dmseay

She showed him pictures of her kids; three, one in college and the other two in high school. The ring she wore was the size of Gibraltar; she was always into flash. She stirred her drink and he lit her cigarette. It felt funny to him; talking to her after all these years. He ordered a cup of coffee.

He was always in love with her. Probably the reason his marriage didn’t work; too busy thinking of her. He knew she’d moved away. Lived in Kansas, or, Nebraska. Some flat state with open spaces. Married some rancher she’d met through a friend. Him? he stayed in the small town he grew up in. The same town where they used to go for walks together down by the river. Same place they’d eat ice cream cones in the summer time. And now, after thirty years, there she was. Right across from him in a Colorado bar. She hadn’t changed a bit. Still blonde, same green eyes, she had not gained a pound. Wanted to tell her that. He thought it might be in bad taste.

No kids. Lived in a trailer out on the South side of town. Surrounded by blacks and Mexicans. He didn’t tell her that. Thought he’d keep that to himself. He wanted so badly to hold her. Or, at least touch her hand. He settled for conversation.

What brings you to Denver?, she asked.

On my way to Vegas. Gonna give the black Jack tables a run. What’re you doing out here?

He’s got some kind of convention. A rodeo too. We’re always busy with something.

There was a long silence. They just looked at each other.

Well, it was good to see you, he said.

You too.

He walked back to his hotel room, turned on the television, and cried.

A car door slammed next door and it woke up the old man. He was trying to sleep off a whiskey hangover from the night before. Noises from all over kept him awake. Car doors slamming, people talking, diesels running along the highway, trains groaning through town; all of it made him toss and turn.

And then his mind started racing. Thoughts of old times ran through his head. Old dreams of past loves, women he’d been with, reeled in his brain like an old movie projector, in color, not black and white.

He called out, Carol…Carol, the old man screamed. Then he heard the car next door take off. Peeling gravel and burning up the engine. He looked over on the other side of the bed and she was gone, wasn’t there. Disappeared.

Down the hall he could hear her humming a song, smelled bacon frying, his mind was playing tricks on him. There was no bacon frying, no sounds of a woman humming, nothing. Nothing at all. Just a table with one chair at it, a toaster, coffee maker, and a bread box. Where was Carol?, he thought. She was just here, he said.

The old man opened a cabinet and spied a half bottle of Jameson. Opened it and poured the golden liquid down the sink. He made a pot of coffee and sat down. Kept asking himself, Where’s Carol?

He heard the car next door. People were talking, the two doors shut, and the engine was turned on. It was loud; needed a muffler. Tires spun on gravel; seemed like they took off rather fast. He went to the front window; they were gone.

This was one of many noises that kept him awake that night. The fan spinning, toilet running, semis grunting on Lincoln Highway, a strong wind outside blowing over lawn furniture. He heard a dog barking too. Or, was that a coyote. They say there’s a pack that run late at night.

He stepped out into his garage for a cigarette. It was quiet. All noise had been cut off it seemed. The sound of nothing. It was almost solace. His wife came out to join him. The middle aged blonde took a drag from his smoke. She coughed.

You shouldn’t, he said. It’s not good for you, the old man took another drag. He laughed.

Do you remember the garage sales we used to have?, he nodded. So much stuff gone over the years. Stuff we didn’t need. Things no longer used. Just useless stuff. Old lawn mowers on their last legs, she laughed. I think we sold a Toro for twenty bucks, both shook their heads.

We had a wheelbarrow. An old wheelbarrow. Back when we did yard work. We won a prize when we first moved in as most improved property. Best looking yard. Some bullshit, he took another drag and handed it to her. Things don’t matter anymore do they? We let the grass grow, dandelions take over, paint to chip and peel, old windows; there’s a draft.

What’re you saying?

I don’t know. Just talk. Nothing but talk.

They heard the car next door pulling into the driveway. Doors shut. And voices whispering. Trucks continued down Lincoln Highway. And the coyote kept howling.

Goodnight.

Night.

He awoke to people talking outside. What are they doing? he thought. What are they plotting? he quietly opened his window.

They were in the alley. A group of five. Mexicans. There was a pickup truck parked on the side. The men drank beer and threw the empties in the back of the Ford. They spoke in Spanish. The old man couldn’t figure it all out. Maybe they were looking for copper, or aluminium, maybe pvc pipe. They’re looking for something, he said under his breath. Why can’t they speak English? Everybody else does, he raised his blinds just a bit.

The Mexicans were getting drunk. They weaved from trashcan to dumpster down the alleyway. And they were getting loud too. Three of them started singing along to the song on the radio. Loud Mexican voices singing an old Mexican song with violins and guitars. The old man had heard the song before. Thought he’d heard it at a Mexican restaurant by a band of them going from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure though. To him, they all sounded the same.

He listened to their drunken voices. It began to soothe him. The old man pretended he was on a boat at sea and they were the entertainment. He began to hum along. A smile came to his old lined face. Then, they were gone. No more Mexicans, nor radio. No more songs. Just silence. He could hear birds chirping. It was morning.

Tomorrow. I’ll get it done tomorrow. It’s not as if anything will change in the next twenty-four hours. No. It will be the same. You’ll see, the old man said. He took out a Camel and lit it; opened a beer and drank. You’re always so busy, he took another swig. I spend my whole day in a relaxed mood. You. You have to go here and there. The store. Always going to the store. What is there? nothing I tell you. Nothing, he sat down at the kitchen table, wiped his lined brow, and smoked his cigarette.

Your beer is at the store. Cigarettes, he said. Why must I always be questioned?

I’m not questioning.

Pop. You’re questioning, he poured a cup of coffee.

Coffee? Drinking coffee in the afternoon? You’ll never sleep that way. Be up all night. You always are. I hear you. I lay in bed and hear you. Wondering, what’s he doing in there?

I do things dad.

Things?

Yes. Things. Laundry, dishes, dusting. Someone has to keep things tidy ’round here.

I guess your mother used to do that. She was always doing something, or, going somewhere. Her friends say I drove her to an early grave. You think so? You think I did that?, the son shook his head. They don’t come ’round to see me. Her friends. Nobody does.

You wanna go for a ride pop?

Where too?

Texas. Dallas. Where you grew up.

Is that where I’m from?, he nodded.

Yeah. Just grab your toothbrush.

I’ll need a change of clothes.

Nope. Straight there and back. No hotels. We’ll sleep in the car.

You got money?

Yes dad.

Enough for some barbeque?

Yep.

OK. Let’s go. Where’s my car keys?

I’m driving pop.

The hell you are. Hand em over, dad reaches for the keys, his son has in front of him. Dangling them.

You can’t drive dad. You’ll get us killed.

Give me those keys, he reaches again.

Back off dad.

I said give me those keys, he strikes the son in the face. They both look surprised. The old man hits him again. You gonna give me those keys? Or, have I gotta beat em out of you?, dad grabs Junior by the throat. The keys drop to the wooden floor and they both dive for them. The kid grabs the keys. Pop starts to bite his leg like an old dog chained up. The son grabs the coffee pot and swings wildly. The hot liquid showers the old man. He stops biting. They both sit on the floor staring at each other. Just staring.

He wanted to write about young love,but, the old man had forgotten what that was like. Forgot what it was like to lay with her head in your lap and watch the sun go down. Couldn’t remember ever running his hands through a woman’s hair. Or, holding her close down in his parent’s basement.

Maybe it was the booze. Perhaps the cigarettes clouded his head. Maybe it never happened. Maybe all that loving was made up in his mind, daydreams. He wasn’t sure anymore.

He popped open a can of Old Style and lit a cigarette as he sat in front of his typewriter. Someone had asked him once about technology and writing. The old man said his electric typewriter was just fine; a real God’s send. He stared at the blank page.

Mailer called it, “The spooky art.” And it was. You never knew what was going to enter the mind and show up on the page. You never knew if the magic was going to be there. This was the old man’s fear. He was forgetting things. Parts of his life had vanished. He drank another beer. Couldn’t remember his first love, or, his first date, a first kiss, the loss of innocence. He couldn’t remember the day before.

The rain dripped on the windows. It was dark outside; a moonless night. A fan over in the corner made a humming sound that half way put him to sleep. He opened another beer. The old man began to curse at the blank page. His old bony fingers wanted to touch the keys, but, he didn’t know what to say.

The old man was alone. He’d always been alone. Just him, a room filled with books, and a typewriter. He drank another beer. Heard birds chirping outside. He opened his drawer and pulled a bottle of whiskey out. Poured a shot. And said, good morning.

It is, “the spooky art.”

The winds sang that night; wooden gate swung back and forth. Trees swayed and diesels carrying piggy backs danced along the highway. The trailer park was quiet for the most part. Few lights were on. Cars parked in front of one trailer; lined up for their nightly fix.

The old man sat in the front room with a lamp on; sat in a pleather chair that was torn to shreds; seven cats paws scratching on furniture, walls, carpet; a smell of piss filled the air.

No one ever knocked on his door. They’d all heard stories. How he used to have a wife and kids that suddenly disappeared one night. How he’d never had anything or anybody but those damn cats. Kids would ride bikes by his place and throw rocks at windows. Thud. It made this thud sound every time one hit the glass. Windows had cracks in them. Lines reaching up, down, and across. He let it be; just fix em up with Duck Tape.

And the winds blew through the trailer; very little insulation, walls were thin. Some pictures were hung. An old one of his grandparents, his mom and dad, a painting of an old man giving thanks for his daily bread. They rattled as the night went on.

The cats spoke that night. Wanting to be fed. Always wanting food. He got up and poured dry food into bowls along with water from the tap. Seven cats, seven bowls. He walked back over to his chair, but this time got his shot gun out of the closet and laid it ‘cross his lap. He heard sirens.

His mind wondered as the train whistled through town. Would his cats be taken care of ? Could someone love them as much as he did ?

The winds sang that night. His body was found a week later.

There was a blood moon back in August. The night air was thick; could hardly breath. Mike G. sat under the bridge smoking a menthol cigarette, a Newport, came in a pretty green package with a clear wrapper ’round it. Opening up a box was like Christmas. He knew what he was getting, but, closed his eyes before placing it in his mouth.

‘Cross town Skitter and Tommy Lee awoke from under their bridge. The train above rattled early in the morning. It was a slow moving locomotive, making all kinds of grunts and belches as it rolled ever so slowly above. The two of em normally loved this noise, it was like a mom’s whisper, yet, something in this early morn was keeping Skitter and Tommy Lee awake. Maybe it was the red moon. Maybe.

They started to gather their belongings and hide them for the day. Musty blankets and old pillows were hid by a column with a hole behind it going into the earth. They placed what few clothes they had in the hole as well. Took a swig of whiskey each and polished off the bottle. The two of em did not leave a trace behind.

Mike G. had nothing to hide. He walked around town carrying a book bag, a copy of Moby Dick and some clothes. A small radio was placed in the bag along with a cheap flip phone used sparingly. Some people he could call, but, not many. Bridges had been burned.

The sun was coming up and the blood moon was disappearing into the morning clouds. Every bum in Joplin watched it vanish that morning. Skitter and Tommy Lee took a long look at the orange circle. So did Mike G. And eventually they’d meet in the middle of town at the shelter for breakfast. A line of homeless men and women stood there waiting to go in. Brother Joe opened the door and began by saying, Let’s pray for this meal and this day. The big man, Joe, said a prayer that was filled with thanks and a big amen at the end.

The line moved forward. Trays were taken from a stack. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and donuts. This is a feast, Mike G. whispered. Skitter and Tommy Lee just nodded their brown heads. Both had stomachs that were growling. Mike G. also. They had a hunger that would not stop. Mike G’s hairy white hand grabbed a few donuts and a pint of milk whereas the other two loaded up on pancakes. They were told by the volunteer that there was no syrup.

No syrup, Skitter said. None?, the woman behind the hot table nodded her head. Can’t eat no pancakes without syrup, the skinny black man told all that could hear. No damn syrup? I’ll just grab some coffee,the volunteer pointed at the donuts. No thanks, Skitter said. Probably stale.

Mike G. waited in front of the library as the clouds grew dark. He took swigs of coffee and bites of chocolate donuts. Sprinkles started to come down. He finished his food and took solace in the cleansing of his sins. And so did Skitter and Tommy Lee as they waited in line at day labor for a job that day along with fifty other men.

Thank you Lord, Tommy Lee said. Thank you Lord, and the rain fell harder. There’s always a blessing in disguise.

Seated in a Vietnamese restaurant in Paris. I notice everyone is speaking English. The servers are speaking English, the customers, English words from the kitchen are screamed at one another.

This feels very strange.

Did you see him?

Yes, I saw him.

What did he say?

Nothing. He sat there in silence. Didn’t even look at me. Stared at the wall the whole time; a painting. Some barn on a farm. He just looked at it. Didn’t acknowledge me at all, Pete took a swig of beer. He can’t go on like this forever, he said. He can’t.

No, no. He mustn’t. What does Emma want to do?

What choices has she got? She made the right decision.

Yes, yes, yes. I see that. She could no longer watch him. It was killing her. The day in and the day out with it all. The mess he would make.

Oh I know. I know.

Will he ever come around again?

No. He’s done. Just sits there in silence. Looking at a picture. Not a word.

Damn.