dmseay

It is peaceful.

There are no bad thoughts.

From a cafe I watch as moms push baby strollers, old men walk dogs, young couples hold hands.

Fall has come.

And, I feel it’s warmth.

Cutting grass was done with. Morning dew was heavy. Colors shined. Piles of leaves had not yet accumulated. Rooftops were wet. Sunshine poured down.

He sat on the front porch watching trains go by and listening to cars driving fast down the dirt road behind his house. It was private property, but, all the kids in town raced up and down it; daring the old man to take a shot at em. There were times when he did. Until they started firing back. Then he decided to give up the fight. Let em have it. It was their’s.

Now he just sat in an old wicker chair. Wandering where everybody was going? The trains ran east and west. So many of em. All with graffiti sprayed on em; folks marking their territory. He imagined there were hobos inside those cars. Going out to California, or, New Mexico. Maybe stop in Joplin for a week or two. He wandered.

These days were easy. Not like the old. Moving from town to town. Giving up on autumnal colors. Sleeping under bridges and in parks. Waking at sunlight.

No, these days were better. These days were better.

Lolita. He was reading Lolita. The utter perversions of Humbert Humbert; questioning his own. Confessions of a white widowed male indeed. Page after page of lust. When would his stop?

Married. He did all that was required. Trash taken out each night after dinner. The car maintained. A garden tilled in the spring. Leaves raked in autumn. It was a miserable life.

From his office downtown he’d watch with a gleam in his eye as young girls walked up and down Main Street in plaid skirts hiked above the thigh. He’d shuffle through papers; pretending. His whole life was pretend. The graying man with the slight paunch was bored by anything but. What a bore his life had become. If his wife brought coffee one more time after dinner he would leave. He swore to this. Where was his beer, or, gin and tonic? Put away long ago.

And where were the frills and ecstasy in making love to his wife? They hadn’t touched in years. Still, he watched the girls. He watched the girls.

How enchanting it would be to introduce himself to one of them, he thought. Oh how they’d laugh, he whispered. A fat middle aged man like me. Then again, everyone laughs at me, he cried. That’s what you get when you give up.

Tonight he would tell her. Say it to her. I am done with this. He thought these thoughts to be sober and of good intention. He wanted to be drunk on life.

But, he had no courage. Sat at dinner at six, trash was taken out at seven, and evening decaf served in the den. He watched television and dozed off and on while she knitted. He dreamt of girls in see through white tops and patent black leather shoes. He dreamt of whiskey on a veranda. He dreamt of Humbert Humbert, his hero.

They met at the King Wha Chinese restaurant down the street from The Diplomat Hotel. He paid for a room just before seeing her. It had a queen bed and cable television; pornography was extra.

The middle-aged man got there before she did. It had been a long time. They were sweethearts in high school. Both swapped pictures of each other on Facebook. He now had a paunch and her blonde curls were turning gray. She had wrinkles from smoking. He had a bad liver from drinking.

Even though pictures were seen, they still didn’t recognize each other. He was balding and she had picked up pounds over the years. She looked into his soul. He looked at the low cut sweater she was wearing. They embraced and were seated. For a minute they just stared at each other.

You look great, he said, thumbing through the menu.

So do you, she responded.

It’s good to see you in person.

Yes, after all these years, she said. Cashew chicken. I always get cashew chicken.

Why not try something new. Something spicy. Kung pao chicken is good. Lots of peppers, she giggled. He smiled.

I’ll get heart burn. Better stick with the cashew.

You think so huh, he continued looking at the menu. I’m going spicy. Like to live on the edge.

The waiter came over and took their orders. He had a Manhattan and she had an iced tea. There was silence. An awkward silence.They both knew they shouldn’t have come. Guilt was setting in.

Do you mind if I go outside to smoke real quick?

Take your time, he said.

She excused herself and exited the restaurant. She lit her cigarette and noticed her hand was shaking. She began to sweat.

He ordered another drink and played with the chopsticks. He thought about his wife briefly. Their two sons. And came to the conclusion that he deserved this. He wanted this brief affair.

Outside, the moon shined down on her. It was yellow and haunting. She stomped out her cigarette and walked towards her car. She never looked back.

The trees have not turned yet; still green. It was mid October. Where were the reds, golds, rusted leaves falling to the ground. This is Indian summer. Things seemed out of place.

He walked through town. Passed the used car lots, grocery store, funeral home, the bar where he sat at every night staring into his glass of whiskey; the young man walked right on by. He carried a stick.

Cars went by. Semis too. Ford pickups and Chevy four doors. Felt like sticking out his thumb. Kept his hands in his pockets.

The gravel on the side of the road was hard on his feet. He wore an old pair of Converse. Those jagged rocks went right into the rubber souls. There was a hole in em.

Came to a bridge that went up over the river. The water was high. The current was swift. For a moment he thought of jumping in. Thirty years.What had he accomplished? No woman in his life. Rented a sleeping room on the southside. Had a job changing oil at the Jiffy Lube. All his plans had vanished. Like, seeing the world. Should’ve joined the Navy like his dad said. Pop told him, don’t have any regrets. He jumped off the very same bridge. The boy figured he’d had enough. Now, as a man, maybe he’d had enough himself.

He threw his stick in the river. Watched it float away. For hours he stood there. Just looking at the brown water. To be or not to be? That is the question. Ain’t that what they say? he took out a cigarette and lit it. Looked at his brass Zippo. Put it back in his pocket.

Things seemed out of place.

He watched the boy eating ice cream. Spoonful after spoonful of a chocolate and vanilla swirl. Had a cherry on top.

The kid was very intent on finishing the bowl. His brown eyes were big.The man rocked back and forth in his chair thinking about when he was his age.

His father had a wooden ice cream maker with a crank on it that twirled the bucket filled with cream amongst the ice and rock salt. For a weight to press down on the crate, the boy would sit on top with a towel to keep from freezer burn. They both laughed till the product was finished.

Not these days, the old man thought. Now days they have fancy ice cream makers that sit on the kitchen counter. And the kid was serious about the ice cream; no laughter, no father son team to achieve a goal. Just press a button.

The kid finished his bowl and the old man wondered, did he even enjoy it?

She stayed up all night listening to old albums. A lamp glowed in the living room. Her cat lay asleep on her lap. And, she sang along to Cat Stevens, Harry Chapin, James Taylor, old Carol King songs off Tapestry. The refrigerator hummed along.

This was the town she grew up in. A small village outside of Cleveland in Cuyahoga, County. In her teen years she would take the train into the city to seek out records in resale shops. Music always played in her head. Sometimes, in public folks would turn towards her as she closed her eyes and sang out in airy whispers. She’d smile, then go back to singing in a softer tone.

Her life was simple. College, marriage, children, all eluded this woman. Townies would say she wasn’t smart enough, or, pretty enough to do anything with her life. And, she believed them, kept to herself, stayed home on Saturday nights, never had a date. But, she wasn’t lonely. She had her records to keep her company.

The parents worried about her. They  couldn’t let their little girl out into the world. Mom and dad would sit and watch Johnny Carson at night when they thought she was asleep. And, she was asleep; dreaming of Tea For The Tillerman. She even sang in her sleep. Their worry was justified. They knew that one day she would be on her own, alone.

So, she stayed up all night listening to music and dreaming. Dreaming of stories. Pictures in her head, images that artists created. This was her life. And, she was happy.

Headlights shined through blinds at two o’clock in the morning. She sat on the couch trying to make out who it was. Couldn’t tell the make of the car. Was it his old Chevy truck? maybe a complete stranger.

She heard a door slam shut. Thought she heard somebody walking up her gravel driveway. Couldn’t tell. Her porch light was off, causing it to be pitch black. The young woman grabbed her son’s baseball bat over in the corner. Don’t know how many times she asked him to take that to his room. And then the knocking on the door began.

It was a soft knock at first. Light taps on the screen door. She tightened her robe. Then the knocking got louder. The young mother wanted to turn the lights on, but, she was scared of what she might see. A voice on the other side began to whisper, Charlotte, I know you’re awake. Let me in. I wanna talk.

The voice was familiar. She knew it very well. She had listened to that voice for ten years. She heard it say, I love you. And, I do, on a cold spring day years ago.

Donny? Donny, is that you? she asked, gripping the bat tighter. Is that you? What do you want? It’s two o’clock in the morning. What do you got to say for yourself? There was silence. She turned on the porch light. It was Donny. Unkempt, heavy, a mangled beard, he wore a torn leather jacket she had given him back awhile ago. It fit tightly round his gut.

I need to talk, Charlotte. I need to talk.

What bout?

I don’t know. Us. I spose.

There is no us. Not anymore.

I know that, he said. Just wanted to tell ya I’m sorry, he leaned on the screen. I wasn’t a good husband. Tried. God knows, I tried. Just wasn’t. I’m sorry.

Where you been living?

All around. Everywhere.

Do you need money?

Nope. I’ve gotten used to being broke. It builds character.

Donny. I let you go a long time ago. Things have changed. She heard feet coming down the hallway. Little Donny asked who she was talking to? She told him nobody. Now get back to bed. The child did as he was told.

Part of her wanted to open that door just to get a good look at him. The other part of her was too frightened. Donny, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, she said, pulling on her long blonde hair.

Fair enough. I just wanted to say I was sorry.

Well, I’m sorry too. I mean that. Maybe I could’ve been a better wife.

You were fine, he said. Just fine.

She watched the outline of a large man get into his truck. She heard music playing. It was Barbara Mandrel. An old song by Barbara Mandrel.

And as the truck took off, she turned off the porch light and put away the bat.

They never spoke again.

Afternoons turn into evenings. The sun makes its way into hiding once again. Then, as it does every night, darkness hovers for hours as people watch TV, sleep, drink beers, make love, drive from one end of the country to the other. All by the shimmering light that is the moon and stars.

Some folks curse night. It scares them. Like a child in bed thinking a monster is underneath. Whore’s that walk up and down Grand Avenue yell at the dark. Waking up to another day of selling their souls. And, there are those that are lost in daylight. Night is there only salvation. They savor it through cups of coffee, shots of booze, lunches packed by their wives for third shift, dope that runs through black veins.

Night time was when he was born. Mother had him at two o’clock in the morning. Came out of the womb wailing like Miles Davis. She held him. Gave him comfort. The father was no where around.

He was a gambler. Took risks with his life. Driving around the country in his eighteen wheeler. Named her, Jezebel. The young buck had a girl in every city. Told em they were special, only to never call or see them again. That was the case of Brandy. He sized her up good at the strip joint. The trucker knew deep down she was lonely. He knew she wanted him.

She gave him a lap dance in the dark with curtains closed. Her eyes were shut as she rode upon him; bare flesh rubbing on blue jeans. He decided he wanted her. All of her. She obliged; and for one night, the curvy girl felt something. Least she thought she did.

Come morning, he was gone. Didn’t leave a note, a name, nothing. Just a condom wrapper on the night stand. She awoke to the sun creeping through her blinds. She was alone.

Brandy became scared of the night. She took the dayshift at Showgirls to avoid the moon. Stayed home at night watching old movies. And crying. Yelling at the dark.

The child was born at night time. ‘Bout the same time he was conceived. She was reminded every day of the trucker and that night. The night she felt special.

This is not autumn. It is warm, leaves are not changing, birds have not flown south. This is not autumn.

Black squirrels are gathering nuts in an easy manner. They pace themselves. Easy come, easy go. They’re off track too.

Even the mums seem out of place. Colors are bright. Yet there is no morning frost resting on them. Not even a heavy dew.

And rain. It has not fallen. The earth is dry. Hoping winter will run its course. Replenish what summer has taken.

This is not autumn. This is not autumn.