dmseay

He used to talk alot. Big plans. Telling tales about leaving town. Going places like New York, San Francisco, Chicago. Said he had a woman in each of those towns. Real women, he said. Not like ’round here, he’d take another shot. Pool balls ran all over green velvet. Chalk flew.

Supported himself in all kinds of ways. He said he played billiards with the best of them. His specialty was eight ball. The tall lanky young man was always the last to knock the magic black ball in. Said he spent his money as fast as he made it. Spent it on booze and women. Had nothing to show for it but marks on his neck.

The kid wore a cowboy hat. Nice one. Brown. Had a leather band going ’round it. Said he won it from a guy in Dallas. Couldn’t pay up. So he took his hat. Looked like a movie star. He did take pride in the way he looked. Straight legged jeans and fancy western shirts. Chicks dug him. Least he said so.

Called himself Dean. Didn’t catch the last name. I kept thinking of Dean Moriarty. Crazy roustabout. Said he was heading out to Denver. Just like Dean Moriarty in the book. Was gonna get his kicks out there for awhile. Said there was a doll waiting for him. Cute little blonde girl. One of many I suppose.

You never know with guys like this. What’s true and what’s a lie. I gotta feeling it was all lies. He talked too much.

The body sat there. Stretched out in a wooden chair. Arms dangling. All the windows were open. A warm breeze blew through the house. The coffee pot was still on. There was bread in the toaster. A stick of butter softened.

No one else was in the house. It was just him, an eighty year old male with no signs of foul play. It was amazing that the body never fell to the floor. His gray head tilted. Shoulders over the back of the wooden chair. It was as if God placed him there.

No pictures hung on the walls. Under his glass coffee table laid a stack of Playboys. Back when the women were naked. The detective scanned through one. It was Dorothy Stratten. Naked. The blonde that screwed that Jewish director. Was killed by a jealous boyfriend. People have hard lives.

Looked like a heart attack.They placed the long body in a bag. Zipped it and sent it off to the morgue. No family, lawyers, or friends to get a hold of. Just him. And a stack of Playboys.

He heard the train coming through town. Real fast at first then slowing down as the brakes squealed. The sun was out reflecting on the snow. He shoveled bit by bit to the rhythm of the train. And when it stopped, so did he.

Taking a brake, the old man took out a flask of whiskey from his coat pocket. Sweat rolled down his weathered face. Old and lined, seasoned, with a nose that was swollen and ruddy. He took his drink then could hear the train starting up again. The short, squat, man got back in the groove; placing the snow off to the side. He was becoming short of breath, but, kept going. As if he were on a mission.

And, he was on a mission. He wanted to die. Leave this world behind. It was suicide by shoveling.

Faster and faster he went. Keeping up with the music of the train. Breathing heavily. He figured he was worth more dead than alive. His wife watched from the front living room window.

They had talked about it. The married couple of forty-two years decided this was best. No longer able to make house payments, or, keep up with bills, the insurance policy was taken out; a hundred grand in his name. They figured she could live on that.

Soon, the old man was bent over in the driveway. He tried to shovel one more pile, but couldn’t. He fell over in the snow. Held onto his heart. And yelled out, so long Marie.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and waited. Waited for the right time to dial 911. She looked through old pictures of when they were young. When he had hair. And, she had all her teeth. Trips across America with the kids. The kids that barely talked to them anymore. She smiled. It was a good day to die.

These days. Remembering you. What was that coat you wore in winter? Your eyes were blue.

Walking along a path. Reminded of our walks, our talks, a dog led the way. Picking up sticks amongst the brown pine needles. Smelling their scent. Peeling back the bark. Shaved with a knife. Whittled down to nothing. What were we looking for?

Never ending always ends. Till death do us part are only words. We say them in vain. Our lives lived together coming to a halt.

Where are you? With another? The purple sky tells a story. It is a love story. Of how we make promises. If only those promises were kept.

She used to walk up and down North Avenue every night. Like it was her calling. Black chick with a blonde wig. She stood out from the rest of them. And tall, she could’ve played forward for the Bulls. Red lipstick.

I watched her from Friar’s Grill on Milwaukee. It’d be around two, just after a night of drinking. Everything looked good. Or, it was all so ugly, I found a beauty in it.

Surrounded by the night’s finest. TV whores, pushers, twinks, junkies, BMW’s cruising down North. Looking for a taste of the night. Some country song playing as I ate my liver and onions. A buck left in my pocket.

Heard she had her regulars. She didn’t just do it with anybody. The most expensive girl in Wicker Park. Men would drive by in junkers, beaters, she shook her head to all of them. Watching behind glass, I could see her saying no. She still maintained the same pace as the cars. Slowly moving. But, she looked straight forward. Never at them. She was a heart breaker.

One night she wasn’t there. Then one night turned into a month, then a year, then forever. Word was she cleaned up her act. Quit hooking it. Got rid of the wig and the platforms. They said you wouldn’t recognize him anymore. Said he was still in the neighborhood. Just no longer wore a dress.

Winter light. Sun covered by clouds. Only ice sheets of streets shine. They glimmer in frozen rain. It is dark.

These weeks of darkness. Make us hollow inside. Trying to fill the void, we sleep like bears in the forest. Under blankets. A pillow softens our dreams. Dreams fueled by wine and cough suppressant. Snoring away the days.

Next month is March. The sun will flirt with us. Dancing in the sky. Moving east to west. It’s all an illusion. Earth does not stand still. And, the winter light does not last but for a season.

I’m ready for a Guinness.

She was standing on the side of the road. Thumb out. Waiting. Looking for someone to give her a ride. Chevys, Fords, small compact cars passed her by. Maybe they were as worried about her as she was about them. Safety. It’s hard to come by on the side of a road in Oklahoma. Everyone’s got a gun. Except her. She just had some lipstick,blush,Juicy Fruit, and a twenty her mom gave her. Just before she died, her mom gave her a twenty. Said she couldn’t take it with her.

The Dodge was clean. Washed it before he hit the road. An old Dodge pickup. Blue and white. The rims shined. He was on his way to Los Angeles.Wanted to be a movie star. Like John Wayne. He could play a cowboy or a war hero. His resume said so. Had colored pictures of himself in various poses. They sat next to him in a big envelope. Dust kicked around. He rolled the windows up.

The girl smiled when she saw his truck. She stuck her thumb out even farther. Tired from walking. Cowboy boots are hard on asphalt. Her feet hurt. All of her did. Man she wanted that truck to pull over. She felt it in her bones that he would. She felt him.

But, like most men he passed her by. Left her there. Kept on driving. She sat down in the ditch. Put her jacket on the ground to lay on. And, as the Oklahoma sun went down, she dreamt. Dreamt of a man in a Dodge. Giving her a ride. She heard coyotes in the background. She slept with one eye open. She cried with the other one closed.

It was dark. Too dark for anyone to see her. She’d look like a ghost in the headlights. So, she just sat there. Looking at the purple sky of early morning.

The storm had come and gone. Outside, a blanket of snow, ice, blackbirds flying over head. He tore old pieces of wheat bread and threw them out in the covered yard. Later in the afternoon he would see birds eating his gifts. He’d smile.

With the sun peaking through clouds, he opened the window shades bringing in more light. He turned off The Price Is Right and just sat there. Sun beams pouring in on him. Drinking coffee.

He lit a cigarette and stood up. Walked to the kitchen and looked outside again. He thought of making snow angels like when he was a kid. His whole family would be outside making snow angels; sister, mother, dad, bundled up baby. All having a wonderful time. And then one day, the snow melted. No more angels.

This land is bare.

Bare and brown.

The death of summer happened some time ago.

Now it is winter.

Cold and blustery February.

Waiting for Saint Patrick’s bells to ring.

The longing for the lusty month of May.

Wanting to see green again.

She was thirsty for sunlight. It’d been dark for so long. Even during daytime the sun remained tucked away behind gray clouds.

The young woman traveled from East to West following what little light there was. Her old Ford pickup would get up to about seventy. She drove into night.

Stars would guide her. Small twinkling lights in the sky forming arrows, signs saying, This Way. Highway mile markers, billboards, gas prices, she passed em by. Seemed like her tank was always full.

West Arkansas going into Texas gets lonely at midnight. Radio kept the brunette company. She hummed along to country western songs blazing a trail. Running from something. She was always on the go. No destination. Just following stars.

And, morning purple came mixed with sherbet orange as she drove into Lubbock. She pulled the truck over at a rest area and looked east. Watched the sun glimmer a little. It was 5:42 in the morning. She felt at home.