dmseay

He sat at the kitchen table and watched mice congregate in the corner. Two of them, discussing mortgages, stocks, bonds. Holding drinks with umbrellas in them. Munching on some kind of smelly foreign cheese. Laughing all the way to the bank.

The old man had seen these types before. Usually they were wise old rats. However, the masters of the universe seemed to be getting younger and younger. The mice used to be low on the totem pole; now days they were c.e.o’s, presidents of large corporations, v.p.’s holding down forts from satellite offices. All in tip top shape.

Drinking coffee, he saw the two high five each other. He knew his days were numbered. Just like the rest of the old timers, he would be tossed aside. His days of advancement over. It was time to call the exterminator.

These nights. They last forever. Go to bed at 9 and wake up ’round 1. And for what? a slow leaking piss.

Nothing feels complete anymore. Bottles of medications lined up like soldiers on the nightstand. A lamps lit light shines down on them. Three pills for mental health, a pill for cholesterol,thyroid, blood pressure. Not as fit as you used to be old champ. A work in constant progress. Always breaking down.

This night air is thick. Muggy. The pillow is soaked in sweat. Wet, wet, wet. No sheets, no blanket. Laying there naked. Running a hand through greasy hair. The garbage needs to be taken out.

And, it is silent. Just heat. There are no gun shots, nor fireworks. No dogs barking, or, cars racing in the streets. Dew races down the forehead. It’s just heat. A silent heat. That’ll make you crazy. The current climate is absurd. Yet, I lay here waiting; waiting for the fall.

Cones. Nothing but orange cones on the highway. Traffic backed up to Gary. Here comes the rain. Nothing is ever easy.

He went looking for him. Maybe this was his last chance to see him. Perhaps it was the last time the old man could be a dad. He’d tried throughout his life to be fair with the boy, the prodigal son, but this was the last time. The old man watched him take off in the middle of the night so many times. And,he always came back. Saying he was sorry. Begging for forgiveness. Caused his mom a heart attack. No, this was the last time.

The old man figured he headed west to Chicago. He’d found him there before so many times. Sleeping in the front seat on Clark Street. Tickets piled up on his windshield. Bottles littering the floor. McDonald’s bags on the dashboard. The boy just laying there, sweating in the Indian summer. Maybe he was hoping to be found.

The father thought about reporting the car as stolen to the Chicago police. Let them track the kid down. But, he couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t turn his son in like that. Figured the boy would never forgive him.

And, he drove all over town looking for a beat up Dodge. The old man had that car for years. Used it to get around town in. Parked it mostly out in the barn. He drove up and down Broadway, Halsted, Clark. Pulled into parking lots down by the beaches. Checked Lower Wacker, Wells, Lafayette as well. His boy was gone. Took off to see America he figured. A decision had to be made.

This Indiana farmer sat in a booth at a diner surrounded by creatures of the night; hookers wearing next to nothing, transsexuals in go-go boots and tight tops, cops seated six to a table,throwing back coffee, and dope fiends downing packets of sugar. He was sure his boy was not in the city. Probably heading out to California. He paid his bill and went out to his truck. Crossed himself and prayed for his son. Then, at that very moment, he let go.

Crickets sang in the dark. Pitch black. Just sound. Night time. No stars were out. It was a quarter moon. He could hear the rattle of old pipes in the basement. Tap water dripped. The old man turned the faucets tight. Looked in the mirror. New wrinkles had forged in his face. The thought of getting old.

He’d lost his wife a few years back. She died of heart complications. Didn’t take care of herself. Ate whatever she wanted. Never exercised. She’d just sit in her recliner all day watching soap operas. All My Children, the one with that Italian woman in it; that was her favorite. The mother of three also took naps all the time. Some said she was sleeping her sadness away. She would just get more depressed, then eat more, then watch more television; this was her life. He loved her more than anything.

They met on a blind date back in ’63. It was autumn in Dallas and the city was humming. Everyone was talking about the president coming to town. Crowds lined the streets. He was to pick her up that afternoon for a mid-day bowling party. Shined the Chevy up real good. Made sure there wasn’t a speck of dirt on it. He was so proud. Paid for it by working at a grocery store. It was all his. No one could take it away.

The young man was so nervous on his way to her house. They’d talked on the phone, but, never in person. A mutual friend set up the date. Decided they would double just to make things easier. The friends sat in the back seat with the windows open. Fresh air blew their hair. The radio was turned on. They sang along. He was shaking in his boots. Bought her flowers. Hoped she liked them.

And then, there she was. Wearing a pink dress with a dark tan. Looking back on it, the old man thought she looked Mexican, exotic. He nearly tripped over his wing-tip shoes. Presented her with the flowers. There was a stutter in his speech. He was far from smooth.

They drove through town talking and humming along to the radio when a news bulletin had come on the station. President Kennedy had been shot. Again, President Kennedy had just been shot. Silence. None of the kids said a word. Just a quiet drive back home. There was no kiss good-night. They hugged each other. The air got colder.

Crickets sang in the dark. Pitch black. Just sound. The old man made coffee and read the paper. Thought about his wife. Soon he’d be with her.

Morning dew has not left

Fields fresh and green

Soon they will turn brown

White

Green again

Purple plums will be picked in the orchard

Apples, pears, packed in bushel baskets

Cuffs on pants soaked

Children waiting on a bus

Morning dew has not left

May it never

She watched him through the kitchen window. He was pulling weeds in the backyard with a can of Old Style beside him. The can sweated in the heat. So did he.

The ground was still wet from the morning dew. Or, maybe it was the rain from the night before. Mud caked on his boots, his knees were dirty too. He took a swig of beer. It was never too early.

As she looked on, she poured a cup of coffee; added a little Baileys to it. She then lit a cigarette and sat down at the table and began cutting coupons. She could hear him singing outside. A song about leaving it all behind and taking off on a motorcycle.

The neighbors must think we’re crazy, she whispered. They must think all kinds of things about us, she pondered. And, they probably did. A whole community of retirees would walk by their house everyday. Wondering about the new couple that just moved in.

He came inside through the kitchen door. She told him not to touch anything until he was cleaned off. The old man went straight to the bathroom where he continued to sing.

The water ran for a good fifteen minutes. And, she no longer heard him singing. The older lady walked down the hall calling his name. There was no response. Slowly she opened the bathroom door. He stood there looking into the mirror. Silent. The sink was almost filled. She reached across him and turned the faucets off. He just continued looking in the mirror.

We’re getting old dear, he whispered. And it scares me, he began to cry. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Kissed him on the cheek. Told him she was in it for the long haul. Until the very end.

Some loves die, she said. Others go on and on. Could I buy you a drink?, they both laughed. And waited for autumn.

The young couple sat at the kitchen table looking at each other; trying to figure out whose fault it was. He blamed her; said she should’ve quit smoking. And, she blamed him; the night he got drunk and punched her in the stomach. They sat there. Not a word was spoken.

Silence was interrupted by a knock on the front door. At first they ignored it. Then the banging got louder. He opened the door and there stood her mom with a casserole dish in her hands. She nearly ran him over making her way inside.

Thought I’d bring something over for you two. Tuna casserole. I know you like it, mom said softly. The young man put on a pot of coffee. He knew she wouldn’t leave.

Your father is still at work, she said to the young lady. Said he wanted to stop by later to…you know…tell ya how sorry he is…we all are, mom pulled up a chair.

We appreciate that, he said. We do appreciate that.

Listen. We don’t have to talk about it, mom held her hand. We don’t have to talk about it at all, both mother and daughter lit up cigarettes.

That’s what did it, he said under his breath. Damn cigarettes, she crushed hers out while mom took another drag.

Not what I heard, the mother said.

What did you hear?

That you got crazy one night and punched her. Hit her right in the stomach.

It was a push. Not a punch. ‘Sides, where’d you hear that?

Mother and daughter share everything you fool. I knew something was wrong ‘tween you two. Wasn’t no smoking. I smoked with all three of my children.

Does daddy know?, he asked.

Nope. And you can thank me for that. He’d kill ya. I don’t know whether to leave you two alone or not. Why don’t you just walk out that door boy and never come back, she comforted her daughter.

I’m gonna go get some air, he said. Get some air. I’ll come back and get my things. Is this what you want? she nodded yes.

Well alright then. I’ll get some air. Just get some air.

He was on top of his game. A real square shooter. Never touched alcohol. Didn’t smoke. Gave up those vices a few years back. Drank a lot of coffee.

And he played golf from sun up to sun down. Always trying to improve his game. Said it helped him in his attempt to become a better person. Birdies and eagles, birdies and eagles.

Used to be a big shot in Chicago. Was a corporate salesman. Sold paper products; made a fortune. Drove ’round town hopping from bar to bar. Impressing women with his slicked back black hair and his leathery tan. The guy wore necklaces and bracelets with his initials on em. Had season tickets to Bears games, sat inside away from the elements. Drinking whiskey and craft beers while the peasants suffered.

Then came the death of a salesman. Company politics did him in. The cut throats and the back stabbers got him in the end. The young turks were out to get him. And, they did. Ambition kills.

So, now he spends his days playing golf. Birdies and eagles. Birdies and eagles. Recovering from corporate greed. Always be closing.

Thank you David Mamet.

It’s pitch black outside. Blinds are closed. Night creeps in through cracks. The garbage truck makes a racket. Old bones grinding to a halt. Reminds me we’re all getting old.

And the oscillating fan blows on the Basque flag hanging to a wall. Red, green, and white criss-crossing. It shivers in the wind. Thumb tacks in each corner. A light below shines on it. Not a tear, nor rip in the thing. Just a flag wishing it had a home.

The desk in the corner belonged to my father. He used to pay bills on it, draw designs for wood projects, collect pennies. It now has two boxes of spaghetti on top, a television, a flat antenna. There’s a red light, a dot that turns green when it’s on, shining. I want to turn it on; watch infomercials at four in the morning. But, I open the blinds instead. There’s nothing out there. There never was.

Not a single car out. No guns being fired. No fireworks, or, cherry bombs blowing up. Just outlines of trees.

Cats begin to meow. Maybe they’re waiting for light too. They’re in heat. I can tell by their sound. Makes me wanna close the blinds; give em some privacy.

Time. Seems like all you have is time. Watching rain fall from dark clouds, I am reminded of time. And, it all goes so quickly. You’re left wondering where life went?

There are those who stay in one place all their lives. I did not choose that route. Moving from town to town. Always behind. Rent is due. Old bills pile up. Debts to people never paid. Steps forward, or, steps back?

This is melancholy. This is mush. Watching rain on a Tuesday afternoon. And, all I have is time.