dmseay

He walked throughout the Midwest on blacktop roads and two lane highways; skipping stones, a satchel on his back. He’d traveled from Nebraska across Iowa and into Illinois; taking his time, had nowhere to go.

The young man carried a compass with him. His daddy had given him that instrument, said put it to good use. That was before he died, knew his son was a traveler.

And he didn’t have any money on him, no identification, just a bag of books. Walked ’round with Ulysses, Moby Dick, Farewell To Arms, and On The Road. He read them one at a time, all the way through. When he’d finish one he’d go onto the next one.

The bag was heavy. Carried a change of clothes in it as well; a razor, tooth brush. In the mornings the kid would brush his teeth and clean up in public bathrooms of small towns. It felt good to wash his face in the sink with hot water; nights were getting cold.

Some days he wouldn’t walk at all. Just sit there in the park reading his books. He’d go to the library, the art museums, and over to shelters sometimes for food from a pantry. He was always asking for peanut butter and grape jelly with white bread. Most of the time the places had some on hand. He’d have to talk for a little while. Tell em he was safe. Just walking through. They’d heard it all before. Nothing was new.

He just kept on walking. No place to go. Followed a compass his daddy had given him. Everything was due east. Eventually he was staring at the ocean. Read pages of Melville. He felt at home.

The sounds of cars, semis, running on 41. Some going south to Terre Haute and others traveling north to Chicago.

Passing one another in the dark night air from the left lane over to the right. Again, from the left lane over to the right.

Driving over bridges where the river has grown high. Men with lanterns and flashlights fishing under the stars.

Silence. Just the sounds of cars, semis, running on 41.

The six shooter had two bullets left in it. He’d open the gun, look at the chamber, and close it. Johnny Carson was on in the background. His guest that night was Charo. The audience laughed at her. The old man snickered, then went back to looking at his gun. He shined it every day; kept it clean. It glistened when the light hit it. He had plans.

He’d often thought about it. Never did he commit the action. It was always in the back of his mind. Especially at the end of the month when he was broke. There were many ways to go about it. The old man thought of them all. Figured the liquor store on 41 was his best bet. That’s what he figured.

And the audience laughed harder at Charo. Carson was blushing. The old man turned the sound down. It was just a picture now, a picture of Johnny and Charo. Not still though. Their lips were moving. They were talking, but, there were no voices.

The old man stood up and tucked the gun in his pants. Turned off the TV and opened the back door. There was a silver sliver of moon in the sky. He cursed it. Wanted it to be full. At least then he’d have an excuse. That’s what he’d tell the judge.

He started the old Ford. Backed her out into the street and drove up to 41, a highway that ran north and south. The liquor store was about to close. The old man looked at the moon one more time. Damn it, he said. This is not picture perfect. This is not right, he began to sweat. Even in the autumn air he began to sweat. He had trouble lifting the gun out of his pants; shaking.

The old man counted the bullets one more time. There was two in there. Just two. And the moon was not full. He pointed the gun to his heart and thought of people laughing at Charo.

This train. Two miles long. Moving slowly, creeping over the tracks. Its got graffiti all over the cars. Blue and yellow paint spelling out home boy, comic book creations wearing bandanas around their necks. This train.

Where has it been? Rolling through small Midwestern towns, hamlets. Going into cities, Chicago, Indy, Cincinnati, not stopping. This train.

Lovers making out in the midnight hour as red lights flash. Car in park, motor idles. Middle aged couple’s acting like kids. This train.

Last car, the caboose goes by with bells ringing. Now it’s time for toast and honey. Coffee as the sun comes up. Another night. This train.

There were babies crying in the waiting room. Lots of Mexicans with masks on. One was coughing; he was asked to leave.

Nurses kept coming out from behind a door calling names. Lopez, she called, Is there a Mrs. Lopez here? a tiny woman carrying a baby came running from her seat. She was shaking. Kept saying, muy frio. Had her child wrapped in a colorful blanket. She and her child went behind the door. You could hear the baby crying out in the lobby. Scared of strangers. Maybe she anticipated needles. Hard to say what a young mind is thinking.

Over in the corner a black man was talking to himself; fast, very rapid. Talking about Saint Francis. Talked about Saint Augustin. All of it was mushed together. He prayed out loud holding onto a rosary. There was a medallion round his neck of Padre Pio. The older man took a pick with a black fist formed at the top and tried hard to run it through his hair. Then he paced back and forth. Mumbling to himself. The front desk kept an eye on him.

Raphael, the nurse called. Raphael, she said again. The black man raised his hand and continued pacing. Come back to see the doctor, Raphael, she pleaded. Eventually, he too went behind the door.

It looked dark outside. The rain would be here soon, I thought. Drops hit the tinted glass. A nurse came out and called my name. I was so excited about seeing rain that I didn’t hear her at first. I did not want to go. I wanted to watch the rain.

You pay for it eventually, he said. All the lies told, money stolen, women used, it’ll come round to haunt you some day, the old man drank from his pint glass.

You might go to Heaven cause of God’s grace, his shedding of blood on Calvary, then again, you might not, he felt his mustache. You ever think bout stuff like that? he asked the young man sitting next to him, eyeing each woman as they came in the bar. Said, you ever think bout that? the young man shook his head.

Better. The apocalypse is on. Four horsemen ridin’ in the sky. The devil let loose here on earth. Preachers preachin’ lies, you won’t know who to trust, old man took another swig of beer.

And then God will make his judgment upon us all. That’s what The Bible says. Judgment on us all. You either believe or you don’t, he then lit a Marlboro. Do you believe? the young man looked at him.

I believe I’m gonna get laid tonight, he said. That’s what I believe.

The old man was silent. Quiet as a church bell throughout the night. He shook his head. Said, Boy you got no fear do ya? This earth will be gone one day. You’ll pay, I’ll pay, we’ll all pay. Guarantee.

The house was falling apart. Chipped paint, roof shingles needing replaced, a screen door with a tear in it, and with each year new problems; busted pipes, floors damaged, the old man was not up to the task.

He sat all day and night in his recliner, haunted by pictures on the cracked white walls. These were photographs of his wife, a daughter that lived out in California, and friends throughout the years. The old man took the photos himself. He used to walk around with a camera, shot in black and white, took it everywhere, vacations, volleyball games, church gatherings, he was so active back then. Now he just sat in the living room waiting to die.

Occasionally he’d kiss the pictures, lightly touching them with his thin lips. Telling them all how much he missed them. And, there were pictures tucked away in his safe that he’d forgotten the combination to. These were pictures of an old flame, a mistress who he had carried on with for a short while during his marriage.

His wife found out about the affair by running across the photos and hotel receipts, letters back and forth. She begged him to burn them, said he would, he lied. Instead he tucked the black and whites away. The old man locked the safe and had every intention of finding her again some day, renewing their romance at an older age, but, guilt got the best of him.

She never forgave him. Neither one of them did. The mistress felt she was mislead, the wife was humiliated, they kept it a secret, no one said a word.

And now he waits. Alone. Wanting to leave this earth, this ramshackle of a house, and start anew. His sins washed away. Or, maybe there’s a place in Hell for him, he thought. You never stop paying for your sins, the old man whispered. It never stops.

So he kissed his pictures goodbye and took them off the walls. Now the house was blank, bare, and so was he.

Corn. Miles of corn stretched out as far as can be. Green stalks. Baby corn, not yet matured, not ready to harvest. Come August there’ll be sweet corn. You can buy it on the side of the roads. Farmers placing them in wooden baskets along with squash, watermelons, onions, radishes, cucumbers. Families will go on Sunday drives and stop at these stands. Parents will tell stories of how they grew up in Indiana, Iowa, Ohio, Illinois, and looked forward to corn field mazes, crisp apples, pumpkin carving, hay rides. They will tell these stories to their kids and their kid’s kids. But, right now it’s just green corn.

He drove over the sate line. Some back road that was dusty from the gravel. It was evening time. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Just him and his pick- up truck with a body in the back. Some young woman he picked up at a truck stop outside of Indianapolis. She had pretty blonde hair and a way about her. Might have been the whiskey that made her so flirtatious. Maybe it was the joint she smoked out in the parking lot. Something made her walk his way. Something.

The old man sat at the counter drinking a cup of coffee. Buck Owens played on the speakers. Singing about the streets of Bakersfield. He sang along with it. You don’t know me you don’t like me. Say you care less how I feel, he sang in between puffs on a Kool. How many of you sit and judge me. And walk the streets of Bakersfield, he then hummed along to the harmonica.

She sat in the middle of the old man and a young man who looked like her dad in pictures when he was younger. Jet black hair real wavy. A strong jaw line. Green eyes. The young lady ordered a Coke and the young man paid for it. She was impressed with his kindness. The old man looked on.

Where you from? she asked. He told her Chicago. That’s a big city, the kid said. What’re you doing here? You gotta load you’re pulling? he shook his head. Well what’re you doing then?

The young man smiled. I’m just hanging out. Truck stops have the best food and the best coffee, he said. I’d rather eat here than at some McDonald’s, she laughed and said true that.

They kept making eyes at each other while the old man kept singing along to a whispering Bill Anderson song. The young man excused himself. Said he’d be right back as he slithered back to the bathroom. She said she’d be waiting. He seemed exciting to her. Like something could happen at any second.

Hey, the old man said. I’d think twice if I was you. He’s up to no good.

You’re just jealous.

I’m just saying.

Well don’t, she then sucked her Coke through straw until it squeaked. She looked at the young man as he walked towards her. He looked like her savior.

Wanna go for a ride? she nodded, yes. The old man looked at her again. Don’t do it, was the look he gave her. She just smiled and stuck her tongue out.

Green corn. All they could see was green corn. He kissed her. And, she kissed him. He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved them to her neck in a slow fashion.

She said I love you as he twisted just a bit. I love you….He didn’t say a word. Just placed her body in the back of his truck and took off.

A farmer found the body. It was blue. And, his fields were green. Soon he would harvest.

There was a hum throughout the house. Might have been the air conditioner kicking in. Maybe the hot water heater that needed replaced. Perhaps it was nothing. Just his imagination. The mind can wander.

He sat on the couch in the early morning hours. Smoked a cigarette and sipped coffee. The lights were out. Just sat in the dark waiting for the morning sun to come up. It’d take awhile. The coffee was cold; left in the pot the day before. He felt comfortable.

The dark. He always liked the dark. Ever since he was a kid. Most children want a night light. He just wanted it dark. He could hear a current going through the house. It sounded like a high beam of sound. It ran through one ear and out the other. Rolled his neck. Listened to the bones popping. He smiled. Soon they’ll be here, he whispered. Soon.

This was the morning when there would be no bus to catch. No days marked off a calendar. No more office gossip. No numbers to add. This was the day all would stop. He laughed. These will be my days. Sitting in the dark. Waiting for no one. But, always hoping for someone, he sipped more cold coffee. Is this out to pasture? shook his head. He then pulled open the table drawer in front of him and unloaded the gun inside of it. All bullets were gone. The sun shined now. And, he was ready for bed.

Happy retirement.

The river had rose overnight. It crested just below the bridges on Highway 41. There was no one out fishing on that day. No boats going up and down the waterway. Just brown murky water seeping into the lands where the pines and the oaks stood.

Semis heading north and south drove over the river. Their mud flaps soaked and windshield wipers keeping tempo with the songs on the radio. And, to the east, the sun rising as the rain continued coming down. There was no end of it in sight. Storms came in from Illinois and Iowa. They were driving against it.

A group of them clustered together on the road. They traveled in a pack like wolves or mad dogs. Five truckers heading to Chicago to drop loads from Terre Haute. All of em driven by men who only knew one thing; drive fast and don’t get caught. This was difficult to do in the storm. But, they made a go at it. They most certainly did.

One of the drivers picked up a young girl heading to the big city. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. While another picked up an old man who’d seen his share of the road. He’d been all over this nation. Going from town to town. The skinny old man slept most of the way. The driver knew he’d paid his dues.

But, the young girl chirped like a bird all the way. The driver wanted to just let her out in the middle of nowhere, but she kept him awake. And, she was easy on the eyes, he thought. All she did was talk about Chicago, how she’d never look back, counted money in her purse, and smacked on gum. He promised her a ride, and she promised to keep him awake. They worked out a deal.

The old man woke up around Whiting. He had seen this area before. Knew Whiting, Hammond, Highland,Gary. Knew the whole corner of the state. Remembered as a kid driving through in a ’82 Chevy pickup truck he’d stolen from his father. Stayed in Chi-town for a week before the family realized he was missing. He had no money. Never had any money. Had to call his pop to wire him some for gas to get back home. Needless to say dad was quite surprised. The old man laughed at his memories. It’s been a strange life, he said to the trucker. It’s been strange.

The trucks decided to pull in at this truck stop over by Canaryville on the far southside. The rain still poured. I’m gonna let you out here honey, the trucker said to the girl. You can catch another ride into the city. Been good having you along, he extended his hand. Yeah, she said. And she ran into the truck stop diner where she saw the old man sitting alone.

This seat taken? she asked. The old man lit up a smoke and offered her one. She took it, lit it, and coughed.

You want some coffee? he asked her. On me, he said. She nodded yes.Where you from? She told him Terre Haute. Nice town. Why would you wanna leave that place? They both paused and laughed. She began to cry. Never been away from home huh? the old man swigged his coffee. She shook her head. I see. Well, stick with me kid. Stick with me.

The sun was fully awake. Trucks came and went. The two sat in the diner. They were both scared. She was afraid of him and he was afraid of her. He reminded her of her father. She reminded him of an old girlfriend years ago. They both kept quiet. Silence was comforting.

They got a ride into the city. Let em out downtown. Across the street from the Picasso piece. The rain came again. And they said goodbye. They didn’t even know the other’s name. They just knew about Terre Haute.