dmseay

The weather man said there was tornadoes coming to the counties of Jasper, Lake, and Newton ’round ten o’clock. Winds kicked up and the sky turned gray. Rain was falling. The dog hid under a table.

They kept the TV on. Maps ‘cross the screen showed colors of green, yellow, and red. Newton was covered in red. A tornado had not hit the county in years. She crossed herself, he opened another beer.

Trash was blowing all in the yard. There’ll be a mess to clean up tomorrow, the old man said. The recycle bin which was never used lifted off the pavement and carried on down the street. Night-time was creeping in.

She sat there on the couch with one eye glued to the television and the other to the clock on the wall; an old cukoo-cukoo clock that still told time. She waited for the bird to crow.

And ten o’clock came. There was no sound. The smell of farmland was strong. Rain had stopped. People came out of their houses and stood on porches, looking all ’round.

We dodged that one, the old man said. She crossed herself again. He walked down the street waving at neighbors; collecting trash along the way; debris in one hand and an Old Style in the other. He rolled the recycle bin back to his yard. Placed some trash in it and went inside.

It was God’s will, his wife said. He lit a Camel and nodded his head. It was God’s will.

Thinking of you in August. Autumn ever so close. Walks through Central Park looking at people pushing baby strollers. Listening to Coltrane and stopping for a moment’s kiss.

My first room in Manhattan cost $250 a month. That was back in ’86. Now days it’s a town house on 24th Street; the Y close by where Albee used to get his kicks. The corner store where you could by loosies for a quarter, poppers for $5.

And hookers strolled over from 8th Avenue. Selling their bodies under stairwells, dark back yards, church parking lots, Needle Park.

We would walk hand in hand. Unfazed by junkies, pimps, speed freaks criminals, vagabonds.

We were so broke back then. Funny how things never change; except the rent.

It rained. River was high, streets flooded, a playground with swingsets submerged; cars floating down streets. It was like Louisiana, 1927; brown water as far as the eye could see.

They were up on their roof. Sat there for hours. Waiting, waiting for a chopper to save them. Water was rising.

And they talked about old times. How their children had grown up, dogs they’d had, vacations to New Mexico, Colorado, Northern Arkansas. Talked about being in love since high school. Limbs of trees went drifting by.

Then they sat in silence. Watching the waters create a stronger current. They’d lost everything. Old black and whites of when they got married, kids first tricycle, the old Ford pickup truck; she always hated that thing. Never told him. They saw neighbors on rooftops too. But no-one spoke. A whole community of quiet. Just waiting on choppers.

What makes us stop and take notice? a child playing in the leaves on a cool autumn day? some woman sitting on a barstool with a low cut shirt on? the heroics of a pedestrian saving a life at the last second? bombs going off over seas? What we watch everyday is this ongoing series of events. No matter how boring life gets, how mundane, there’s always something to see.

He closed his eyes to it for a long time. Stayed inside with the curtains drawn, TV off, no radio,or, newspaper. Used to color drawings in thick coloring books. Pictures of unicorns, royalty, dogs, fire trucks, dragons, all this stuff he’d color. Just an old man sitting in a chair coloring pictures in oranges, reds, blues, golden colors, indigo.

Some wondered where his mind went? His kids did. He never said a word when they came to visit. They’d try to talk ’bout old times. Back when he had a house, a wife, a career in mathematics, a sharp mind. Now, he just sat in silence. His mind remained numb from day to day. Seated in a wheelchair. Back to the sun that shined brightly outside. Just waiting. Waiting to be taken away by some god or higher power.

And they’d bring him chocolate covered cherries; his favorite. Boxes of em were stored in the corner. His taste for them had gone. His daughter and son would try to kiss him goodbye. They never did when he was younger. When they were younger. Time creeps up on us. Too soon we forget.

What makes us stand up and take notice? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know.

He was questioned for hours; endless cups of coffee, cigarettes. Told the detectives he couldn’t remember; it was all just a haze. Said he wished he could help em out, but, he just couldn’t think straight. Little things cluttered his mind.

They showed him pictures from the crime scene. A body, her body, lay there in the grass; tall weeds surrounded it. She was bruised, blue, her hair was pulled, cuts and abrasions covered the young lady. These things were pointed out to him. They thought they had their man.

It was so quiet in the room. There was a time when not a word was said. Just silence. He was asked how long he had known the girl. The young man didn’t answer at first. Said nothing. Then he cried; balled like a baby. Told em he’d known her since high school. They dated off and on for a year, or, two. He’d had Sunday dinners over at her parent’s house. Played with their dogs in the back yard. Helped her father out with projects ’round the home. He said they did a lot together over a year and a half, but, when it was over it was over; both went their separate ways. The detectives nodded their heads, offered more coffee.

And, he never asked for an attorney. Said he didn’t need one. Said he had something to say. He told them he did it. Told him things just got out of control. Asked what was going to happen to him? They told him he was going away for a long, long time. He said no. He meant when he was dead and gone. What would happen to him? One of the detectives just looked at him. The other told him, that’s for God to decide.

He pulled up in her driveway at 1:00 that morning. She’d had a hard time sleeping. Thoughts raced through her head, bad dreams. The young woman tossed and turned ’bout em. Never could sleep with a clear conscience. Thinking old thoughts, one’s that had cluttered her mind for the longest of time; sins she had committed, questionable acts.

Outside on the front porch was a pot of wildflowers, a little statue of Mary stood just before the steps painted blue; a streetlight shined down making it bearable for the eyes to see. His shoes left marks on steps from the dewy grass. He gazed into the front window looking to see if there was any movement, any lights on. The front room table lamp still glowed. The young man started to knock on the door, but, stopped himself. Did he want to make a fool of himself? Surely it was much too late and he was much too old to be acting this way. He turned away and went back to his truck, sat in it for minutes, then an hour listening to the radio. He saw the lamp go out in the front room. Now it was truly dark.

She was thinking of him, the fight they had earlier that night. The red head told him to either shit, or, get off the pot. She’d had offers from other men, was waiting it out for this one. There was a young suitor from Tennessee that’d asked for her hand. Another from Kentucky as well. Both of em had plenty of money. Both of em said they loved her. But, she wanted this one with no job, a ton of debt and a tattoo on his arm of an ex-girlfriend’s name in red. She made him wear long sleeves.

And they sat there in those early morning hours. Her in the front room with the lights off, him in his truck that dripped oil, left his mark. They sat there thinking of the future. Would there be a future? He slowly turned the key and she heard the truck’s engine turn. The young man slowly pulled out of the driveway and the front door opened. She ran out with her arms flailing, her hair tossed. Calling out, Hey, come back here. I love you….And the taillights burned red.

There were stories written ’bout him. Small town news covered his career. Every race he won and some that he lost had ink to em. Car races and church chicken dinners were a staple in the Morocco newspaper. He’d kept all the black and whites of him and his car in his shop hanging next to the Snap-on calendar and various photos of women holding wrenches and power tools. Grease smeared the pages.

His garage was out close to 41. Used to take cars out for test drives up and down the highway at top rate speeds. If you dropped your car off at Chuck’s, you could rest assured it’d get a good workout. He’d race it up north towards Lake Village, then turn around and race it home; to him everything was a race. Women especially; bragged ’bout getting more ass than a toilet seat.

Yes, he loved the women. And, every Friday night he had a different one. Some folks say he went through the entire female population of Newton County in one season. Folks say a lot of things.

He was in love once. Just once. She was the president of the Lion’s Club Chapter’s daughter. Young blonde who should’ve known better. Some say he should’ve known better. He’d pick her up after her job at the Family Dollar store. Took her out for a dinner at the Gold Star diner. Then off to the races where she’d hoot and holler throughout the night on every straightaway and left turn. He’d sense her presence. Couldn’t see or hear her in the stands, but, he could feel her. She was real.

Those summers and falls lasted awhile. He asked the young lady to marry him. Had a vision of them riding from church to Chicago for their honeymoon in his beat up Dodge race car. It was just a dream. She turned him down. And that’s when his heart left him. Left him with a blonde walking down the street. She told him she couldn’t take a small town race car driver seriously. Told him he was just for fun. You marry insurance salesmen, not mechanics who race on the weekends, she said.

He was just for fun. That’s all. And, he was convinced he was nothing more. Just fun. That’s all anyone is he guessed;

Years later she married that insurance salesman. Moved down the road to Lowell. Chuck just stayed behind and had fun.

He walked throughout the Midwest on blacktop roads and two lane highways; skipping stones, a satchel on his back. He’d traveled from Nebraska across Iowa and into Illinois; taking his time, had nowhere to go.

The young man carried a compass with him. His daddy had given him that instrument, said put it to good use. That was before he died, knew his son was a traveler.

And he didn’t have any money on him, no identification, just a bag of books. Walked ’round with Ulysses, Moby Dick, Farewell To Arms, and On The Road. He read them one at a time, all the way through. When he’d finish one he’d go onto the next one.

The bag was heavy. Carried a change of clothes in it as well; a razor, tooth brush. In the mornings the kid would brush his teeth and clean up in public bathrooms of small towns. It felt good to wash his face in the sink with hot water; nights were getting cold.

Some days he wouldn’t walk at all. Just sit there in the park reading his books. He’d go to the library, the art museums, and over to shelters sometimes for food from a pantry. He was always asking for peanut butter and grape jelly with white bread. Most of the time the places had some on hand. He’d have to talk for a little while. Tell em he was safe. Just walking through. They’d heard it all before. Nothing was new.

He just kept on walking. No place to go. Followed a compass his daddy had given him. Everything was due east. Eventually he was staring at the ocean. Read pages of Melville. He felt at home.

The sounds of cars, semis, running on 41. Some going south to Terre Haute and others traveling north to Chicago.

Passing one another in the dark night air from the left lane over to the right. Again, from the left lane over to the right.

Driving over bridges where the river has grown high. Men with lanterns and flashlights fishing under the stars.

Silence. Just the sounds of cars, semis, running on 41.

The six shooter had two bullets left in it. He’d open the gun, look at the chamber, and close it. Johnny Carson was on in the background. His guest that night was Charo. The audience laughed at her. The old man snickered, then went back to looking at his gun. He shined it every day; kept it clean. It glistened when the light hit it. He had plans.

He’d often thought about it. Never did he commit the action. It was always in the back of his mind. Especially at the end of the month when he was broke. There were many ways to go about it. The old man thought of them all. Figured the liquor store on 41 was his best bet. That’s what he figured.

And the audience laughed harder at Charo. Carson was blushing. The old man turned the sound down. It was just a picture now, a picture of Johnny and Charo. Not still though. Their lips were moving. They were talking, but, there were no voices.

The old man stood up and tucked the gun in his pants. Turned off the TV and opened the back door. There was a silver sliver of moon in the sky. He cursed it. Wanted it to be full. At least then he’d have an excuse. That’s what he’d tell the judge.

He started the old Ford. Backed her out into the street and drove up to 41, a highway that ran north and south. The liquor store was about to close. The old man looked at the moon one more time. Damn it, he said. This is not picture perfect. This is not right, he began to sweat. Even in the autumn air he began to sweat. He had trouble lifting the gun out of his pants; shaking.

The old man counted the bullets one more time. There was two in there. Just two. And the moon was not full. He pointed the gun to his heart and thought of people laughing at Charo.