dmseay

He was on top of his game. A real square shooter. Never touched alcohol. Didn’t smoke. Gave up those vices a few years back. Drank a lot of coffee.

And he played golf from sun up to sun down. Always trying to improve his game. Said it helped him in his attempt to become a better person. Birdies and eagles, birdies and eagles.

Used to be a big shot in Chicago. Was a corporate salesman. Sold paper products; made a fortune. Drove ’round town hopping from bar to bar. Impressing women with his slicked back black hair and his leathery tan. The guy wore necklaces and bracelets with his initials on em. Had season tickets to Bears games, sat inside away from the elements. Drinking whiskey and craft beers while the peasants suffered.

Then came the death of a salesman. Company politics did him in. The cut throats and the back stabbers got him in the end. The young turks were out to get him. And, they did. Ambition kills.

So, now he spends his days playing golf. Birdies and eagles. Birdies and eagles. Recovering from corporate greed. Always be closing.

Thank you David Mamet.

It’s pitch black outside. Blinds are closed. Night creeps in through cracks. The garbage truck makes a racket. Old bones grinding to a halt. Reminds me we’re all getting old.

And the oscillating fan blows on the Basque flag hanging to a wall. Red, green, and white criss-crossing. It shivers in the wind. Thumb tacks in each corner. A light below shines on it. Not a tear, nor rip in the thing. Just a flag wishing it had a home.

The desk in the corner belonged to my father. He used to pay bills on it, draw designs for wood projects, collect pennies. It now has two boxes of spaghetti on top, a television, a flat antenna. There’s a red light, a dot that turns green when it’s on, shining. I want to turn it on; watch infomercials at four in the morning. But, I open the blinds instead. There’s nothing out there. There never was.

Not a single car out. No guns being fired. No fireworks, or, cherry bombs blowing up. Just outlines of trees.

Cats begin to meow. Maybe they’re waiting for light too. They’re in heat. I can tell by their sound. Makes me wanna close the blinds; give em some privacy.

Time. Seems like all you have is time. Watching rain fall from dark clouds, I am reminded of time. And, it all goes so quickly. You’re left wondering where life went?

There are those who stay in one place all their lives. I did not choose that route. Moving from town to town. Always behind. Rent is due. Old bills pile up. Debts to people never paid. Steps forward, or, steps back?

This is melancholy. This is mush. Watching rain on a Tuesday afternoon. And, all I have is time.

The weather man said there was tornadoes coming to the counties of Jasper, Lake, and Newton ’round ten o’clock. Winds kicked up and the sky turned gray. Rain was falling. The dog hid under a table.

They kept the TV on. Maps ‘cross the screen showed colors of green, yellow, and red. Newton was covered in red. A tornado had not hit the county in years. She crossed herself, he opened another beer.

Trash was blowing all in the yard. There’ll be a mess to clean up tomorrow, the old man said. The recycle bin which was never used lifted off the pavement and carried on down the street. Night-time was creeping in.

She sat there on the couch with one eye glued to the television and the other to the clock on the wall; an old cukoo-cukoo clock that still told time. She waited for the bird to crow.

And ten o’clock came. There was no sound. The smell of farmland was strong. Rain had stopped. People came out of their houses and stood on porches, looking all ’round.

We dodged that one, the old man said. She crossed herself again. He walked down the street waving at neighbors; collecting trash along the way; debris in one hand and an Old Style in the other. He rolled the recycle bin back to his yard. Placed some trash in it and went inside.

It was God’s will, his wife said. He lit a Camel and nodded his head. It was God’s will.

Thinking of you in August. Autumn ever so close. Walks through Central Park looking at people pushing baby strollers. Listening to Coltrane and stopping for a moment’s kiss.

My first room in Manhattan cost $250 a month. That was back in ’86. Now days it’s a town house on 24th Street; the Y close by where Albee used to get his kicks. The corner store where you could by loosies for a quarter, poppers for $5.

And hookers strolled over from 8th Avenue. Selling their bodies under stairwells, dark back yards, church parking lots, Needle Park.

We would walk hand in hand. Unfazed by junkies, pimps, speed freaks criminals, vagabonds.

We were so broke back then. Funny how things never change; except the rent.

It rained. River was high, streets flooded, a playground with swingsets submerged; cars floating down streets. It was like Louisiana, 1927; brown water as far as the eye could see.

They were up on their roof. Sat there for hours. Waiting, waiting for a chopper to save them. Water was rising.

And they talked about old times. How their children had grown up, dogs they’d had, vacations to New Mexico, Colorado, Northern Arkansas. Talked about being in love since high school. Limbs of trees went drifting by.

Then they sat in silence. Watching the waters create a stronger current. They’d lost everything. Old black and whites of when they got married, kids first tricycle, the old Ford pickup truck; she always hated that thing. Never told him. They saw neighbors on rooftops too. But no-one spoke. A whole community of quiet. Just waiting on choppers.

What makes us stop and take notice? a child playing in the leaves on a cool autumn day? some woman sitting on a barstool with a low cut shirt on? the heroics of a pedestrian saving a life at the last second? bombs going off over seas? What we watch everyday is this ongoing series of events. No matter how boring life gets, how mundane, there’s always something to see.

He closed his eyes to it for a long time. Stayed inside with the curtains drawn, TV off, no radio,or, newspaper. Used to color drawings in thick coloring books. Pictures of unicorns, royalty, dogs, fire trucks, dragons, all this stuff he’d color. Just an old man sitting in a chair coloring pictures in oranges, reds, blues, golden colors, indigo.

Some wondered where his mind went? His kids did. He never said a word when they came to visit. They’d try to talk ’bout old times. Back when he had a house, a wife, a career in mathematics, a sharp mind. Now, he just sat in silence. His mind remained numb from day to day. Seated in a wheelchair. Back to the sun that shined brightly outside. Just waiting. Waiting to be taken away by some god or higher power.

And they’d bring him chocolate covered cherries; his favorite. Boxes of em were stored in the corner. His taste for them had gone. His daughter and son would try to kiss him goodbye. They never did when he was younger. When they were younger. Time creeps up on us. Too soon we forget.

What makes us stand up and take notice? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know.

He was questioned for hours; endless cups of coffee, cigarettes. Told the detectives he couldn’t remember; it was all just a haze. Said he wished he could help em out, but, he just couldn’t think straight. Little things cluttered his mind.

They showed him pictures from the crime scene. A body, her body, lay there in the grass; tall weeds surrounded it. She was bruised, blue, her hair was pulled, cuts and abrasions covered the young lady. These things were pointed out to him. They thought they had their man.

It was so quiet in the room. There was a time when not a word was said. Just silence. He was asked how long he had known the girl. The young man didn’t answer at first. Said nothing. Then he cried; balled like a baby. Told em he’d known her since high school. They dated off and on for a year, or, two. He’d had Sunday dinners over at her parent’s house. Played with their dogs in the back yard. Helped her father out with projects ’round the home. He said they did a lot together over a year and a half, but, when it was over it was over; both went their separate ways. The detectives nodded their heads, offered more coffee.

And, he never asked for an attorney. Said he didn’t need one. Said he had something to say. He told them he did it. Told him things just got out of control. Asked what was going to happen to him? They told him he was going away for a long, long time. He said no. He meant when he was dead and gone. What would happen to him? One of the detectives just looked at him. The other told him, that’s for God to decide.

He pulled up in her driveway at 1:00 that morning. She’d had a hard time sleeping. Thoughts raced through her head, bad dreams. The young woman tossed and turned ’bout em. Never could sleep with a clear conscience. Thinking old thoughts, one’s that had cluttered her mind for the longest of time; sins she had committed, questionable acts.

Outside on the front porch was a pot of wildflowers, a little statue of Mary stood just before the steps painted blue; a streetlight shined down making it bearable for the eyes to see. His shoes left marks on steps from the dewy grass. He gazed into the front window looking to see if there was any movement, any lights on. The front room table lamp still glowed. The young man started to knock on the door, but, stopped himself. Did he want to make a fool of himself? Surely it was much too late and he was much too old to be acting this way. He turned away and went back to his truck, sat in it for minutes, then an hour listening to the radio. He saw the lamp go out in the front room. Now it was truly dark.

She was thinking of him, the fight they had earlier that night. The red head told him to either shit, or, get off the pot. She’d had offers from other men, was waiting it out for this one. There was a young suitor from Tennessee that’d asked for her hand. Another from Kentucky as well. Both of em had plenty of money. Both of em said they loved her. But, she wanted this one with no job, a ton of debt and a tattoo on his arm of an ex-girlfriend’s name in red. She made him wear long sleeves.

And they sat there in those early morning hours. Her in the front room with the lights off, him in his truck that dripped oil, left his mark. They sat there thinking of the future. Would there be a future? He slowly turned the key and she heard the truck’s engine turn. The young man slowly pulled out of the driveway and the front door opened. She ran out with her arms flailing, her hair tossed. Calling out, Hey, come back here. I love you….And the taillights burned red.

There were stories written ’bout him. Small town news covered his career. Every race he won and some that he lost had ink to em. Car races and church chicken dinners were a staple in the Morocco newspaper. He’d kept all the black and whites of him and his car in his shop hanging next to the Snap-on calendar and various photos of women holding wrenches and power tools. Grease smeared the pages.

His garage was out close to 41. Used to take cars out for test drives up and down the highway at top rate speeds. If you dropped your car off at Chuck’s, you could rest assured it’d get a good workout. He’d race it up north towards Lake Village, then turn around and race it home; to him everything was a race. Women especially; bragged ’bout getting more ass than a toilet seat.

Yes, he loved the women. And, every Friday night he had a different one. Some folks say he went through the entire female population of Newton County in one season. Folks say a lot of things.

He was in love once. Just once. She was the president of the Lion’s Club Chapter’s daughter. Young blonde who should’ve known better. Some say he should’ve known better. He’d pick her up after her job at the Family Dollar store. Took her out for a dinner at the Gold Star diner. Then off to the races where she’d hoot and holler throughout the night on every straightaway and left turn. He’d sense her presence. Couldn’t see or hear her in the stands, but, he could feel her. She was real.

Those summers and falls lasted awhile. He asked the young lady to marry him. Had a vision of them riding from church to Chicago for their honeymoon in his beat up Dodge race car. It was just a dream. She turned him down. And that’s when his heart left him. Left him with a blonde walking down the street. She told him she couldn’t take a small town race car driver seriously. Told him he was just for fun. You marry insurance salesmen, not mechanics who race on the weekends, she said.

He was just for fun. That’s all. And, he was convinced he was nothing more. Just fun. That’s all anyone is he guessed;

Years later she married that insurance salesman. Moved down the road to Lowell. Chuck just stayed behind and had fun.