dmseay

Trees are bare in the Midwest. November is upon us. The old man rakes leaves into piles. All brown. All dead. Wet from morning dew.

Kids bundled up as they walk to the bus stop. Wool hats, puffy coats, jackets with football team’s names on them; black and gold, blue and silver, and one that just says Bears.

A fight breaks out between two of the waiting youths. They wrestle to the ground. Grass stains on jeans. A bloody nose. It’s black verses white. The bus comes. They get on. The white kid cries. The black child mouths off. The bus drives down the road past the old man raking leaves.

A cold wind blows.

They were done. No longer did they roll over to look at each other in bed. No goodnight kisses. No holding onto each other throughout the night.

Thirty years of marriage. You’d think some kind if treaty would be signed. But, there were no negotiations. It just happened one day. He didn’t kiss her goodbye as he went out the door for work. And, she didn’t seem to mind.

She stopped pouring his coffee in the morning. Stopped making breakfast. He no longer shaved, or, held the door for her. Their kids said they stopped trying. Maybe it was a show all along.

And, one day silence was broken. She said the unthinkable. Told him she was leaving. Had it all planned out. Move to Boise. Get a job doing something. Make the rest of her years the best years. That is, no more pretending.

The U-haul was parked in the driveway. She took what she wanted. Old pictures of the kids. Grandkids on her knee. Old records they no longer played were tossed out. Books she never read were donated to the library. She left the bed. Bought a twin mattress instead.

He did not wave goodbye. No hugs. They did not embrace. Just signatures on a legal document; they split the cost.

Over, she sighed. Over. And she took off on 80.

The sun hasn’t come up yet. Nor is there moonlight aglow. Cops drinking coffee at the diner. Round waitress in tight jeans serves them with a smile.

Morning Jen, men folk say as they come in from the cold. Coffee and the usual, they all say, ranging anywhere from a bear claw to biscuits and gravey. One fellow orders eggs over easy with bacon. No toast, no potatoes. Diabetes hit him hard. Made him change his tune. They no longer call him Tiny.

Jen makes rounds with coffee, asking each table if they need a refill. Words like, darling, sweetheart, and dear are tossed around. Men stare at her ass as she walks away. Took every bit of energy she had to get those Levi’s on this morning. These were her lucky pair. Christmas is coming and she needs to make dough. Got a new grandson. Her daughter just quit high school.

And the cops leave two dollars each. Grab one to go. A York peppermint patty is purchased. Says he likes the way it mixes with the black coffee. His partner laughs at him. Tells him to just suck on a candy stick. Lasts longer. Then he calls him a fag and they walk out the door.

You’re always talking in homosexual terms, the cop says. You ever wonder bout yourself? Mr. Macho shakes his head. Serious, you might want to delve into that with a professional, the partner grins.

Jen waves goodbye and another man walks in. Coffee dear? she asks. Need a menu? He smiles and says he’ll just have the usual.

The Greyhound was packed. All seats were taken. Debris on the floor; empty bottles, Orange Crush, grape soda, McDonald’s bags. Graffiti on the backs of chairs written in black marker; Fuck Whitey, it read.

There was an uneasiness on the bus. A silence. People with earphones in, sleeping in curled up positions, texting away to someone they were meeting, or, leaving, last words, final words.

Who was meeting these people? the old man wondered. What stop was their’s? he looked out at the autumn bit trees. South Bend, Elkhart, Fort Wayne, Youngstown, somewhere. They were all going somewhere.

He bought a ticket for New York. It’d been awhile since he’d been there. The old man spent his youth in and out of the city. In and out of shelters. Some things never change. Like the gray skies of November in Ohio. Some things never change.

There were opportunities the old man had; each one slipped through his hands. Couldn’t keep a job to save his life. Spent time in mental wards; Yale, Bellevue, Alan Presbyterian, others all around the country. Diagnosed as bipolar. His folks just said he was crazy.

But, this would be it. His last trip. He was done with backpacking cross country. It was time to settle. Settle in New York? Sounded like a death sentence. Maybe that’s what he wanted.

The bus went east on 80. All the way through Ohio. Leaves of rust dotted the interstate. Construction signs. Left lane closed ahead. The old man thought briefly about getting off in Cleveland. He had been there before. Spent a year in the Forest City. Used to sleep under bridges by the Cuyahoga. Met a nice lady there. She was running too. Just like all of us; from herself.

No, he wanted to see Gotham one more time before he died. One more time through Central Park. Hang out in Washington Square. Get a slice for a buck.

We all have places we want to be buried in. Tombs, the ocean, a vase atop a mantle of a loved one. He wanted to finally rest with the poor. For that’s where he belonged.

Two flags bend in the breeze

Gadsden…old stars and stripes

A field of grain has been harvested

Pumpkins and gourds are piled in the front yard

Yellows, greens, reds, and rust

Soon grass will be brown

Dogs bark at passing cars

Life goes on

He turned the coffee on. She was still asleep. Looked out the window at the darkness. Saw red tail lights moving down the street. A truck dragging a boat. Summer had ended. Now it was time for cold mornings and warm afternoons. Carry a sweatshirt with you just in case.

Friday night high school football had started. Parents in the bleachers yelling out for their kids on the field. Students walking around the track talking about when they’re going to leave this town. A town with a gas station, a truck stop, and a McDonald’s. The Piggly Wiggly grocery store. And, the paper mill that employed half the village. Friday night football had started. And, they wouldn’t be a part of it.

He had a job at the car wash a couple of towns over. The kid was good. Strong work ethic. He jumped in and out of cars all evening long. Wiping down the interior. Washing the windows. Spraying scents of orange, lavender, spices of fall, and winter pine.

The boy made some money. Enough to put gas in the car and take his girl out on Friday nights. The rest he saved in a glass jar under his bed. Promised himself when it got full he was going to leave this town. Go off to New York City, or, Chicago, or, Los Angeles. Someplace where he could live his own life, on his terms. Follow his dreams. Fantasies that changed from day to day.

It was now autumn. Early in the morning. The coffee was brewing while she slept down the hall. He missed his son. Wondered why he left? They never heard from him again. Not a call, or, an email. A letter was never sent. He thought about tracing him down. But, the boy probably wanted to be left alone.

Kids are hard to figure out, pop whispered. Damn hard to figure out. You think they’re happy. But, they’re not, he said to himself.

Leaves were changing. Air was crisp. Perfect for a Friday night. Perfect. Almost.

Grass shimmers like emeralds. Mums stand tall, filled with colors. Roof tops are white. A gray smoke lifts from chimneys. No pope elected yet.

A young boy delivers the morning papers. Front page news; a chicken dinner at the Elk’s lodge Friday night. A young couple died in a car wreck out on 30. Going too fast. Coupons for the local Kroger store. Pork chops $2.99 a pound. Spaghetti squash $1.99 each.

He walks through the frost. His boots are soaked. One by one he tosses the rolled up papers on porches. Senior citizens wave as they close the doors. A dog barks.

And in the window on Chestnut Street he sees a silhouette in the window of a woman bathing. The boy slowly walks by.

She’s a divorced young lady in the  neighborhood. A blonde who keeps to her self. She always tips good at Christmas time. And those sweaters she wears.

Instead of throwing the paper he places it on her porch. Takes another look at the outlined body and breathes exhaust from his mouth. He walks backwards.

She is someone he will never forget. His first crush.

He sat in a dark room. Pitch black. Just a light from his cell phone. Trains went by throughout the night. Steel hitting steel. Northern Pacific carrying crates and pulling cars. A caboose at the end. This loud noise in the dark. The noise of travel, leaving, going somewhere. He’d been many places.

Canada, Quebec, Vermont, Maine, New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, California, New Mexico, Colorado, so many more. Hitchhiking over state lines in the heat of the day. Sleeping under bridges. His was a hobo life. It was a manic life. Couldn’t stay still. Always on the move. Comfort was found in strangers arms. Late at night. Carousing bars and midnight diners. Cups of coffee. Shots of booze.

And he went through old telephone numbers. Old friends he owed money to. Ex-wives ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers. He’d never see them again. Days of youth.

Bugs crawl on the floor. He feels them when he walks to the bathroom. Blankets stained with blood. His blood. Spends too much time thinking of the old days. Nothing to look forward to. Just darkness.

It’s always quiet on this street. No sounds. Weeds wrestle in the breeze. Tree limbs reach out for cloudy skies. Bushes and fences dividing houses. The grass was cut one final time  before winter  came. Candy wrappers from a Halloween night litter the sidewalks.

He raked his yard. Piles of leaves throughout his property. Gold, reds, rust, orange colors turning brown. They crackled when he swept them. He pushed fall’s harvest to the curb. Made a straight line, a wall of leaves. Kids jumped in head first. Not knowing what was beneath. Blue jeans with grass stains on knee caps.

It’s this time of year that he thought of his mom who had passed on. Autumn was her favorite season. Funny how she passed away in winter. Snow was in traces. Ice on streets. The Christmas tree had been put away. That’s what he was told. He was not there. 

They said he never was on time. Always a day late and a dollar short. It was evening when he got the call. Family told him she’d passed on. He said goodbye in his own way. Lit a candle, said a prayer.

Now he rakes leaves and thinks of her. Her favorite time of the year. In the spring the leaves will return. It’s all one big cycle. That’s what he believed.

Tracks were silent. No trains running that morning. Cars and trucks rolled over the steel with ease. He watched from the front porch. Semis going out towards the highway. Sounds like waves crashing though he was far from the sea. The distant cries of cars. Mufflers attached. Smooth sounding. But, no trains.

He wanted to walk on water. Had a Christ complex. Wanted to heal the sick and the lame. Had a desire to cure cancer. This was all talk. Had been his whole life. The old man just sits there, waiting on the train to come through. Listening to vehicles. Pretending.

See, in his mind he was married to Vanna White. She sat beside him on the porch. He’d reach out to hold her hand, but, it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Just the sounds of the pretend ocean. While he waited on trains.