dmseay

They sat around the campfire till moonlight. Tents were placed down the hill upon dried out pine needles and dirt. Greenery of summer had gone. Now it was browning leaves that crackled when stepped on.

A weekend away from wives, children, responsibilities. Just beer and deer. The men came to hunt. To go after the elusive buck. They’d take a doe if they had to.

Men wearing camouflage and bright orange hats. Half grown beards chisled on their faces . Smelling of burnt wood, alcohol, and weed.

John had brought a dime bag with him for the trip. The others did not mind. It’d been years since they’d gotten high. Two of them, Nick and Gary fell asleep with smiles on their faces while John and Tom stayed up all night philosophizing about politics, women, the war in Iraq, pulling out of Afghanistan, and the best way to strip clean a buck. These talks usually ended with both saying, Yeah man. And, I love you man. A real sense of brotherhood.

As the sun came up Nick and Gary loaded their guns. Checked little things like a full flask, cigarettes, a knife, and a flashlight. They also made sure their cellphones were fully charged. In case of emergency.

The two looked over at John and Tom and decided to wake them up by pissing as close to their heads as possible. A yellow stream ran down the hill and past the two on the ground. The two hunters decided to let them sleep, figuring that sooner or later the bright light in the sky would wake them.

John took off to the north while Tom stayed south. They used binoculars to survey the land. No deer. They walked further. This time east and west. Still, nothing. Then they heard a gun go off. A shot from a distance. Sounded like it came from behind. There was a quiet. Just silence. They did not move. They knew a deer must be close. The two began retracing their steps. And, more shots were heard. The hunters picked up their pace.

They then stumbled across a body laying in the weeds. He was bleeding; incoherent. Looked like the bullet hit him square in the back. He could not move. Blood began to pour from his mouth. His eyes wide open.

Tom called 911. It took awhile, but, paramedics showed up on the scene to call it. A life over. Dead. You know this is private property don’t ya? the medic asked. They nodded their heads. The police will want to ask questions, he told them. Yes, they responded.

It was reported as an accident. And no one ever fessed to it. A week later the four meet at a bar for drinks and Ohio State football. John and Tom stayed quiet for the most part. While Nick and Gary would celebrate touchdowns by saying, I love you man.

She lay asleep down the hall. He looked at the moon with binoculars. A half moon. Rarely did he catch it full, in all it’s glory. It was always a half or a quarter. He’d check the calendar and then sleep right through. Maybe the whole moon did that to him. Maybe it was just bad luck.

He went to bed early every night. Way before she did. Then woke up a lot of times ’round midnight. The old man would place earplugs in his large ears and listen to Coltrane, Miles, Chet Baker, whatever mood had hit him. Then, he’d just stare at the moon. Bill Evans would play Gloria’s Step, and he would adjust his lenses. Looking at it. High in a dark sky. Wanting so desperately to go. To leave and have the moon follow him. A silver shimmer chase him. To be caught by it’s majestic light.

And one night, he did. He knew the wife would sleep. She never rolled over. The old man took a long look at the moon that night. Got in his old pickup. And drove down the highway with a full moon following him. Cigarettes were tossed out the window. The burnt butts of an orange glow skipped along the road. Miles played Kind Of Blue. And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

The old man parked the truck down by the river. He looked at the ball shining down on water. He took a picture in his mind. Wanted to remember this night. The night he was chased by a full moon. And captured by it’s magic.

Boxes. He looked in boxes for a book, The Catcher in the Rye. His hero Holden Caufield was hiding; didn’t want to be found. Just like Salinger. Hiding.

The old man went through box after box. Kerouac, Melville, Malmud, Mamet, Shepard, a book of poetry by Dylan, but, no Catcher. He had a lot of books at one time. At least three hundred. Had a lot of jazz albums too. All of it was sold after the divorce. He just drove around America with a few clothes and a copy of Leaves Of Grass. Whitman got him through.

The last time he read Salinger was in college. Got hooked on Ten Stories by J.D. Read the book over and over again. Made him think; ponder. For a year he carried it with him everywhere. Read it in the park, down by the lake, in coffee shops, in his basement. It’s what led him to Holden.

And now he was just an old man trying to experience youth one more time. Where are you Holden Caufield? Where are you?

There was two empty egg cartons on the table along with other debris. Empty beer bottles, a Juicy Fruit wrapper, papers with numbers on them, recipes, reading glasses, and a Romper Room clown head on a stick. To the side was an empty box that read, Del Monte Gold.

Jackets, coats, and clothes were thrown over chairs. A ripped Bulls’ tee-shirt with the logo on it laid on the counter along with empty milk jugs, orange juice bottles, banana peels. A broken cookie jar shaped like an old butter churn was there too. Yesterday’s newspapers laid loosely.

The place looked like it had been abandoned. Doors had shit streaks on them. Old wooden floors were warped. Windows were broken. People came and went throughout the night. Staying inside all day until dark again. The sun melted them.

A sign on the door said, condemned. Junkies and crackheads paid no attention. Neither did people in the neighborhood. Mrs. Johnson sat across the street eyeing the place with binoculars. Kids would ride bicycles past and pick up pace just a bit. Old men sat at the corner bar and watched Vanna spin the wheel. Never did they discuss the community’s eye sore.

It’s just how things went on Chicago’s southwest side. Away from Bridgeport. Miles from Canaryville. And, a drive from Hyde Park, on the southwest side, people had given up. The murder rate escalated. Drug dealers on every corner. Homes in disrepair. The cost of human life was cheap.

The six o’clock news would report stories of homicides, car jacking, a cop shot on duty. That would take up five minutes of their broadcasts. Then it was onto weather and sports, advertisements. But, hope was not for sale.

Trees are bare in the Midwest. November is upon us. The old man rakes leaves into piles. All brown. All dead. Wet from morning dew.

Kids bundled up as they walk to the bus stop. Wool hats, puffy coats, jackets with football team’s names on them; black and gold, blue and silver, and one that just says Bears.

A fight breaks out between two of the waiting youths. They wrestle to the ground. Grass stains on jeans. A bloody nose. It’s black verses white. The bus comes. They get on. The white kid cries. The black child mouths off. The bus drives down the road past the old man raking leaves.

A cold wind blows.

They were done. No longer did they roll over to look at each other in bed. No goodnight kisses. No holding onto each other throughout the night.

Thirty years of marriage. You’d think some kind if treaty would be signed. But, there were no negotiations. It just happened one day. He didn’t kiss her goodbye as he went out the door for work. And, she didn’t seem to mind.

She stopped pouring his coffee in the morning. Stopped making breakfast. He no longer shaved, or, held the door for her. Their kids said they stopped trying. Maybe it was a show all along.

And, one day silence was broken. She said the unthinkable. Told him she was leaving. Had it all planned out. Move to Boise. Get a job doing something. Make the rest of her years the best years. That is, no more pretending.

The U-haul was parked in the driveway. She took what she wanted. Old pictures of the kids. Grandkids on her knee. Old records they no longer played were tossed out. Books she never read were donated to the library. She left the bed. Bought a twin mattress instead.

He did not wave goodbye. No hugs. They did not embrace. Just signatures on a legal document; they split the cost.

Over, she sighed. Over. And she took off on 80.

The sun hasn’t come up yet. Nor is there moonlight aglow. Cops drinking coffee at the diner. Round waitress in tight jeans serves them with a smile.

Morning Jen, men folk say as they come in from the cold. Coffee and the usual, they all say, ranging anywhere from a bear claw to biscuits and gravey. One fellow orders eggs over easy with bacon. No toast, no potatoes. Diabetes hit him hard. Made him change his tune. They no longer call him Tiny.

Jen makes rounds with coffee, asking each table if they need a refill. Words like, darling, sweetheart, and dear are tossed around. Men stare at her ass as she walks away. Took every bit of energy she had to get those Levi’s on this morning. These were her lucky pair. Christmas is coming and she needs to make dough. Got a new grandson. Her daughter just quit high school.

And the cops leave two dollars each. Grab one to go. A York peppermint patty is purchased. Says he likes the way it mixes with the black coffee. His partner laughs at him. Tells him to just suck on a candy stick. Lasts longer. Then he calls him a fag and they walk out the door.

You’re always talking in homosexual terms, the cop says. You ever wonder bout yourself? Mr. Macho shakes his head. Serious, you might want to delve into that with a professional, the partner grins.

Jen waves goodbye and another man walks in. Coffee dear? she asks. Need a menu? He smiles and says he’ll just have the usual.

The Greyhound was packed. All seats were taken. Debris on the floor; empty bottles, Orange Crush, grape soda, McDonald’s bags. Graffiti on the backs of chairs written in black marker; Fuck Whitey, it read.

There was an uneasiness on the bus. A silence. People with earphones in, sleeping in curled up positions, texting away to someone they were meeting, or, leaving, last words, final words.

Who was meeting these people? the old man wondered. What stop was their’s? he looked out at the autumn bit trees. South Bend, Elkhart, Fort Wayne, Youngstown, somewhere. They were all going somewhere.

He bought a ticket for New York. It’d been awhile since he’d been there. The old man spent his youth in and out of the city. In and out of shelters. Some things never change. Like the gray skies of November in Ohio. Some things never change.

There were opportunities the old man had; each one slipped through his hands. Couldn’t keep a job to save his life. Spent time in mental wards; Yale, Bellevue, Alan Presbyterian, others all around the country. Diagnosed as bipolar. His folks just said he was crazy.

But, this would be it. His last trip. He was done with backpacking cross country. It was time to settle. Settle in New York? Sounded like a death sentence. Maybe that’s what he wanted.

The bus went east on 80. All the way through Ohio. Leaves of rust dotted the interstate. Construction signs. Left lane closed ahead. The old man thought briefly about getting off in Cleveland. He had been there before. Spent a year in the Forest City. Used to sleep under bridges by the Cuyahoga. Met a nice lady there. She was running too. Just like all of us; from herself.

No, he wanted to see Gotham one more time before he died. One more time through Central Park. Hang out in Washington Square. Get a slice for a buck.

We all have places we want to be buried in. Tombs, the ocean, a vase atop a mantle of a loved one. He wanted to finally rest with the poor. For that’s where he belonged.

Two flags bend in the breeze

Gadsden…old stars and stripes

A field of grain has been harvested

Pumpkins and gourds are piled in the front yard

Yellows, greens, reds, and rust

Soon grass will be brown

Dogs bark at passing cars

Life goes on

He turned the coffee on. She was still asleep. Looked out the window at the darkness. Saw red tail lights moving down the street. A truck dragging a boat. Summer had ended. Now it was time for cold mornings and warm afternoons. Carry a sweatshirt with you just in case.

Friday night high school football had started. Parents in the bleachers yelling out for their kids on the field. Students walking around the track talking about when they’re going to leave this town. A town with a gas station, a truck stop, and a McDonald’s. The Piggly Wiggly grocery store. And, the paper mill that employed half the village. Friday night football had started. And, they wouldn’t be a part of it.

He had a job at the car wash a couple of towns over. The kid was good. Strong work ethic. He jumped in and out of cars all evening long. Wiping down the interior. Washing the windows. Spraying scents of orange, lavender, spices of fall, and winter pine.

The boy made some money. Enough to put gas in the car and take his girl out on Friday nights. The rest he saved in a glass jar under his bed. Promised himself when it got full he was going to leave this town. Go off to New York City, or, Chicago, or, Los Angeles. Someplace where he could live his own life, on his terms. Follow his dreams. Fantasies that changed from day to day.

It was now autumn. Early in the morning. The coffee was brewing while she slept down the hall. He missed his son. Wondered why he left? They never heard from him again. Not a call, or, an email. A letter was never sent. He thought about tracing him down. But, the boy probably wanted to be left alone.

Kids are hard to figure out, pop whispered. Damn hard to figure out. You think they’re happy. But, they’re not, he said to himself.

Leaves were changing. Air was crisp. Perfect for a Friday night. Perfect. Almost.