dmseay

They watched the tide roll in at the break of dawn. Lake Michigan in September with autumn on the cusp. Soon the beaches would be cold and the winds crisp. Boats sailed ’til November.

She skipped stones while he smoked a cigarette. The two of them, up all night roaming the city like coyotes in the country, going through trash cans and dumpsters in search of food, tin cans, pvc pipe; something borrowed, something blue.

The boy and the girl sat in the sand eating sugar packets collected at McDonald’s, counting dollars and quarters given to them by those walking past. Soon they’d go looking for the man.

Marks on arms, in-between toes, always looking for an open vein. Junk crawled in their bodies, making them look like zombies; days were numbered.

But on this morning they watched the water kiss the sand. And, wished they could.

This grass has been cut, turning brown, straw like. Tall weeds have taken over. Tomato plants dying of thirst. Peppers picked. Where is the rain?

He started his days in the garden. A cup of coffee sat on a rock close-by. The old man used to water the plants and earth everyday. Until it became too expensive. Water is a precious commodity.

Now days he relies on mother nature. She has not been fair to the Midwest. The lonely man wondered why he even tried.

Cucumbers, radishes, bib lettuce, melons rotted on the vine. Half picked over by rabbits and coyotes looking for midnight snacks. He could hear the mad dogs howling into the night. The old air conditioner only drowned out so much noise; semis on the highway, train whistles under a yellow moon. Kids down by the river.

These summer days. The old man was ready to move on. Wrap it up to another failed garden. If only he’d read the almanac. How did they know? he thought. It’s a guessing game, the old man said. It’s all a guessing game.

She loves

Crisp air

Coffee and cigarettes

Her child.

She loves

Pumpkin spice

A cat named Henry

Freedom.

She loves

Autumn’s air

Being an aunt

Ice cream cones.

She loves

Crying over a movie

A song from her youth

Ministry.

And, I love her

I will dance with you

The list continues.

Happy Birthday, Carla

A thousand seasons we shall have.

He sat at the kitchen table and watched mice congregate in the corner. Two of them, discussing mortgages, stocks, bonds. Holding drinks with umbrellas in them. Munching on some kind of smelly foreign cheese. Laughing all the way to the bank.

The old man had seen these types before. Usually they were wise old rats. However, the masters of the universe seemed to be getting younger and younger. The mice used to be low on the totem pole; now days they were c.e.o’s, presidents of large corporations, v.p.’s holding down forts from satellite offices. All in tip top shape.

Drinking coffee, he saw the two high five each other. He knew his days were numbered. Just like the rest of the old timers, he would be tossed aside. His days of advancement over. It was time to call the exterminator.

These nights. They last forever. Go to bed at 9 and wake up ’round 1. And for what? a slow leaking piss.

Nothing feels complete anymore. Bottles of medications lined up like soldiers on the nightstand. A lamps lit light shines down on them. Three pills for mental health, a pill for cholesterol,thyroid, blood pressure. Not as fit as you used to be old champ. A work in constant progress. Always breaking down.

This night air is thick. Muggy. The pillow is soaked in sweat. Wet, wet, wet. No sheets, no blanket. Laying there naked. Running a hand through greasy hair. The garbage needs to be taken out.

And, it is silent. Just heat. There are no gun shots, nor fireworks. No dogs barking, or, cars racing in the streets. Dew races down the forehead. It’s just heat. A silent heat. That’ll make you crazy. The current climate is absurd. Yet, I lay here waiting; waiting for the fall.

Cones. Nothing but orange cones on the highway. Traffic backed up to Gary. Here comes the rain. Nothing is ever easy.

He went looking for him. Maybe this was his last chance to see him. Perhaps it was the last time the old man could be a dad. He’d tried throughout his life to be fair with the boy, the prodigal son, but this was the last time. The old man watched him take off in the middle of the night so many times. And,he always came back. Saying he was sorry. Begging for forgiveness. Caused his mom a heart attack. No, this was the last time.

The old man figured he headed west to Chicago. He’d found him there before so many times. Sleeping in the front seat on Clark Street. Tickets piled up on his windshield. Bottles littering the floor. McDonald’s bags on the dashboard. The boy just laying there, sweating in the Indian summer. Maybe he was hoping to be found.

The father thought about reporting the car as stolen to the Chicago police. Let them track the kid down. But, he couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t turn his son in like that. Figured the boy would never forgive him.

And, he drove all over town looking for a beat up Dodge. The old man had that car for years. Used it to get around town in. Parked it mostly out in the barn. He drove up and down Broadway, Halsted, Clark. Pulled into parking lots down by the beaches. Checked Lower Wacker, Wells, Lafayette as well. His boy was gone. Took off to see America he figured. A decision had to be made.

This Indiana farmer sat in a booth at a diner surrounded by creatures of the night; hookers wearing next to nothing, transsexuals in go-go boots and tight tops, cops seated six to a table,throwing back coffee, and dope fiends downing packets of sugar. He was sure his boy was not in the city. Probably heading out to California. He paid his bill and went out to his truck. Crossed himself and prayed for his son. Then, at that very moment, he let go.

Crickets sang in the dark. Pitch black. Just sound. Night time. No stars were out. It was a quarter moon. He could hear the rattle of old pipes in the basement. Tap water dripped. The old man turned the faucets tight. Looked in the mirror. New wrinkles had forged in his face. The thought of getting old.

He’d lost his wife a few years back. She died of heart complications. Didn’t take care of herself. Ate whatever she wanted. Never exercised. She’d just sit in her recliner all day watching soap operas. All My Children, the one with that Italian woman in it; that was her favorite. The mother of three also took naps all the time. Some said she was sleeping her sadness away. She would just get more depressed, then eat more, then watch more television; this was her life. He loved her more than anything.

They met on a blind date back in ’63. It was autumn in Dallas and the city was humming. Everyone was talking about the president coming to town. Crowds lined the streets. He was to pick her up that afternoon for a mid-day bowling party. Shined the Chevy up real good. Made sure there wasn’t a speck of dirt on it. He was so proud. Paid for it by working at a grocery store. It was all his. No one could take it away.

The young man was so nervous on his way to her house. They’d talked on the phone, but, never in person. A mutual friend set up the date. Decided they would double just to make things easier. The friends sat in the back seat with the windows open. Fresh air blew their hair. The radio was turned on. They sang along. He was shaking in his boots. Bought her flowers. Hoped she liked them.

And then, there she was. Wearing a pink dress with a dark tan. Looking back on it, the old man thought she looked Mexican, exotic. He nearly tripped over his wing-tip shoes. Presented her with the flowers. There was a stutter in his speech. He was far from smooth.

They drove through town talking and humming along to the radio when a news bulletin had come on the station. President Kennedy had been shot. Again, President Kennedy had just been shot. Silence. None of the kids said a word. Just a quiet drive back home. There was no kiss good-night. They hugged each other. The air got colder.

Crickets sang in the dark. Pitch black. Just sound. The old man made coffee and read the paper. Thought about his wife. Soon he’d be with her.

Morning dew has not left

Fields fresh and green

Soon they will turn brown

White

Green again

Purple plums will be picked in the orchard

Apples, pears, packed in bushel baskets

Cuffs on pants soaked

Children waiting on a bus

Morning dew has not left

May it never

She watched him through the kitchen window. He was pulling weeds in the backyard with a can of Old Style beside him. The can sweated in the heat. So did he.

The ground was still wet from the morning dew. Or, maybe it was the rain from the night before. Mud caked on his boots, his knees were dirty too. He took a swig of beer. It was never too early.

As she looked on, she poured a cup of coffee; added a little Baileys to it. She then lit a cigarette and sat down at the table and began cutting coupons. She could hear him singing outside. A song about leaving it all behind and taking off on a motorcycle.

The neighbors must think we’re crazy, she whispered. They must think all kinds of things about us, she pondered. And, they probably did. A whole community of retirees would walk by their house everyday. Wondering about the new couple that just moved in.

He came inside through the kitchen door. She told him not to touch anything until he was cleaned off. The old man went straight to the bathroom where he continued to sing.

The water ran for a good fifteen minutes. And, she no longer heard him singing. The older lady walked down the hall calling his name. There was no response. Slowly she opened the bathroom door. He stood there looking into the mirror. Silent. The sink was almost filled. She reached across him and turned the faucets off. He just continued looking in the mirror.

We’re getting old dear, he whispered. And it scares me, he began to cry. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Kissed him on the cheek. Told him she was in it for the long haul. Until the very end.

Some loves die, she said. Others go on and on. Could I buy you a drink?, they both laughed. And waited for autumn.

The young couple sat at the kitchen table looking at each other; trying to figure out whose fault it was. He blamed her; said she should’ve quit smoking. And, she blamed him; the night he got drunk and punched her in the stomach. They sat there. Not a word was spoken.

Silence was interrupted by a knock on the front door. At first they ignored it. Then the banging got louder. He opened the door and there stood her mom with a casserole dish in her hands. She nearly ran him over making her way inside.

Thought I’d bring something over for you two. Tuna casserole. I know you like it, mom said softly. The young man put on a pot of coffee. He knew she wouldn’t leave.

Your father is still at work, she said to the young lady. Said he wanted to stop by later to…you know…tell ya how sorry he is…we all are, mom pulled up a chair.

We appreciate that, he said. We do appreciate that.

Listen. We don’t have to talk about it, mom held her hand. We don’t have to talk about it at all, both mother and daughter lit up cigarettes.

That’s what did it, he said under his breath. Damn cigarettes, she crushed hers out while mom took another drag.

Not what I heard, the mother said.

What did you hear?

That you got crazy one night and punched her. Hit her right in the stomach.

It was a push. Not a punch. ‘Sides, where’d you hear that?

Mother and daughter share everything you fool. I knew something was wrong ‘tween you two. Wasn’t no smoking. I smoked with all three of my children.

Does daddy know?, he asked.

Nope. And you can thank me for that. He’d kill ya. I don’t know whether to leave you two alone or not. Why don’t you just walk out that door boy and never come back, she comforted her daughter.

I’m gonna go get some air, he said. Get some air. I’ll come back and get my things. Is this what you want? she nodded yes.

Well alright then. I’ll get some air. Just get some air.