt remorse. Wanted to pay for his sins. The moon glowed that night. Through prison walls he could feel it’s dark magic. Right down to his bones.

The boy was found the next morning with a white sheet ’round his neck. He was pronounced dead at seven a.m. The following night, the moon did not shine.

He used to call her at three in the morning.  Just to hear her voice. Sitting in the factory’s lunch room on his break, he’d speak to her on the payphone. Other guys would drink their coffee and talk about home runs hit on a softball field, their mother’s cooking, the truck they just bought, while he stood in the corner talking to her. All for the cost of a quarter.

She’d tell him how her day went. Talk about going to the grocery store, what she made for dinner; a plate was put in the refrigerator for him. She made some kind of Hamburger Helper dish. He liked those.

The young mom would tell him she wanted to see him as soon as he got off work. Always said she had a surprise for him; a deterrent from going to the bar. He’d go straight home.

And there she’d be. Playing a Charlie Rich tape. Dressed in a silk robe. Watching him eat at the table. The kids were in school; they had all day.

The blonde would draw the curtains, blocking out the sun. It’d be pitch black. She’d grab his hand and lead him back to the bedroom. The sound of trucks going by on the highway put him to sleep. The wife would hold him up to her, tight, not letting go. Never letting go.

She loved him.

He spent hours looking at photographs. Old black and whites, some colored, snapshots of his past. Wedding pictures, family vacations, his mom and dad, he sifted through them one at a time. Each one meant something to him. He knew the history behind all the pics. Could tell you when his son broke his leg playing baseball. Remembered his daughter on prom night. How beautiful his wife was.

The pictures were put away in his cedar chest. He turned off the lights and drew the curtains; walked down the hallway. Those pictures haunted him as he tried to sleep. These people were one time a part of his life. Now there was no contact at all. Just memories. He didn’t know who was dead and who was still alive. Cut off.

She let him go. He wanted out and she gave him the green light. That was so long ago. There was always talk of him leaving. Never in front of the children. Just when they slept in opposite rooms towards the end. She’d go to bed. He’d sleep on the couch. Every night a whispered argument. He’d want to go out. Drink away the problems. She wouldn’t allow it. They began to hate each other. There never was any love really. Just two room mates with kids. They faked it well.

And now he sat on his bed at midnight. Wondering if he could’ve loved her. Maybe he did for a split second. Maybe a half hour. He just got married ’cause it was expected of him. It’s what you did back then ; lie. Tell her you loved her. Get a job on an assembly line. And do all you’re supposed to do. He did that. Until he couldn’t anymore.

It’s hard to live a lie. People see through it. Family, friends, co-workers, bartenders, they all see who you truly are. Everyone saw it in him.

She gave him the photo album. Forced it on him. She didn’t want it. The ex-wife told him, keep it or burn it. She didn’t care. And so, half a life was placed in a cedar chest. He never took it out again.

He turned a light on to see in the dark. There was garbage bags and debris all over the floor. A mud trail from dirty shoes; she always asked to take them off before entering the house.

In the corner there were stacks of clothes marked, Salvation Army. These were clothes that no longer fit him; too small. There were jeans and shirts in the piles. An old tee-shirt that said Generals on it in red. It was from his high school days long ago. He handed it down to his son, who, just wanted to get rid of it. The boy threw away everything the father had given him.

Another light was turned on. This one in the spare bedroom. He opened the door.There was graffiti on the wall. Blue words spray painted on cream white. They were curse words. Words often said around the house. The Lord’s name taken in vain. Pictures of stick figures being stabbed. Words coming from their mouths; ouch and hahaha.

The old man took it all in. He didn’t see the purpose for it. Just anger. Madness. He always knew there was a mean streak in that boy. He tried to raise him right, but, the kid never listened. He’d stay in his room all day. Blasting music. Some kind of rap songs. That’s what he listened to.

The father shut the door. He never opened it again.

She didn’t expect to see him. Standing there next to his pick-up in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. At first she didn’t recognize him. Beard, mustache, gained a little weight in the midsection. She didn’t know whether or not to approach him.

It’s been years, she said. You look healthy, the housewife admitted. What have you been up to? she reached out to touch his arm.

A little of this. A little of that, he said. You look good, he told her. You always did, she blushed. You and your husband still live in town? she nodded. Kids must be in college I guess, she smiled.

One’s at State and the other a senior this year. You ever get around to having kids? he shook his head no. Where you living these days? she inquired.

He hit his truck with his hand. Right here,he stated.

In your truck?

Yeah. I like it. I’m free.

You always were a wondering spirit, they laughed. He moved into kiss her cheek. She backed away. No. I’m sorry. I just can’t.

Just a goodbye kiss? she whispered, no. They just looked at each other. She pushed her cart to her car. He stood there. She never turned around.

Rain washed the snow away. Blacktop streets shined. Brown grass in front yards exposed. So was dog shit.

The old man kept an eye on the neighborhood. Watched as the paper boy threw his goods up on the front porches. Riding along on his bike. Being chased by the mutt across the street.

Streetlights glowed in the early morning hours. The sun was coming up over the city. Joggers ran their usual course. Right past him while he looked on with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Women spoke as they ran. Talking about husbands and children, grocery lists and errands to run. You could see their breath. A few cars would pass. Men going to work. Whistling at the housewives. They were flattered. But, kept face by calling them pigs.

He put on his sweater and went out to the front porch. Smoke poured from chimneys. A new pope had been elected. The old man said his morning prayers. He was thankful. Glad to still be alive.

The morning sun shined down on him. It warmed his soul, his face. These were his days.

There was no sound. No cars up and down the street. No garbage trucks making noise. The train was not running through town. It was just quiet.

He stayed up all night long listening to the silence. It did not put him at ease. Nor did it give him peace. The quiet night scared him. Made him think of the disasters to come. War, famine, sickness, people begging in the streets, all of this crossed his mind.

Paranoia got hold of him. The old man couldn’t think straight. He wondered if he was married, had any kids? Didn’t know his age. Thought there were soldiers outside his door.

This eerie feeling of death loomed over him. He thought, maybe it’s time? he whispered. Went back to the bedroom and pulled the drawer open on his nightstand. There it was. A pistol with a bullet inside. He looked at the gun and placed it to his sweaty head. He smiled.

The silence lasted forever.

The house was bare. No more television. Couch was tossed out to the curb. Chairs stacked in the back of a pick-up truck. Soon they’d be gone too. Salvation Army or some charitable organization. He no longer had any belongings.

Placed a few pairs of underwear and shirts in a backpack. Wore the same shorts daily. Figured out West he wouldn’t need any long pants. His days of church going were over.

He left behind a home. A brick building he called a home. Had been there all his life. His mom and dad lived there. So did his grandparents. And with the stroke of a pen, it was gone. His property. His history.

It was the beginning of summertime. Night air was cool. The old man pulled his truck into rest areas along the interstates and stretched out in the back. Used a sweat shirt for a blanket.

Many nights the radio would put him to sleep. Jazz on some local public radio station. Playing songs he grew up with. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans to name a few. He would hum along.

And he drove all over the country. Colorado, California, Texas, North Dakota. He followed no maps. Just drove where ever the spirit lead him. And, that’s all he wanted. Just to drive and listen to jazz. This was his American dream.

Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. A mother bird sings to her children. Trees are budding early this year. Grass is starting to green. He is alone.

Death surrounded him. Friends, lovers, a dog. It was one after the other. Like a plague, it was bad news on a daily basis. And still war raged on.

Old women pray at church for peace. Thousands have left behind family and neighbors. Young men gear up for battle. Tanks roll down streets. Murder most foul in the name of oil. Dead lye in corridors.

Jets fire upon buildings and bridges. No where to run. Half a million people knock on neighbor’s doors. Refugees; cold, hungry. Waiting. Wanting. This is war.

Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. He is alone.

It’s strange how every ending is the same beginning. The same start as you had last time. Not knowing what the future holds. Grasping at anything tangible. Wanting for hope.

He had been in this situation before; several times. Backpack and bus ticket in hand. Without a clue as to where he would land. The ticket said Denver, but, it could have been Albuquerque. Might have been Tucson, or, Indigo, California. A name is just a name. A town is just a town. He knew this to be true. His history proved it.

The fat man gave up on being stationary. He had to move. And when he got there, he’d have to move again. Maybe up in the wine country where he could pick grapes with the Mexicans. Perhaps down South. Standing at the crossroads. Waiting to sell his soul. And for what? Another meal? Some bedbug sleeping room in Memphis? He was far from Graceland. He was far from grace.

His fortune never came. Got close a couple of times by marriage. Money? What is money? They went on vacations. Country drives on weekends. A house built in 1867. They were young and successful. At least she was. He went along for the ride. Then one day it was over. The fat man left in the middle of the night. Kissed her on the cheek and walked out of a marriage, a partnership. She went on dreaming.

And now he was back where he was before; on a bus heading west. Leaving troubles behind. Taking on new ones. Every ending is the same beginning. There is no change.