dmseay

He spent his time watching the Weather Channel. Brush fires out West. Tornadoes throughout the Midwest. Balmy temperatures in the South. And the East, a snow storm was brewing.

The old man looked out his window. Sunny skies. Patchy clouds. He could still see the moon. A full moon. The winds were starting to pick up. He could hear it wrestling the trees.

This was his morning ritual; coffee and weather. It was just what he had done for the past fifty years.

It was him and his wife for the longest time. They never talked. Just held hands on the couch and watched the weather. She’d look at him and smile no matter how bad the weather was. He’d smile back.

Now she was gone. It was just him and the television. It wasn’t the same. He looked out the window.

They traced his steps. Dogs sniffed along a dirt path that led down to the river. The sun was out making leaves glow in the autumn morning. The officer poured a cup of coffee from a Thermos. Kept looking across the river.

He couldn’t have jumped in? The current would’ve taken him under. But, this was it. The dogs barked, sniffed hard. Didn’t look east or west. They were just stopped dead in their tracks. The river was rolling.

The water was deep. Murky brown water. Had mud at the bottom of it. If he jumped in, the sheriff knew the body would show up in a day or two downstream over in Jefferson County. He decided to inform the department over there that a body was coming their way.

Drowned, the cop said. Figure he just drowned? the sheriff nodded his gray head, lit a cigarette. Was he thinking he’d make it? he asked. The sheriff rolled his eyes. Wouldn’t be the first, he said.

And, sure enough his body washed up in Jefferson County four days later. The short, squatty man’s neck had a gash in it. He was blue. What a way to end up, the sheriff said. Guess this is an admission of guilt. Bet he killed that girl. And the other one over in Newton. You get what you deserve, he noted. You get what you deserve.

He drove over to the boy’s mom’s house to tell her. On the way over he noticed the sun shining brightly over-head. The red and yellow leaves glistened. It was good to be alive.

She had not seen him in a long time. It’d been twelve, maybe fourteen years since she’d heard his voice. For awhile he’d call her. Especially if he needed something; money, food, someone to listen to him.

He’d call in the middle of the night. Wild stories ’bout being chased by cops and criminals along I95. Sent her pictures of the Atlantic Ocean up in Maine. Told her he was flat broke in Philadelphia. She’d wire him a hundred and tell him this was the last time.

The middle-aged man was always grateful. He’d get the money and go blow it on food and booze. Buying rounds at a bar. Trying to relive his glory days. Then, within twenty-four hours, the thin man was back to normal; broke.

He never called her again after that one time in Pittsburgh. That’s when he ditched the Dodge and began his journey on foot. He had tickets piled up across America. Sold that piece of junk for a grand. It lasted a week. But, for that one week, he felt human.

There was a newspaper article he read in a magazine ’bout her. It was Fortune 500. Said she’d made her way to the top. Some CEO of a financial firm. This made him smile. He was glad that one of em had made it in America.

And then, sitting on a bench in Central Park, she saw him. Long greasy hair, shabby clothes, long beard, red eyes. She barely recognized him…She kept walking.

He sat in the corner of the bar reading Proust. There was a small gold color lamp beside him. He would pull the chain to make it brighter, or, more dim. It had a red lampshade on top with dangling pieces of black rope. He would touch the cords every so often as he turned the pages of Swann’s Way. He sometimes caught himself touching the lamp shade too fondly. He would place his hand on the bar and whisper, Bad hand.

In front of him was a snifter of Grand Marnier and a short dark stout. He’d drink from the snifter and roll the alcohol around in his mouth; tasting the burnt orange flavor. That was followed by a drink of stout. He preferred Guinness, but, Murphy’s would do. He continued reading.

A young lady seated in the middle of the bar asked the bartender who the man was? The man reading Swann’s Way so intensely. The bar keep chuckled. Told the girl, A regular.

A regular you say, the bartender nodded. Why there’s nothing regular about him, she said. He looks as though he’s violating that lamp, the bartender laughed, caught himself, then quietly chuckled some more.

He’s been reading in that corner for the last ten years.

Always Proust?

No. He’s read other books as well. Joyce, Beckett, Camus, a lot. Never without a book that one, he said. Never.

And, he always drinks the same drinks?

Very routine. Yes, very routine. I make sure we always have Grand Marnier and stout. Never been caught without it.

I see. How long does he sit there? Reading.

Leaves at 8 every night to catch the last bus home. He pays his bill, places his book in the satchel, tips his hat and leaves. When he stops the world will end.

What does he do?

He doesn’t. Not that I know of. Knows how to nurse a drink. I’ll tell you that.

Outside it was dark. The man could tell it was getting late. He placed money on the bar and put his book away. He tipped his hat. Then walked out into the night. The young lady looked on from the front window as he continued down the street.

There he goes, the bartender said. The last of his kind, he smiled.

Yes. I suppose so.

Watching. Looking at this dog on TV. It’s a puppy. A black one with traces of brown and white. He’s running through the snow into the arms of a pretty blonde lady next to her husband. It’s her Christmas gift.

And then, because she loves this man so much, she whistles and a brand new pickup truck appears. He’s thrilled. The snow is flying. A real sense of holidays.

Every time that commercial came on, the old man would watch like a kid salivating over chocolate. It wasn’t the truck or the puppy he loved. There was no warm feeling inside of giving. It was the blonde. That’s what he wanted.

The gray haired widower would lay there in the hospital bed with his children nearby. He’d hold his son’s hand a little tighter when the commercial came on. His daughter would pace the halls on business calls and check in on him every once in a while.

You see her? he asked his son. Look at her. Go on. Look, holding his hand tighter. I’m gonna marry her someday. She’ll be my girl, the old man told him.

Really? the kid asked. What makes you think that? he rubbed his eyes. The old man just kept looking at the television.

She’s mine alright. She’s gonna dump him for me. And, she’ll get me a truck too. Then we’ll drive around the U.S. in style. Holding each other’s hand as we walk the dog, the old man smiled.

Is that what you want pop? the old man nodded. You want her huh? She looks like a heartbreaker to me. Sure, she’s pretty. But, I’ll bet there’s a mean streak in her. She’s gotta be high maintenance. Women like that don’t come easy.

The old man nodded. So, he said. I don’t have a chance? his son shook his head. OK, he said. I’m ready to die.

Never. The old man told him to never lie. He said, one lie leads to two, then three, maybe four. Then you gotta mess on your hands. Have to back track. Retell your story over and over again. Hoping that it sounds right, he told him.

The young kid didn’t listen to the gray haired prophet. Thought his words were silly. Not realistic for this world. Thinking that sometimes you had to lie. Just had to. Sometimes a lie will protect you, or, others, he thought. Protect you from what? The truth. The sometimes unspeakable truth.

He told her everything. Almost. All about his childhood, messy teen years, and his time now, here and now. A man with a career, a family, grass cut on Saturday afternoons. A man who kept up appearances. Went to church on Sunday. People would never guess, he thought. His secret was safe.

And why would he keep this secret? To protect his wife and family, he told himself. The biggest lies we tell are to ourselves, he remembered the old man telling him this. He dismissed the advice. Didn’t want to hear it. Heard this voice inside his head. Telling him to tell the truth. But, what would he gain from that. This confession. A lot of guilt would be relieved. He’d feel better. Could go on with his life with no compromises. Again, lying to himself.

Sometimes we don’t have to tell the truth. It’s told by others for us. Without permission. Without any deal struck. A phone is picked up. Dialed. And they start talking. Telling the friend, minister, kids, spouse, all about your lie. You cheated on taxes. Unfaithful to your spouse. This phone call at night, or morning from them. Meant to disrupt lives. Hurtful. Damaging. This is what people do. Especially when they are slighted.

She never intended to do that. Until now. He told her he loved her. Said to the young lady that she made his life complete. Said he couldn’t get enough of her. Lied and said he was leaving his wife and kids for her. That’s what he said. And, like all of em, he wasn’t. Had no intention to. Thought he could break it off at any given time. And, so he did. He did.

Besides telling the young man to never lie, the old man also told him to never scorn a woman. Said there’d be hell to pay. She would make your life miserable. Cut you off from society, make you look like a fool. And, they’ll do this just for the fun of it.

Again, he didn’t listen. Dropped the one on the side like a bad habit. She was a bad habit. He knew it couldn’t go on forever. And that’s when he was confronted with truth. The truth. The stories of working late at the office. Business trips in other cities. All night poker games with the boys. All lies.

This truth was told to his wife. And it was mean and spiteful. It was the end of everything.

Now he sat on the bed of a hotel room with a bottle of whiskey and a white rope. He knew his time was over. And it was lies that killed him.

Dark. It was always dark. No stars in the sky. The moon did not shine. Just pitch black night. Like every night. He could not see in front of him. He never could.

The old man had walked down this highway several times in his life. As a boy he used to run on its asphalt, slapping the green leaves of trees that hanged over the shoulder. He used to pretend the limbs were hands of fans giving him high-fives as he streaked to the finish line. Those same trees were there, but, winter’s coldness had left them naked. Just brown sticks awaiting spring.

As a young man, he took this road out of town. Leaving behind family, a mom and a dad, a small town future. He wanted to explore. Go out into the world and try his luck.

He went everywhere; Chicago, New York, Philadelphia. Headed out west to Phoenix, Indigo, Los Angeles. He never struck it rich. Barely made enough to get by. Freedom is expensive.

Never met a girl. Never settled down. Just traveled the country. In search of nothing, but, himself. Always looking in. Always.

And now he wanted to travel down the road again. Relive youth. Maybe pick up on some cues he never saw before. Maybe just stir up old memories, old ghosts. He wasn’t sure. He just walked.

Dark. It was always dark.

She looked his way. No one had done that in years. The older man sat at the bar and stirred his drink, looked in the mirror, then back at her. The dirty blonde kept looking at him. Alone, in her booth, she kept staring.

Probably remind her of her dad, the gentleman said, He took another drink, turned around once more, and she was gone. Vanished. Maybe it was an illusion. She never existed.

He finished his whiskey and ordered another. Looking in the mirror, he could see she was back. And now standing right behind him. He remained still. His hands trembled a bit. Turning in his chair, the two caught eyes. Locked in just for a second. She ordered a Manhattan. Then went right back to looking at his outline. The way his shoulders bulged a bit, his suede jacket with the patches on the elbows, the sweater covering the back of his neck. She leaned in to get her drink.

Her breasts brushed against his arm as she picked up her cocktail. Oh, sorry, he said. She smiled. She paused. The young woman carried herself well, the old man thought. She didn’t leave. Continued standing behind him. He began to question himself. Do you have the guts? he asked himself. Do you still have it? he slowly turned in his seat until he was facing her.

Would you care to sit down? Have a chair? he asked her. She said no, but motioned over to her booth. I would love to, he told her. Love to.

And there the two sat, side by side in silence. She placed her petite hand on his thigh. He smiled, you’ve still got it old boy. You’ve still got it.

I’ll bet you have a story to be told, she whispered. He said, no. I’m just an old chunk of coal, they laughed.

That’s too bad. I was hoping for a bedtime story, she moved her lips to his cheek.

Oh, I’ve got a story for you, he finished his drink. It’s a good one. About a man who fell in love. Years ago, he fell in love with a beautiful woman. And smart too. She was like Katherine Hepburn. Some kind of movie star, the young lady smiled. He loved her very much. They went on trips together. Paris, London, New York, they went everywhere. Until one day, she was gone. Left him in the middle of the night. She had fallen out of love with him.

So, he said. At that moment he decided to never fall in love again. He would not do that to himself.

The two kissed. I won’t break your heart, she said. He nodded his head. Said, you can’t. It’s already been broken.

There were a few items in the refrigerator. Two cans of beer, an opened package of bologna, slices of bread were on the top shelf. Some oranges and apples were down below.

The television set was on. Dr. Phil lecturing a family of four. Talking about drugs and depression. Says the boy is bipolar. Who knows?

Down the hall, bedrooms were cleaned out. No beds, or, dressers. No chairs. Just a baby’s crib in one of em. The mattress was soiled.

They wanted something to take. Something for the effort. Wasn’t much of an effort. Place was unlocked. Just a turn of the knob.

And they ate bologna sandwiches and drank the beers. Took some oranges for the road. Spray painted graffiti on the walls in blue; DEATH TO UPPER CLASS. Made stick figure drawings of people bent over. People behind them. Drew crowns and wrote, KINGS OF THE UNDERCLASS.

They left as silent as they went in. Nobody knew they were there.

They sat on the couch. She read a book while he watched television. The book was a romance, complete with the muscular male holding onto the bosom bulging woman in some Western gear. He was watching Columbo with Peter Falk. That week’s guest star was Jackie Cooper. He laughed out loud as she salivated through pages.

The older couple sat at opposite ends. A lamp was on, the room was dim. He said it made it easier to watch. These sacrifices she made for him. Decaf coffee was served.

These two used to sit closer in the evening. Used to hold hands. He’d put his arm around her. She would kiss him on the cheek. Place her hand on his knee. Now it seemed they were miles apart. She slept in the bedroom, he in the recliner. The older woman would throw a blanket on him each night as soon as she heard him snoring. Every night the same. There were no surprises.

Mornings, the smell of eggs and bacon would wake him. A pot of coffee, buttered toast, and the sound of the all news station on the A.M. dial. They did not talk. He read the morning paper and she listened to the weather report.

The announcer said it was going to be cloudy with rain all day. A high of 47. Good day to stay inside, she thought. Why should anything change?