dmseay

Headlights shined through blinds at two o’clock in the morning. She sat on the couch trying to make out who it was. Couldn’t tell the make of the car. Was it his old Chevy truck? maybe a complete stranger.

She heard a door slam shut. Thought she heard somebody walking up her gravel driveway. Couldn’t tell. Her porch light was off, causing it to be pitch black. The young woman grabbed her son’s baseball bat over in the corner. Don’t know how many times she asked him to take that to his room. And then the knocking on the door began.

It was a soft knock at first. Light taps on the screen door. She tightened her robe. Then the knocking got louder. The young mother wanted to turn the lights on, but, she was scared of what she might see. A voice on the other side began to whisper, Charlotte, I know you’re awake. Let me in. I wanna talk.

The voice was familiar. She knew it very well. She had listened to that voice for ten years. She heard it say, I love you. And, I do, on a cold spring day years ago.

Donny? Donny, is that you? she asked, gripping the bat tighter. Is that you? What do you want? It’s two o’clock in the morning. What do you got to say for yourself? There was silence. She turned on the porch light. It was Donny. Unkempt, heavy, a mangled beard, he wore a torn leather jacket she had given him back awhile ago. It fit tightly round his gut.

I need to talk, Charlotte. I need to talk.

What bout?

I don’t know. Us. I spose.

There is no us. Not anymore.

I know that, he said. Just wanted to tell ya I’m sorry, he leaned on the screen. I wasn’t a good husband. Tried. God knows, I tried. Just wasn’t. I’m sorry.

Where you been living?

All around. Everywhere.

Do you need money?

Nope. I’ve gotten used to being broke. It builds character.

Donny. I let you go a long time ago. Things have changed. She heard feet coming down the hallway. Little Donny asked who she was talking to? She told him nobody. Now get back to bed. The child did as he was told.

Part of her wanted to open that door just to get a good look at him. The other part of her was too frightened. Donny, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, she said, pulling on her long blonde hair.

Fair enough. I just wanted to say I was sorry.

Well, I’m sorry too. I mean that. Maybe I could’ve been a better wife.

You were fine, he said. Just fine.

She watched the outline of a large man get into his truck. She heard music playing. It was Barbara Mandrel. An old song by Barbara Mandrel.

And as the truck took off, she turned off the porch light and put away the bat.

They never spoke again.

Afternoons turn into evenings. The sun makes its way into hiding once again. Then, as it does every night, darkness hovers for hours as people watch TV, sleep, drink beers, make love, drive from one end of the country to the other. All by the shimmering light that is the moon and stars.

Some folks curse night. It scares them. Like a child in bed thinking a monster is underneath. Whore’s that walk up and down Grand Avenue yell at the dark. Waking up to another day of selling their souls. And, there are those that are lost in daylight. Night is there only salvation. They savor it through cups of coffee, shots of booze, lunches packed by their wives for third shift, dope that runs through black veins.

Night time was when he was born. Mother had him at two o’clock in the morning. Came out of the womb wailing like Miles Davis. She held him. Gave him comfort. The father was no where around.

He was a gambler. Took risks with his life. Driving around the country in his eighteen wheeler. Named her, Jezebel. The young buck had a girl in every city. Told em they were special, only to never call or see them again. That was the case of Brandy. He sized her up good at the strip joint. The trucker knew deep down she was lonely. He knew she wanted him.

She gave him a lap dance in the dark with curtains closed. Her eyes were shut as she rode upon him; bare flesh rubbing on blue jeans. He decided he wanted her. All of her. She obliged; and for one night, the curvy girl felt something. Least she thought she did.

Come morning, he was gone. Didn’t leave a note, a name, nothing. Just a condom wrapper on the night stand. She awoke to the sun creeping through her blinds. She was alone.

Brandy became scared of the night. She took the dayshift at Showgirls to avoid the moon. Stayed home at night watching old movies. And crying. Yelling at the dark.

The child was born at night time. ‘Bout the same time he was conceived. She was reminded every day of the trucker and that night. The night she felt special.

This is not autumn. It is warm, leaves are not changing, birds have not flown south. This is not autumn.

Black squirrels are gathering nuts in an easy manner. They pace themselves. Easy come, easy go. They’re off track too.

Even the mums seem out of place. Colors are bright. Yet there is no morning frost resting on them. Not even a heavy dew.

And rain. It has not fallen. The earth is dry. Hoping winter will run its course. Replenish what summer has taken.

This is not autumn. This is not autumn.

They sat across from each other in the bus station. Vagabonds walked between them. So did young runaways. Black men listening to beats strolled past as well. Young women carrying guitar cases; wearing cowboy boots and short dresses. They were fresh off the Greyhound. Ready to make it big in Music City. But, these two, a young man and a young woman, just sat there looking at each other. Not a word was said.

She was catching a connection to Cincinnati while he simply had no place to go. His money was all spent. Most of his green went towards the bus ticket. The rest of it was squandered on fast food and beer. He wondered what her game was. The blonde with the blue eyes tried to guess what his next move would be. She looked him up and down. He wasn’t anything like her ex-husband. This guy was tall and had a full head of brown hair. His eyes matched. And lanky. Looked like he could use some meat on them bones.

He decided to stretch out on the row of hard plastic seats. Catch some shut eye. She kept looking at him. He was fast asleep, snoring and whispering words of heart ache. He had been tossed to the side as well.

The young woman decided to sit next to him. She lifted his head and put it in her lap. He smiled.

Two strangers getting acquainted. And, neither felt alone anymore.

She waited for him. Outside the laundromat at three in the morning; she waited. He said he’d be there. Her clothes were packed. She sat on her duffel bag. And, waited.

He was ‘cross town in a bar. Talking it up. Listening to Hank Williams. Pool was shot in the back. He’d dominated all night long. Collected $200 from fools and strangers. It was enough for one night.

The pickup was on E. A twenty-four hour gas station was just up the road a bit. He decided that night not to pay. Decided to get paid instead.

The kid behind the register never saw it coming. He’d heard about gas stations and liquor stores in the area being robbed. But, there was never any blood.

I’ll take a box of Camels, a Mr. Goodbar, and hand over the money, he said, holding a gun. I said, hand over the money, the clerk opened the drawer. Started handing over the money. Tens,twenties, fives, a few single bills. You’re taking too long, the pool shark said. And then, he shot him. Put a bullet right in his forehead. Blood went everywhere. The kid lay there in a pool of it. He took the cash and left.

She was beginning to curse his name. Maybe he ditched me, she thought. Perhaps I just wasn’t his type, the girl said in-between puffs on a cigarette. Why would he tell me something and then not come through,? she checked her phone again. No calls. She began looking at Facebook. Funny, he wouldn’t friend me.

They met that morning in the cafe where the blonde worked as a waitress. She poured coffee at the counter. Everyone knew her name; Sally. Everyone knew she was looking for adventure. Young girl like that. Best keep your eye on em.

Bobby said he’d take her away from all this. Said he was heading out to Idaho. It all sounded exotic to her. A road trip with a good looking man she’d just seen for the first time. He was different than the boys at her high school. The tall stranger was confident in his ways. Talked a good game. So, she waited. Waited for him all night long. Waited till the sun came up. He was long gone.

That night she saw a picture of Bobby on the local news. Folks at the diner looked on in horror as they showed him shoot and leave the scene. But Sally. She just laughed. Said, that figures. Can’t trust no one.

He saw it. Looked in his rear view mirror and there it was. Sticking out in colors of yellow and purple. The porch light was on. It was two o’clock in the morning. He parked his truck on the side of the street and got out. There she was. The house he grew up in.

They’re called painted ladies. Two story houses that were built at the turn of the century. Had a downstairs and an upstairs, dining room and a living room, a kitchen and three bedrooms with a bath and a half. Most of the family’s time was spent in the kitchen. There was a round table where he and his brother would sit and watch mom cook up ham and eggs in the mornings, and chicken in the evenings. It was always chicken. Done two different ways; baked, or, fried. The cast iron skillet was well seasoned.

For a long time he looked at that house. Remembered getting the belt several times for misbehaving. Thought about discussions they used to have. Prayed for his brother who had passed on; was missing for days. The whole county went looking for him. Found him on the banks of the river. The case was never solved. Chalked it up as a suicide. That was when they left town.

Mom and dad quit talking after that. No more family discussions. Just silence at meals; when they had them.

And he looked at that painted lady some more. Got in his Ford and drove off.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. All to be heard is the far away sounds of traffic on the highway. Tires hitting wet pavement. The hum of a motorcycle. That is all.

Even the birds are silent. No chirping. They do not sing a song. Blue birds and cardinals fly from limb to limb. Why aren’t they talking?

And, there is not a soul in sight. This old gravel road is never used, but, by hobos, vagabonds, kids in the midnight hour crying for a kiss. Cars parked along the side of the road; windshields fogged up. The moon shines down on them.

Black squirrels run up trees. Pines, oaks, dogwoods, bushes and wild grown weeds dot the road. But,that silence. A haunted space. Who is watching?

If there were eyes staring at me, then what is it they see? Just a man traveling down a road in silence. And, that’s all I ever wanted.

The carcass was on the floor. Amongst the chipped paint, dust, dirty clothes, and boxes it sat. Then, as he spied above, another one, on the ceiling. Hanging there. Plotting. Waiting for the right time.

He couldn’t shut his eyes. The old man kept staring at the ceiling. Then, he felt it. Something crawling into his ear. He grabbed the small insect with his hand and threw it across the small room. He was sure there were more; hiding, like Pol Pot. It was a battle. No treaties would be signed.

All furniture and clothes were removed from the room. Bombs would be set off. A 24 hour raid. No compromise. He shut the door and let the fumes do their job.

And then, the old man came back to witness the death of the bugs. They lay on his carpet, belly up. Hundreds of them killed. And he thought, The genius of that.

He held a gun to him. I sat there and watched; fists clinched, sweat pouring down my forehead. They say the hot days in Missouri will do that to a man; make him crazy. Well, it seemed that way.

We were ranch-hands on a property outside of Joplin on the Oklahoma border. We were promised a cot and three squares each day. No money. When you’re desperate they set the price.

There was this shack up close to the main house. That’s where we slept with hot winds blowing in from the west. No air-conditioning, no fans. Just a water tap to gather cool water and seep into our faces.

I never trusted either one of them. Johnny had some heartbreak story of how his wife and three kids left him. And Mad Dog was just wandering around the country. He never said his Christian name. Just said folks called him Mad Dog. He acted tough.

One night Johnny showed us all a pistol he’d been hiding in his boot. It was shiny and black. Looked like death. Mad Dog told him, I’ll bet you don’t know how to use it. There was a pause; silence.

The room was dark. All that shined was a lantern. Johnny pointed the gun at him. Said, wanna find out? Mad Dog grinned. The light glowed on him. Johnny walked towards him. I sat quietly. Sure I was going to witness murder.

I got nothing to lose, Johnny said.

Neither do I, Mad Dog laughed.

Both men stared at each other for the longest time. Thirty minutes seemed like two hours. Then Johnny began to cry. Said he didn’t have it in him. That’s when Mad Dog swooped in and took the gun from him. Johnny didn’t even put up a fight. Just took it.

That night Mad Dog left. He took the pistol with him. Said, I’m hopping a freight to New Mexico. Wanna come?, I shook my head no; thankful it was over. You take care now, he said. And, like that he was gone.

And Johnny? He just kept on crying. Saying, There are men who take charge and those that don’t. I’m one that don’t. It was the heat, he said. It’ll make you crazy.

This was what he was waiting for. An opportunity, a chance. He walked 8th Avenue everyday. Talking to himself. Dragging his feet. Going past homeless men and women in a city where deals are done, money handed over one way, or, another. It is done in suits in offices, bars with shots lined up, the streets in cardboard boxes; this is done.

He never begged for money, or, love. But, if the opportunity presented itself, who was he to say no? The deal was simple; sit in a bar and wait your turn. Never play victim. America has enough of those. He ordered a beer with no money in his pockets. Nursing it, and waiting. Waiting for the ice man.

On this night he felt lucky. Felt like all was possible. A middle aged man sat beside the old man. He spoke of business transactions, mergers, stocks and bonds. The old man listened. And, sure enough, it began.

One beer was bought after another. Shots were poured. The middle aged man flit the bill. The whole enchilada. Thanks was given. A card was handed over. They said their goodbyes. The swivel bar stool was empty. The old man sat there and waited. Waited for the next one.