dmseay

Looking out the window, he could see the snow melting on the Midwestern land. Just brown and white colors where come summertime there’ll be cornstalks growing in green. But, for now it was the last shades of winter; bare trees lined the highway. And the gray sky with hues of purple and orange swept into night.

Red tail lights are chased. Yellow beams stared down; he wished for sleep, but the Black girls in front would not stop talking; chattering, snapping their fingers; they were on their way to Chicago where baby’s daddy awaits. The baby girl screams in the dark, Hush up child, the mother said, Hush up.

The sky grew darker, soon it would be pitch black. He was on his way to Gary where steel mills cranked out the American dream; for some, for some. But, his dreams vanished long ago. Now he just traveled from one town to the next taking whatever jobs he could get. The old man had been a laborer, truck driver, dishwasher, and held countless other occupations throughout his life. He just never could make anything stick. One year he had eighteen w2 forms for taxes. Fired from eighteen jobs in one year; spent his returns on steak dinners and a rounds of drinks for the house; being broke just felt normal.

But now it was off to Northwest Indiana where he’d once again look for work. A whole life of looking for work and riding on Greyhounds. He figured he was lucky; had a pack of smokes and a copy of Moby Dick in his book bag. Maybe that’s what his whole life was. Just one big search for a giant whale. Maybe.

It was time. This had gone on long enough. Look at him, he said to himself. Just look at him. All quiet. Silent. No words, nor laughter. A man long gone, the son whispered.

You come into this world wailing and you go home without a noise. Strangest thing, he placed his hand on his father’s chest, the heart still beats. It still wants to live. Or, is that the feeding tube giving him hope. He never liked olives, brushed pop’s hair out of his face.

No one wants to die. Evangelicals say they want to go home, but, they’re just as scared as the rest of us. Buddhists believe in nothing. Nothing, try wrapping your American head ’round that. There has to be some kind of reward when it’s all done, he smiled. Which do you prefer dad? Nothing, or, a mansion on a hill? To spend your days with Jesus? or, maybe Virgil?

Sir, we have papers for you to sign, the nurse said. You’ve come to your decision?, the son nodded and signed on the x. It won’t be long, she said. I’m so sorry, he smiled.

See you down the road, he said. Don’t take any wooden nickels.

The sign said, SLEEPING ROOM FOR RENT, out in the front yard with snow all around. Had a number you could call, 260-745-0931, and the name of a landlord down below. He wondered how many people called, thought that a room sure would be nice for a change.

He called the number from a pay phone on the corner. He had quarters on him; always had quarters. His mom told him to never be caught without change on you; only piece of advice that stuck. They wanted $325 a month for a room with the kitchen and bathroom down the hall. The old man said he’d take a look at it and felt ’round in his pockets for a few bills. Earned em by working day labor jobs. Had $500 on him. He knew his money would soon be gone.

The old man drove over to the place on Clifton. Outside waiting on him was a real pretty Mexican girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. You James?, she asked. The bony old man nodded his gray head. Come on, let’s go look at the room, she turned the key and the smell of old trash smacked the two in the face. Sorry ’bout the smell, she said. They’re supposed to keep the halls clean, he smiled.

As she opened the door, yelling could be heard from down the hall in another room. Something about giving him till Friday to pay his rent. He screamed, the eagle fly on Friday. The Mexican girl shook her head. It’s always something, she said.

Right away the smell of urine ran rampant in the room. There were dark spots on the carpet where blood and piss had soaked in. Over in the corner was a twin bed with a blanket waded up on top. A pillow with brown stains lay across the bed as well.

You want $325?, the old man asked. She smiled, then informed him that actually they needed $650 to move in; security deposit. He shook his head and said he’d continue to look.

Do you have enough to cover it?, she asked. The old man told her he did not. Well, how much do you have?, she put her hands on her hips. He told her $450. We can work something out. Can I see the money?, he took it out and handed it to her; keeping a $50 in his pants pocket. She counted and smiled at him. They had a deal.

That night he fell asleep with springs pushing up on his body. He was awakened by sirens and couples fighting down the hall. He lit a cigarette and watched it burn in the beer can he had on the floor; crushed by his boot. This is home, he said. This is home.

The wind swung the wooden gate back and forth throughout the night. Cars passed through town; stopping at all night gas stations, donut shops, bar hopping. Teens packed in Fords, Chevys, Dodge pickups, raced up and down Main Street; daring the cops to pull em over. They should’ve been in bed hours ago. Parents were worried.

And dads were up watching the late late show; waiting on their kids to come through the door. Some would fall asleep, others would put on a pot of coffee. Moms would walk up the halls of suburban homes and make sure the light was on outside; turn off the televisions and sit in the dark; remembering when they were young. Life goes by fast.

The gate kept swinging outside; the metal latch made a clicking noise as it hit the lock-bar. These noises, you never get used to em.

Finally Bobby and Cindy would walk through the door; headlights backed out of the driveways. Where have you been?, parents asked. No answer was always the answer. Teens telling moms and dads they were tired and would talk about it in the morning.

Times change. Or, do they?

The little boy sat at the kitchen table drawing pictures on construction paper with Crayons. He drew fire engines, semis, station wagons, people, and a dog. The colors of the objects ranged from red to green, bits of orange, and though he didn’t know it, chartreuse; he liked the way it looked on white paper.

He sat there for about an hour while his parents argued behind a closed bedroom door. This was common. They fought over anything; dinner that night, bills, her parents, and why they even had a kid. The mom would often say she wished she could take it all back. Wished it never happened.

They had come to a conclusion. They’d both stay in the marriage until the boy graduated high school. Figured it was best to break it off when he was out of the house. It was his idea, she didn’t object.

And, they’d continue living the way they did. He had his affairs. Sides that she often brought up in their fights. Saying everybody in town knew of his actions; said it was humiliating. He’d grab her in a drunken state and try to kiss her. The plump woman would punch his skinny gut as he held on tighter. Neither of em yelled out in pain; didn’t want the kid to hear.

These pictures the boy drew were taped to his walls. Different pictures on different colored construction sheets taped to a yellow wall as bright as sunshine. He’d look at em throughout the night while mom and dad fought behind the closed door. Staring at the pictures. He wanted to get in that big truck and just take off. The boy dreamed of that; driving with a dog by his side from coast to coast. Talking on a CB.His handle would be Froggy. We all have dreams.

The soup was store bought; a can of tomato with a grilled cheese on rye. It was good and comforting to the fellow at the table; washed it down with a cup of coffee. He knew he had to be leaving soon.

Tell me a story, she said. A real story. One about your many travels, she sat next to him, stirred her soup.

I’m not much of a story teller, he said. But, all mine are true. I’ll guarantee you that.

Does it get lonely out there?, she looked up at him with those blue eyes. I mean, you ever wanna just settle down with a nice woman, go to church on Sundays, lie in bed till the sun comes up?, he laughed.

All my life I’ve been alone. Now, there’s women I’ve been with, but, not any longer than is needed. It’s a bank job; go in, get the money, get out.

That’s how you view women?

No, thats how I view relationships, he smiled, went over to the couch to put his boots on. When a woman gets me she knows what she’s getting. You knew what you were getting, he put on his shirt that was thrown in the corner. Right?, she nodded her head and touched her chest.

Yes, I suppose I did. Will you come back through here?

Most likely.

Here, she pulled a drawer out and got a pen and paper. Here’s my number. You can call me anytime you like. Say three in the morning. Anytime.

Might take you up on that, he kissed her. Gotta get going. You take care of yourself.

You too.

He walked out to his truck and started it. Waved goodbye and honked his horn.

She’s still waiting on that phone call.

He’d traveled going south through Ohio and into Kentucky in a ’67 Dodge Dart that he bought from a priest for $500. Had less than a hundred thousand on it, he wanted to see how far he could take it.

Wanted to wind up in New Orleans. Go down there and see about getting a job on a oil rig. He’d had enough of driving all over and not staying in places. Seems like he’d get a job, hold on to it for a little while, then just take off; take off like some hawk looking for prey; girls and booze.

The years were starting to grow on him. They might not hire me ’cause I’m too old, he thought. Just might take a pass on these forty-five year old bones, then he began singing Honky Tonk Women along with the radio.

He drove throughout the night. Got her up to seventy-five through Tennessee and on into Mississippi where the night air was warm coming off the Gulf. He could smell money in the air. Leading him to New Orleans. He pulled over on the side of the road as soon as he crossed into Louisiana. Took in a deep breath. Lord be, he said. I am home.

And, as morning broke, his eyes glazed red as the sun, It dawned on him, You’re finally gonna settle down. Finally, and he sang out Rough And Rowdy Ways.

Two months later, he hit the road again. Lord, help a man that can’t settle down.

He could see light from under the doorway. Smelled a cigarette burning as well. The late late show was on. A rerun of McMillan And Wife. He could hear Rock Hudson’s voice, then some commercial for the SPCA with that hollowed sad music playing as countless dogs are shown suffering in the cold, chained up.

The light went out and the sound was turned down. Muffled voices and a bluish tint now came through the bottom of the door. He would wait. He’d wait until morning when the sun would begin melting the snow. He’d wait till she opened the door.

This was the old hallway he used to sleep in when he lost his keys, or, on stormy nights when there was no safety to be found.

He used to live in this building, in that room behind the door. Got kicked out when he fell behind on rent. Now he just slept on church basement floors, under bridges, in city parks, abandoned cars. It was every once in while that the old bum slept in the hallway. He wanted to feel something again. Maybe human. Maybe the old carpet was the closest he could find to that; a coat waded up for a pillow. Sweet dreams.

And at eight she opened the door. Gave him a nudge with her right foot. Good morning Sheldon, she said. How ’bout some coffee before you leave?, he nodded his gray head. Wait here, she told him.

It had cream and sugar in it. Just as he liked it. The old man drank it down in a couple of gulps and handed her back the empty cup.

It’s cold out there, she said. Will I see you tomorrow?, he nodded his head. OK, I’ll leave the bottom door unlocked.

And with that, they started the day.

There were two queen size beds in the hotel room; they slept in one. Talked about old times, where they were this time last year, break-ups and make-ups; whatever happened to that cat?

The love between them never wavered. There were times when maybe they loved each other too much; midnight phone calls, bus rides ‘cross state at the last minute, spending money when there wasn’t any; common sense never applied.

Like the time she drove in a snowstorm to see him. Twelve inches fell, she drove slow in the right lane the whole time till she got to his place. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He’d run his hands through her blonde hair, she kissed him madly. The two walked hand in hand.

Then it was time to go back. Back to reality; he lived here and she lived there. He’d text her sweet messages in the morning. She responded with messages too. Till next time, she said. Till next time. He’d save those messages for rainy days. Look at them and say, Good night my love. Good night. My heart is always close by.

The truck rolled through town down Main Street. Some people were out on the sidewalks for a stroll while kids drew stick figures with different colors of chalk. The church bells rang and the farmers market was wrapping up over on Pine Street. They hurriedly put their goods away; looked like rain. And, it smelled like rain too. The old man in the pickup turned on his radio and the weatherman said a whopper was coming our way; a tornado watch was in effect.

Cars were now in a hurry to get home. People driving them honked their horns, turned on their headlights, as the winds kicked up and the first drops of rain hit the windshields. Damn wipers didn’t work on the old Ford; needed new ones. The old man rolled down his window and stuck his head out. Couldn’t see a thing; he was driving by luck. Seemed like everybody was driving by luck. Some bad luck. A station wagon hit an SUV right there at the corner. Hope he’s got insurance, the old man said as he drove past.

And then the tornado sirens started blaring. It was no longer a watch. God was warning them. The old man ran and took cover in the church basement where others were lined up to go. They all got in. The winds were tossing trees and debris all over; buildings crumbled, the cross on the church fell. Some folks didn’t make it at all; bodies under piles of brick, wood, stone. A silence could be heard.

Like that, it was over. The old man’s Ford was turned over on the courthouse green. He just laughed. Time to get a new one anyway, he whispered.

The cross was down in the church parking lot with Christ hanging on face down. Some people believe God spoke that day. Some people thought the devil had.