dmseay

He was always asking what day it was? Curious if it was his birthday, or, Valentine’s Day, or, maybe Saint Patrick’s. He never knew. The days just all became one. One huddled mass of hours. Hiding underneath covers in his bed. A constant state of darkness.

At night time he’d go downtown and sit in the square. Just him and a statue. A bronze man on a horse. He’d touch it’s legs. Felt the smoothness of the material. He never touched anything else.

Some folks called him the village idiot. They’d laugh at him as he walked around at night. Eating Mr. Goodbars. One after another. He was real careful to throw the wrappers away. In fact, he used to throw away debris that he’d find all over town. Old newspapers, paper cups, tin cans, all sorts of things. He’d pick up quarters too that people had dropped while rummaging through their pockets. He saved em.

In his room was a giant glass jar that he kept the quarters in. He made a promise to himself. When it was full, he’d cash em in. And leave. Just get on a bus and head anywhere. Whatever town had the prettiest poster at the Greyhound station.

There were pictures of the desert. Tall buildings in Los Angeles. The Golden Gate Bridge. He’d look at em in the early hours of morn before he went home to crawl into bed.

He’d whisper to himself, Someday. Someday.

He was never sure. How can you be? Trying your best isn’t always a sure bet. There’s obstacles. Something to be said for coming in second. Too much pressure on first prize. All his trophies were runners up. Second to the best. He’d always be one of the groomsmen never the groom.

And she knew this about him. Some said she settled. Could’ve done better if she’d just hung in there. She knew it. He knew it. The whole town knew it. Her patience wore thin. Went with the cowboy. The Saturday night special. She thought she could change him. They all think that.

It was hard when the truth came out. No love between em. Just two people who got lonely and took the next in line. They’d had their hearts broken before. They wanted low risk. Little investment. Just someone to keep em warm at night. Guess they were no different than most couples. America breeds mediocrity.

Today he buried her. After thirty-two years of marriage and two kids, she was gone. He did not cry at the funeral. Looked relieved. Finally. The contract was over.

The kids were upset. They knew. They always knew. That there was no love. Just two people playing house.

The news hit him hard. He told the boy to be careful. Said the roads were slick that night. Ice storm during the day. Highway was black and shiny.

Should’ve made him stay home, the father said. It’s hard to tell a young man what to do. They never listen. Do what they want. When they want. Ain’t no stopping em, took a swig of beer.

Like getting thar girl pregnant in his last year of school, he went on. Dumb mistake. Spend the rest of his life sacking groceries, he took another drink.

Now he’s gone. Just like that, the old man snapped his fingers. You tell em and you tell em to be careful. They think they know everything, he whispered. They never listen.

Stacks and stacks of letters piled in a box. Unopened notes from former lovers, old friends, enemies, the gas company. Here’s a Christmas card from a relative trying to save my soul. Reminding me that Jesus is the reason for the season. It’s cold outside.

I read through some of the old mail, finding it to be quite boring. An ex-wife threatening me for leaving her, ex-girlfriends telling me they think they’re pregnant, notes from mechanics saying I owe them. The wind blows through cracks.

You’re better off alone. Solitude is the answer. I gave up on mankind years ago. What good are other people? Always wanting. Always in need of. And then you yourself becomes needy. You’re just following suit. You’ve become a lemming. A whole country of sheep. Where’s the originality? Where’s the authentic? The real deal. Frozen rain hits the windows.

I take the box of stuffed envelopes and burn it outside. Some type of altar. The past is the past and you can’t keep living in the past. Burn baby burn. The flames are blue and orange, yellow. It’s dark. Three in the afternoon and it’s dark.

The letters are blackened now. Ashes. Too much energy spent on history. My history. If only I could burn my brain, my soul. The moon hangs in the sky.

Sitting like Buddha

legs crossed

arms at side.

Trying to conjure peace.

Windows wet from morning rain

the hum of nothing

a car drives by.

Wheels sound like ocean waves

hitting the shores

rolling in.

On the chair next to my bed sits Lolita

she was wise beyond her years

what trickery.

I place a mask over the book

covering her legs

then pray.

Sitting like Buddha

legs crossed

arms at side.

I wonder.

Did Nabokov ever know peace?

The sensitive kind. She had feelings. Most women do. Her’s was close to the skin. Like a raw nerve twitching involuntarily. Something she couldn’t control. She’d break down crying when she heard some silly song on the radio. The young woman would get angry when love didn’t go her way; disagreements.

The redhead was up and down. One minute she’d be calm as a summer breeze. Then the girl would turn on you. Call you names you’d never heard before. At least you’d never hear em from a woman.

One night she got really crazy. Stood outside in the front yard naked, throwing rocks at his truck, picking up pieces of brick. And she was yelling. Saying she couldn’t trust men. Saying the opposite sex was no good. She’d done this several times. He always came back for more.

The young man loved her. Despite all her tantrums and carrying on. He loved her. But, he was dying inside. Couldn’t take it anymore. Decided he’d leave her. Just abandon her.

So, without saying a word, he left. Just poof. Gone. In a matter of minutes he was on the highway heading out of town. He felt free. Felt sad as well. Sad that his love was over.

He drove into the night. His phone kept ringing. It was her. Leaving all kinds of desperate messages. Then the voice-mails got angry. She was threatening to kill him if he didn’t turn around. Said she’d find him. Slit his throat.

The kid pulled his truck over on the shoulder. Threw his phone down. Started hitting the steering wheel with both hands. He knew he’d never be done with her. Just knew it. Turned the truck around.

I sit at the kitchen table. Drinking coffee. Looking through books and instructions for various gadgets; an emergency light for a car, a handwarmer made by Zippo. There’s a small cactus garden in a pot. Prickly, dying. A Ball jar is also on the table next to a pack of American Sprit cigarettes. There’s nothing more American than cigarettes.

The coffee has gone cold. It smells of hazelnut and cream. There are stains on the cup from my lips. I take another drink.

This is a daily routine. I wait for the sun. Soon life will begin again. That is the woke life. The aware life. No daydreaming though afternoon naps. Just the confrontations of everyday. Do I dare go outside? Or, am I pleased to be alone with coffee and dying cactus?

In my medicine cabinet there are bottles upon bottles of prescription drugs. Some of the bottles are empty; too lazy to throw away. And, others are half filled. I look at the different drugs. Metraformin, Lamictal,Welbutrin, Vraylar, pills for an under active thyroid, pills for high blood pressure, cholesterol concerns. What happened to me over the years. The body and the spirit are broken. And, pills will not help. Questions run through my mind. These are thoughts best discussed with a professional. Then again, maybe a priest. Or, perhaps a friend. But, like throwing empty bottles away, I’m too lazy to do anything with these questions.

Suddenly, a wave of energy hits me. I open the remaining bottles and pour the drugs down the toilet( therefore ruining our ecosystem even more) and flush. All gone. No more cures. I can breathe.

There is $300 in my bank account. The sun is shining. It’s a good day for travel. I pack my bag. Underwear, khakis, couple of shirts, a toothbrush and toothpaste; I am ready.

I step out the door. January’s wind hits my face. The train whistles. And, I catch a freight car. It is cold. Other bums huddle for heat. Where’s this train heading? I ask a fellow traveler. He tells me west. West. All the way out to California. I nod my head. I sit with my legs up in my chest; rocking back and forth.

Soon I will be home.

This house. This home where a family lived. A yellow A-frame in the middle of the street. Swingset in the backyard. The garage where pop would stay for hours; working on the car, sawing wood, drinking whiskey; it poured out of his skin. He’d trip over the threshold every night. Mom would just smile.

There was always music playing in the house. Old jazz albums lined the bookshelves. Pop would sing along with Chet Baker, or, pretend to play drums on Kind Of Blue. Music flowed from room to room along with the smells of mom’s cooking. She made something from a foreign country every night. The kids were well educated in cuisines.

The two boys were raised to be kind and giving souls just like their parents. They always packed two sandwiches in their lunch bags. Pop told them to give a sandwich to a kid who needed it. He said, don’t make a big deal of it. Just give em the damn sandwich, they did as ordered.

And one day, they were gone. A van pulled up in their driveway. And, they were gone. Nobody knew where they moved to. They just left. A new family moved in. It wasn’t the same.

I miss those sandwiches.

Watching snow fly. Wind bellowing down the chimney. Cats chasing a mouse. Winter has just started. Landscape covered in white. Windows frost bitten. Sounds of shoveling. The scraping of metal on concrete. An old man cursing his car.

Autumn came and went. It’s colors did not last but a day. Bare brown trees along the highways. Looked upon by travelers in a country of norms; institutions fading. A place where we long for the familiar. For the old.

This winter is typical. Cold in the Midwest. Snow blows across harvested cornfields. Picked over by crows flying south. A butternut squash on the table.

And I am alone now. She sleeps down the hall. Her name is Spring. Soon, she will awaken.

The Christmas lights reflected in the windows. It was late February and they still hung on a small tree turned brown. Colors were brilliant; red, green, yellow, blue, large bulbs wrapped around the once full symbol. Cats played with the strung popcorn.

He thought about taking the tree down. Everyday he woke up he thought about it. But, he knew, once he dragged it out to the street Christmas would be over. The old man wanted to hang on to Christ’s birthday a little longer.

It had been three years since the passing of his wife on Christmas day. She died in the house they had shared for fifty years. Right there on the couch. She just leaned over and fell asleep. A long lasting sleep of peace. He prayed and then covered her with a favorite throw.

She loved Christmas. He Vowed to never let it end. Gifts remained unopened, her hot chocolate sat cold. And he no longer looked at a calendar. Time just stopped for him. Therefore, every morning when awakened, he’d turn to where she sat and whispered, Merry Christmas. And the tree would shine brighter.