dmseay

The fish in the refrigerator was leftover from the night before. Cod. Yes. It was cod pan fried in olive oil with salt, pepper, a tiny bit of garlic and paprika. He remembered she shook the seasonings on lightly.

While she tended to the fish, he chopped a blend of yellow squash, zucchini, and onions. These were perfectly seasoned as well, but, with a little basil chopped up for good measure.

He heated the pan with oil from olives as well, and began placing the vegetables in the pan. You might want to turn your heat down, the wife said. He grinned and did as he was told. And basil? Why are you using basil? Will that taste good? she turned the fish over in the pan; one side had become crispy brown.

This ain’t my first rodeo, he said, again turning the flame down more. He kept stirring the squash, wanting it to snap when bitten into. The husband looked over at her fish. Always the star of the show, he thought. Me, I’m stuck with the sideshow, the assistant said in a whisper. The chef looked at him as she placed the fish on a paper towel for the grease to absorb.

Always in second, he said.

Pardon?

I said, always in second. Never the featured act.

What are you talking about?

The meal, the husband said. I’m always the supporting cast. Obviously your fish is the star of the show.

Really?

My mixture is simply meant to accent it.

You feel that way?

Yes. Yes, I do. In twenty-two years of marriage I’ve become nothing but an assistant, second to your first. However, the fish does look very good. I probably could’ve had the same results. Yes. I believe I could have.

Well, I suppose so, she said, shocked by his tantrum.

Who makes the turkey at Thanksgiving?

I do.

And the prime rib at Christmas?

That would be me.

Yes. Yes. And I’m stuck with stuffing and Yorkshire pudding. Simple tasks. Wouldn’t you agree?

Oh darling…

Don’t darling me. You’ve plotted throughout this marriage to always be the star of the show.

Have you lost your mind?

Perhaps. Yes. Perhaps.

There was a pause between them. The onions had began to caramelize. It smelled wonderful. The whole meal did. And, they looked at each other and began to laugh. He held her close and whispered, I’m sorry. At which she apologized as well.

The meal was eaten in silence.

It’s loud. Too loud. Babies crying for mother’s milk, homeboys asking for a dollar, a quarter, spare change. Wanting to use your cellphone to call their boy, or, baby’s momma.

Busses going in and out. Air brakes applied. The constant hum of engines and honking horns. A voice over the p.a. telling folks to go to their bus. No loitering.

And music is played way too loud; coming through a tinny phone speaker. Grown men rapping to songs about being a gangster, a thug, some stud kicking in the stalls. All night long.

The toilets are overflowing. Smells of piss and shit crawl through the air. Some guy kicking the pop machine. Wearing a wool hat in October; the leaves have yet to turn. He yells at himself. Over and over, he yells.

It’s loud. Too loud.

He could’ve stopped it. Prevented it. Should’ve been there. He was always accused of not spending enough time. Always out of town. Business trips. Out to L.A., New York, Japan, Sweden, a real world traveler. His career came first. He thought by doing so he was providing for his family. He could’ve stopped it.

Suburban autumn. Leaves piled in gutters. Grass cut a final time. The shudders on the house were black. Went well with the cream color of the pillars on the front porch. Windows always closed. The boy used to look outside at the trees in the yard. Maples, oaks, dogwoods, covered the front and back yard. When he was younger his father taught him how to climb. Said he was his monkey. The boy would jump from the oaks into a mess of colored leaves below. Reds, golds, rust, covered him. They’d laugh for hours.

That was a long time ago. Back when he was a child. As he got older, there was a loss of interest on his father’s part. Weekends were meant for naps in front of the television while college football played in silence. No sound. Just quiet throughout the house; mom was always doing laundry, or, cooking. She kept a tight ship; never too far from a feather duster, or, a roast in the oven. Dad slept till dinner time. The smells of gravy and seasonings would wake him. The teenager would just stay in his room until called. Then return to his room immediately following. Never stuck around for dessert.

Mom raised the child. Or, watched him grow. There were shouting matches at times, but, he kept to himself and she to herself. The key to the liquor cabinet was kept in her pocket. With her husband on the road, life got lonely. She would take a sip,or, two during the day, and at night when she could not sleep. It became a ritual. Dad would come home on Thursday and wonder where his brandy had gone. Sometimes she forgot to replace it. She forgot a lot of things.

They never saw it coming. Never entered their minds. One day the boy was gone. No note, letter, phone call, just gone. The two looked all over town for him. Placed a missing person’s report with the police. The Greyhound left in the early morning hours. He wanted to be a traveler too. Just like dad. A bag was packed and off he went. Alone. The boy was always alone.

Could’ve stopped it. Prevented it. Should’ve been there.

It was early morning when he saw her there. She knew he left his house at five each day. Fifteen after at the latest. He walked out to his truck in the gravel driveway with grass growing down the middle and there she was, looking just like he’d seen her before; blonde hair laying over her shoulders, red lipstick, jeans and cowboy boots. She was a tall drink of water. She towered over most men, but, not him. Maybe that was the attraction?

He asked what she was doing there? Asked if she had lost her mind? She stood in front of the driver’s door. Saying crazy things. Like, she wouldn’t be denied. And, they were meant for each other. He tried to block her from view. Stood in front of her. Hoped that his wife had gone back to bed. He saw the kitchen light go out.

She asked him if this was what he wanted? Some suburban house with a boring wife and a could’ve had life? Always looking back in regret? He told her to move out of the way. Said he’d be late to work. She just laughed. Tilted her head back and just cackled.

Come with me, she said. Come spend the day with me. She ran her finger over his mouth. He grabbed it. Threw it down beside her. Backed away. Now, don’t be that way, she flirted. You weren’t like that the other night when we met. No, you were sweet and charming. You were full of love. Now, what’s the matter?

I’m giving you five seconds to step away from my truck, he said. Want me to count it off for ya, he said in a whisper. He reached down into his jeans and pulled out a gun. Pointed it right at her. I mean business, he raised his voice. Five…four…three…two…one…A shot rang out. The bullet flew right over her left shoulder. A warning shot. She began to walk towards him.

Now don’t be that way, she scoffed. I just want to spend some time with ya, she placed her hand on the pistol. Come on now, she placed the other hand inside his pants. The blonde had confiscated the gun. He gave in. Like taking candy from a baby.

She held the gun to his head. You and me are gonna take a little ride, she told him. Get in your truck and do what I say, the woman demanded. He did as he was told. Two doors slammed shut. The porch light came on.

His wife stood behind the screen door watching as they drove away. She never saw him again.

It is peaceful.

There are no bad thoughts.

From a cafe I watch as moms push baby strollers, old men walk dogs, young couples hold hands.

Fall has come.

And, I feel it’s warmth.

Cutting grass was done with. Morning dew was heavy. Colors shined. Piles of leaves had not yet accumulated. Rooftops were wet. Sunshine poured down.

He sat on the front porch watching trains go by and listening to cars driving fast down the dirt road behind his house. It was private property, but, all the kids in town raced up and down it; daring the old man to take a shot at em. There were times when he did. Until they started firing back. Then he decided to give up the fight. Let em have it. It was their’s.

Now he just sat in an old wicker chair. Wandering where everybody was going? The trains ran east and west. So many of em. All with graffiti sprayed on em; folks marking their territory. He imagined there were hobos inside those cars. Going out to California, or, New Mexico. Maybe stop in Joplin for a week or two. He wandered.

These days were easy. Not like the old. Moving from town to town. Giving up on autumnal colors. Sleeping under bridges and in parks. Waking at sunlight.

No, these days were better. These days were better.

Lolita. He was reading Lolita. The utter perversions of Humbert Humbert; questioning his own. Confessions of a white widowed male indeed. Page after page of lust. When would his stop?

Married. He did all that was required. Trash taken out each night after dinner. The car maintained. A garden tilled in the spring. Leaves raked in autumn. It was a miserable life.

From his office downtown he’d watch with a gleam in his eye as young girls walked up and down Main Street in plaid skirts hiked above the thigh. He’d shuffle through papers; pretending. His whole life was pretend. The graying man with the slight paunch was bored by anything but. What a bore his life had become. If his wife brought coffee one more time after dinner he would leave. He swore to this. Where was his beer, or, gin and tonic? Put away long ago.

And where were the frills and ecstasy in making love to his wife? They hadn’t touched in years. Still, he watched the girls. He watched the girls.

How enchanting it would be to introduce himself to one of them, he thought. Oh how they’d laugh, he whispered. A fat middle aged man like me. Then again, everyone laughs at me, he cried. That’s what you get when you give up.

Tonight he would tell her. Say it to her. I am done with this. He thought these thoughts to be sober and of good intention. He wanted to be drunk on life.

But, he had no courage. Sat at dinner at six, trash was taken out at seven, and evening decaf served in the den. He watched television and dozed off and on while she knitted. He dreamt of girls in see through white tops and patent black leather shoes. He dreamt of whiskey on a veranda. He dreamt of Humbert Humbert, his hero.

They met at the King Wha Chinese restaurant down the street from The Diplomat Hotel. He paid for a room just before seeing her. It had a queen bed and cable television; pornography was extra.

The middle-aged man got there before she did. It had been a long time. They were sweethearts in high school. Both swapped pictures of each other on Facebook. He now had a paunch and her blonde curls were turning gray. She had wrinkles from smoking. He had a bad liver from drinking.

Even though pictures were seen, they still didn’t recognize each other. He was balding and she had picked up pounds over the years. She looked into his soul. He looked at the low cut sweater she was wearing. They embraced and were seated. For a minute they just stared at each other.

You look great, he said, thumbing through the menu.

So do you, she responded.

It’s good to see you in person.

Yes, after all these years, she said. Cashew chicken. I always get cashew chicken.

Why not try something new. Something spicy. Kung pao chicken is good. Lots of peppers, she giggled. He smiled.

I’ll get heart burn. Better stick with the cashew.

You think so huh, he continued looking at the menu. I’m going spicy. Like to live on the edge.

The waiter came over and took their orders. He had a Manhattan and she had an iced tea. There was silence. An awkward silence.They both knew they shouldn’t have come. Guilt was setting in.

Do you mind if I go outside to smoke real quick?

Take your time, he said.

She excused herself and exited the restaurant. She lit her cigarette and noticed her hand was shaking. She began to sweat.

He ordered another drink and played with the chopsticks. He thought about his wife briefly. Their two sons. And came to the conclusion that he deserved this. He wanted this brief affair.

Outside, the moon shined down on her. It was yellow and haunting. She stomped out her cigarette and walked towards her car. She never looked back.

The trees have not turned yet; still green. It was mid October. Where were the reds, golds, rusted leaves falling to the ground. This is Indian summer. Things seemed out of place.

He walked through town. Passed the used car lots, grocery store, funeral home, the bar where he sat at every night staring into his glass of whiskey; the young man walked right on by. He carried a stick.

Cars went by. Semis too. Ford pickups and Chevy four doors. Felt like sticking out his thumb. Kept his hands in his pockets.

The gravel on the side of the road was hard on his feet. He wore an old pair of Converse. Those jagged rocks went right into the rubber souls. There was a hole in em.

Came to a bridge that went up over the river. The water was high. The current was swift. For a moment he thought of jumping in. Thirty years.What had he accomplished? No woman in his life. Rented a sleeping room on the southside. Had a job changing oil at the Jiffy Lube. All his plans had vanished. Like, seeing the world. Should’ve joined the Navy like his dad said. Pop told him, don’t have any regrets. He jumped off the very same bridge. The boy figured he’d had enough. Now, as a man, maybe he’d had enough himself.

He threw his stick in the river. Watched it float away. For hours he stood there. Just looking at the brown water. To be or not to be? That is the question. Ain’t that what they say? he took out a cigarette and lit it. Looked at his brass Zippo. Put it back in his pocket.

Things seemed out of place.

He watched the boy eating ice cream. Spoonful after spoonful of a chocolate and vanilla swirl. Had a cherry on top.

The kid was very intent on finishing the bowl. His brown eyes were big.The man rocked back and forth in his chair thinking about when he was his age.

His father had a wooden ice cream maker with a crank on it that twirled the bucket filled with cream amongst the ice and rock salt. For a weight to press down on the crate, the boy would sit on top with a towel to keep from freezer burn. They both laughed till the product was finished.

Not these days, the old man thought. Now days they have fancy ice cream makers that sit on the kitchen counter. And the kid was serious about the ice cream; no laughter, no father son team to achieve a goal. Just press a button.

The kid finished his bowl and the old man wondered, did he even enjoy it?