dmseay

They sat across from each other in the bus station. Vagabonds walked between them. So did young runaways. Black men listening to beats strolled past as well. Young women carrying guitar cases; wearing cowboy boots and short dresses. They were fresh off the Greyhound. Ready to make it big in Music City. But, these two, a young man and a young woman, just sat there looking at each other. Not a word was said.

She was catching a connection to Cincinnati while he simply had no place to go. His money was all spent. Most of his green went towards the bus ticket. The rest of it was squandered on fast food and beer. He wondered what her game was. The blonde with the blue eyes tried to guess what his next move would be. She looked him up and down. He wasn’t anything like her ex-husband. This guy was tall and had a full head of brown hair. His eyes matched. And lanky. Looked like he could use some meat on them bones.

He decided to stretch out on the row of hard plastic seats. Catch some shut eye. She kept looking at him. He was fast asleep, snoring and whispering words of heart ache. He had been tossed to the side as well.

The young woman decided to sit next to him. She lifted his head and put it in her lap. He smiled.

Two strangers getting acquainted. And, neither felt alone anymore.

She waited for him. Outside the laundromat at three in the morning; she waited. He said he’d be there. Her clothes were packed. She sat on her duffel bag. And, waited.

He was ‘cross town in a bar. Talking it up. Listening to Hank Williams. Pool was shot in the back. He’d dominated all night long. Collected $200 from fools and strangers. It was enough for one night.

The pickup was on E. A twenty-four hour gas station was just up the road a bit. He decided that night not to pay. Decided to get paid instead.

The kid behind the register never saw it coming. He’d heard about gas stations and liquor stores in the area being robbed. But, there was never any blood.

I’ll take a box of Camels, a Mr. Goodbar, and hand over the money, he said, holding a gun. I said, hand over the money, the clerk opened the drawer. Started handing over the money. Tens,twenties, fives, a few single bills. You’re taking too long, the pool shark said. And then, he shot him. Put a bullet right in his forehead. Blood went everywhere. The kid lay there in a pool of it. He took the cash and left.

She was beginning to curse his name. Maybe he ditched me, she thought. Perhaps I just wasn’t his type, the girl said in-between puffs on a cigarette. Why would he tell me something and then not come through,? she checked her phone again. No calls. She began looking at Facebook. Funny, he wouldn’t friend me.

They met that morning in the cafe where the blonde worked as a waitress. She poured coffee at the counter. Everyone knew her name; Sally. Everyone knew she was looking for adventure. Young girl like that. Best keep your eye on em.

Bobby said he’d take her away from all this. Said he was heading out to Idaho. It all sounded exotic to her. A road trip with a good looking man she’d just seen for the first time. He was different than the boys at her high school. The tall stranger was confident in his ways. Talked a good game. So, she waited. Waited for him all night long. Waited till the sun came up. He was long gone.

That night she saw a picture of Bobby on the local news. Folks at the diner looked on in horror as they showed him shoot and leave the scene. But Sally. She just laughed. Said, that figures. Can’t trust no one.

He saw it. Looked in his rear view mirror and there it was. Sticking out in colors of yellow and purple. The porch light was on. It was two o’clock in the morning. He parked his truck on the side of the street and got out. There she was. The house he grew up in.

They’re called painted ladies. Two story houses that were built at the turn of the century. Had a downstairs and an upstairs, dining room and a living room, a kitchen and three bedrooms with a bath and a half. Most of the family’s time was spent in the kitchen. There was a round table where he and his brother would sit and watch mom cook up ham and eggs in the mornings, and chicken in the evenings. It was always chicken. Done two different ways; baked, or, fried. The cast iron skillet was well seasoned.

For a long time he looked at that house. Remembered getting the belt several times for misbehaving. Thought about discussions they used to have. Prayed for his brother who had passed on; was missing for days. The whole county went looking for him. Found him on the banks of the river. The case was never solved. Chalked it up as a suicide. That was when they left town.

Mom and dad quit talking after that. No more family discussions. Just silence at meals; when they had them.

And he looked at that painted lady some more. Got in his Ford and drove off.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. All to be heard is the far away sounds of traffic on the highway. Tires hitting wet pavement. The hum of a motorcycle. That is all.

Even the birds are silent. No chirping. They do not sing a song. Blue birds and cardinals fly from limb to limb. Why aren’t they talking?

And, there is not a soul in sight. This old gravel road is never used, but, by hobos, vagabonds, kids in the midnight hour crying for a kiss. Cars parked along the side of the road; windshields fogged up. The moon shines down on them.

Black squirrels run up trees. Pines, oaks, dogwoods, bushes and wild grown weeds dot the road. But,that silence. A haunted space. Who is watching?

If there were eyes staring at me, then what is it they see? Just a man traveling down a road in silence. And, that’s all I ever wanted.

The carcass was on the floor. Amongst the chipped paint, dust, dirty clothes, and boxes it sat. Then, as he spied above, another one, on the ceiling. Hanging there. Plotting. Waiting for the right time.

He couldn’t shut his eyes. The old man kept staring at the ceiling. Then, he felt it. Something crawling into his ear. He grabbed the small insect with his hand and threw it across the small room. He was sure there were more; hiding, like Pol Pot. It was a battle. No treaties would be signed.

All furniture and clothes were removed from the room. Bombs would be set off. A 24 hour raid. No compromise. He shut the door and let the fumes do their job.

And then, the old man came back to witness the death of the bugs. They lay on his carpet, belly up. Hundreds of them killed. And he thought, The genius of that.

He held a gun to him. I sat there and watched; fists clinched, sweat pouring down my forehead. They say the hot days in Missouri will do that to a man; make him crazy. Well, it seemed that way.

We were ranch-hands on a property outside of Joplin on the Oklahoma border. We were promised a cot and three squares each day. No money. When you’re desperate they set the price.

There was this shack up close to the main house. That’s where we slept with hot winds blowing in from the west. No air-conditioning, no fans. Just a water tap to gather cool water and seep into our faces.

I never trusted either one of them. Johnny had some heartbreak story of how his wife and three kids left him. And Mad Dog was just wandering around the country. He never said his Christian name. Just said folks called him Mad Dog. He acted tough.

One night Johnny showed us all a pistol he’d been hiding in his boot. It was shiny and black. Looked like death. Mad Dog told him, I’ll bet you don’t know how to use it. There was a pause; silence.

The room was dark. All that shined was a lantern. Johnny pointed the gun at him. Said, wanna find out? Mad Dog grinned. The light glowed on him. Johnny walked towards him. I sat quietly. Sure I was going to witness murder.

I got nothing to lose, Johnny said.

Neither do I, Mad Dog laughed.

Both men stared at each other for the longest time. Thirty minutes seemed like two hours. Then Johnny began to cry. Said he didn’t have it in him. That’s when Mad Dog swooped in and took the gun from him. Johnny didn’t even put up a fight. Just took it.

That night Mad Dog left. He took the pistol with him. Said, I’m hopping a freight to New Mexico. Wanna come?, I shook my head no; thankful it was over. You take care now, he said. And, like that he was gone.

And Johnny? He just kept on crying. Saying, There are men who take charge and those that don’t. I’m one that don’t. It was the heat, he said. It’ll make you crazy.

This was what he was waiting for. An opportunity, a chance. He walked 8th Avenue everyday. Talking to himself. Dragging his feet. Going past homeless men and women in a city where deals are done, money handed over one way, or, another. It is done in suits in offices, bars with shots lined up, the streets in cardboard boxes; this is done.

He never begged for money, or, love. But, if the opportunity presented itself, who was he to say no? The deal was simple; sit in a bar and wait your turn. Never play victim. America has enough of those. He ordered a beer with no money in his pockets. Nursing it, and waiting. Waiting for the ice man.

On this night he felt lucky. Felt like all was possible. A middle aged man sat beside the old man. He spoke of business transactions, mergers, stocks and bonds. The old man listened. And, sure enough, it began.

One beer was bought after another. Shots were poured. The middle aged man flit the bill. The whole enchilada. Thanks was given. A card was handed over. They said their goodbyes. The swivel bar stool was empty. The old man sat there and waited. Waited for the next one.

There was a path in the woods he used to walk on everyday. Past pines and oaks, hickory and dogwoods, the old man would follow the beaten earth throughout the course of the year. Throughout his life.

In spring, when all was a bloom, his long legs would carry him. An old tree limb was his walking stick. His right hand was raw from holding on so tight. He would stop and look around at the forest from time to time. Remembering springs of his childhood. The old man and his childhood friends would play among the green leaves and wildflowers. Singing out songs, laughing at jokes.

The summer would bring heat to this small Southern town. And, as a teen he still walked through the woods until he came to a cold watering hole. Many a times he would strip down to nothing and lay in the clear water. He even took girlfriends back to the spring for a dip and a kiss upon the lips.

But, it was fall that gave him hope. As an older man watching the colors change, he felt anything was possible. He’d sit on a tree stump and reflect about mistakes, missed opportunities, relationships that never evolved. The old man was alone in the woods. Perhaps he always wanted it that way.

And in winter he tracked through the snow. Bare branches over head. The celebration of Christ over. These were the lonely days of January and February. This was the hardest part of the year for the old man. Yet, he kept walking. Looking for salvation. Wanting the leaves to be green again.

His gun was cold. Hadn’t fired the pistol in a long time. It’d been tucked away in a safe box for a number of years. He wasn’t sure what the combination was, had it written down somewhere, maybe the back of his desk; perhaps written on the pages of Moby Dick. Maybe Ulysses.

Wherever it was it was loaded. Always kept the thing packed. Wrote a note to himself one day reading, use in case of emergency. That note was tucked in the safe box as well along with her ring. He took it off his wife ‘fore she was buried.

She knew about the gun. Followed him one night into town. Watched as he climbed the back fire escape. Saw the piece sticking out of his pants on the right side from streetlights looking down on him. The black metal shined.

And then he was gone. Crawled through the side window. Thought she heard two shots. Wasn’t sure. Just saw him climbing down quickly. She moved fast back to the house. Somehow it wasn’t fast enough, he was sitting there waiting on her in the kitchen with a pot of coffee percolating.

Where’d you go to? he asked. She shook her head no and went to the cupboard to grab a cup.

Said…where’d you go to? he asked again. She remained quiet. Sometimes men have to take care of business, he said. ‘Cause if they don’t then things fall apart. Understand? she nodded yes.

Did you see me take care of my business tonight?

I did not.

Why’d you follow me tonight?

Curious I guess.

How ’bout no more curiosity? Let me tend to my affairs. Comprende?, she bit her lip and nodded her head. He walked over and kissed her. Strolled down the hallway. Replaced the two bullets. And placed the gun in the safe. It was never talked about again.

The train rolled through town at a slow pace; brakes screeching, air whistling, an old black man in between cars waving his hat at the motorists who were stopped. The young boy waved back at him; placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. He wondered where that train was heading. North, south, east, or west. Maybe it was going up to Canada, or, Alaska. His heart started to skip.

This freckled kid continued watching the train. He wanted to jump on it, look for adventure. It would have to stop before he could climb on. His hefty size wouldn’t allow him to make it otherwise.

And then, the black man looked down on him. Told him to make that leap of faith. He’d loved to, but, he just didn’t have the black man’s muscle.

C’mon boy, the train hopper said. C’mon now, he shouted as he climbed off the car. He extended his hands, Ol’ Johnny has gotcha.

Thousands of thoughts went through the boy’s mind in a split second. What about his parents? Surely they would miss him. Friends at school, though there were few, he’d miss them. He’d miss the way the cafeteria smelled, the guidance counselor saying hello to him, the school bus rides through town.

At the same time he was thinking all this , Johnny was lifting him up. Welcome aboard son, Johnny said. Welcome aboard.

Where’s this train going? the kid asked.

Oh, I guess out west.

To California?

I believe so.

Never been there before, kid wiped his forehead with his sleeve. They tell me it’s nice.

How much money you got on you?

Nothing, kid said. I got nothing.

Well, that makes two of us.

The two of them rode into the cold night. Johnny kept his big arms around the kid. Placed his jacket on him too; he was used to the cold.

You know kid, eventually you gonna be on your own. I got folks I gotta see in Denver. You understand? he nodded. You take good care now. Go back to sleep.

Next morning the kid awoke. A blue denim jacket covered him,but, there was no Johnny. He rode on. Passed Utah, Nevada, into California. He’d made it. Got off in Bakersfield. And, there were all these Mexicans lined up for work. White men would come in trucks and haul them off to farms, vineyards, factories, lumber yards.

The kid got in line with the rest of them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, My adventure begins.