dmseay

It is the quietest part of night. Drunks rattle home, no cars going up and down the strip, castrated diesels sleeping behind gas stations, sides of roads, truck stops out on the edge of town. And cop cars quit cruising ’bout an hour ago; getting ready for shift change.

In diners hookers and pimps eat cherry pie while deformed go-go dancers apply powder and blush in public bathrooms across town; wearing lipstick in thick strokes, blotting it down a little with bites on a napkin or piece of toilet paper.

Soon they’ll be home. Home to their trailers on the west side of town, home to their studio apartments on Wells, home to hotel rooms for weekly rates with neon glowing in the sweating window, home to send Jr. off to school, to stop the crying of a new born, while their men sleep off the night before.

Factory workers getting ready to face the clock, punch it, and add up the hours of the week. They’ll hit the bars that were left vacant a couple of hours ago, asking for Old Style and Malort. And, they do this before sliding home to honey curved up in a double bed that sinks in the middle.

It is still night. A train rolls through town. The sun will be up soon. And morning’s dew will fade.

He listened to her. She kept talking and talking about the end of the world coming and he listened to her. She would talk in sentence fragments, no complete thoughts, just rambling. On and on she went about the apocalyptic horsemen and how when the U.S. goes so goes the world.

They sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee poured for her and iced tea was in front of him. The windows were open and cicadas were singing. She lit a cigarette and laughed. You think I’m crazy don’t ya?, she smiled as she drew in smoke through the side of her mouth. You wonder if it’s just tobacco I’m smoking?, the old grey haired woman dug a pop can out of the trash to use as an ashtray. Does my smoking bother you?, the old man shook his head.

My wife when she was alive smoked. I’d try to get her to stop. In the end it’s what killed her, he took a drink of tea.

You sure of that? That’s what people tell me. My son and daughter tell me it’ll kill me. But, I don’t pay no attention. Isn’t that awful that I don’t pay them no mind? When they’re daddy was alive they never talked to him that way. Hell, nobody did. He was a very proud man. Bit of a snob. I’d start talking to him ’bout the apocalypse and he’d just sit there and tell me I was crazy. He was a non-believer. I know he’s in purgatory right now waitin’ to get things right with God. Now whose laughin’?, she dropped the cigarette into the open part of the can. NO, he was a man of science. See how far that science will get ya. He should’ve listened to me, she smiled. Should’ve listened.

The old man took another swig of tea and wished his lady friend good evening.

Do I annoy you?, she asked as he grabbed his jacket.

No. I just like listening.

He kept looking at the light outside surrounded by pitch black. It was a head light he thought. Or, maybe a flashlight of some kind. Could’ve been some hitchhiker coming up the road. He wasn’t sure.

The yellow light began to swing back and forth as it got closer to the house. It’d shine up in the trees, down on the gravel off to the side of the road, out into tall weeds where candy bar wrappers and beer cans lay. Still couldn’t make out who was shining the light.

Then he saw a state trooper car with his flashers on drive by in silence. And, then another. They headed up the road a bit, stopped where the light was shining and then drove on.

The old man poured himself another beer. He decided he’d go out for a closer look. The quarter moon shined down on the fields and that light got closer and closer to where he could make out who it was.

He turned on his floodlights. They shined out into his front yard where he could see a trooper approaching him.

Kind of late for you boys to be out here ain’t it?, the old man said. You want some coffee or anything?, the trooper did not respond. What you looking for?, the trooper shined his light down as he got closer.

We got a tip.

A tip you say?

Gotta tip there might’ve been something out here that wasn’t supposed to be.

Like what?, the old man poured his beer out on the ground.

Like a body. Like a body that somebody just dumped out here.

You don’t say. What a terrible thing.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Oh, I know.

Well. That’s what we’re doing out here, he tipped his hat to the old man and continued his search.

The old man began to sweat a little from the high humidity. He decided he would go back inside and wait. Just wait until they knocked on his door. He fell asleep in the recliner in the front room. More and more people gathered outside. More and more police officers showed up. Soon the sun would break and the search would get bigger. The old man slept right through it until somebody knocked on his door. He grabbed his rifle and yelled out, who is it?

It’s Helen from down the road. You OK in there?, he put the gun down and opened the door. Do you know what’s going on?

Yes, the old man said.

Well. What is it?

Can’t tell ya. It’s top secret.

Top secret huh?

Yes. It’s top secret. I can’t tell ya what they’re looking for. It might upset the nature of things, the old man closed the door quietly and went back to his seat with his rifle in his lap. He closed his eyes and mumbled, It’s top secret.

The hotel bar was empty for the most part. The bartender cleaned glasses and a man in a yellow suit sat drinking a beer while watching the news; the sound was down low.

Some nuts were poured into a bowl next to the customer. He’d take handfuls and toss em back with a swig of beer. His eyes were fixated on the pretty blonde news anchor; she had green eyes.

She’s really something, he said to the bartender. Local gal?, the bartender nodded his head.

Maureen comes in here every night after she does the ten o’clock news.

You don’t say.

Yeah. Has a gin and tonic then goes home. Think she lives ’round here. Downtown. I think she lives downtown.

Well thanks for the tip. She sure is pretty, the salesman said. I’ll be back.

He went back to his room and called his wife. Asked how her day went. See if the kids were alright. Decided he’d take a shower, put on some cologne, and some casual clothes; wore a knit shirt with an alligator on the chest. Had brass bracelets with his initials on em. He slicked his black hair back with pomade. It’d be another couple of hours ‘ fore she showed up. Might as well have another drink.

As he walked into the lobby, he could see that everyone was dressed the same. All these men with stitched shirts and jewelry of some kind. They all wore deck shoes. Soft leather deck shoes with the small string of leather tied at the top. This realization that they all looked the same quickly wore off. Normal, he said to himself. We all look normal.

And they all sat at the bar watching Maureen read the late news. Manhattans were poured, beer flowed, some shots were downed. He was getting nervous. Maureen would be there soon.

Green eyes, the salesman said. She’s got those green eyes, he mumbled to the bartender. I’ll have another, he told the bar- keep. Make it a double if you could, he flashed him a ten.

Sir, I’m sorry, but, I’m going to have to make that last round your last one.

I’m staying here at the hotel.

You’re not driving?

Nope. ‘Sides, I’ve gotta see Maureen.

Who?

The news lady with the green eyes.

Sir. I don’t know her.

You said earlier that she came in here every night after the news. Were you lying to me?

Sir. I think you’ve had enough.

Get a man all worked up and then nothing. You here to see Maureen?, he pulled on the guy next to him.

Sir. It’s time for you to go.

The salesman looked at the bartender and smiled. OK, he said. Joke’s on me. He walked down the hallway and went back to his room. Dialed the phone and she answered. Just wanted to tell you I love you.

The truck wouldn’t start. Had gas in it. Checked the oil. Maybe it was the starter. He stood over the engine grabbing belts and fidgeting with screws.

His boy handed him a wrench. He tightened some cables. Told the boy to jump inside the beater and see what she does. Nothing. The young boy turned the key several times and nothing happened.

Ought to take a sledge hammer to it, the father said. Just beat the hell out of it, this made the young boy laugh. Think I should do that?, the boy hooped and hollered. Think I should just beat this thing to death?, he lit a cigarette and stood back from it for awhile. Go on inside and get us two cans of Pepsi, Dad said. Can you do that?, the young boy ran into the house as if he were on a mission.

Dad sat in the grass and decided to scoot under the pickup and have a look. His mind was preoccupied. Kept thinking of driving through town in the truck and his kid changing gears on him. He’d pop in the clutch and the boy would shift up. He’d do it again and the son would shift down; laughing the whole time. They couldn’t teach him much in school, but he knew this. He’d learned by watching Dad just when and where to shift. Dad called him, Mr. Help.

Mr. Help brought out the Pepsi. Waited for pop to come out from under the truck. Dad opened both cans and the two took long drinks from them. Let me try something, the father said. I’m going to flip these switches on the side here and you see if it starts, Mr. Help nodded his head. And like magic, the key turned and the truck livened up. It spit and it spewed, but it started.

You wanna go for a ride Mr. Help?, he laughed and nodded; slid over on to the passenger side. OK, let’s go, the boy shifted down with both hands. Thanks Mr. Help, Daddy said. Thanks. And the two of them drove through town on another Saturday. Both were smiling.

He stood in the garage adjusting his table saw. One eighth, one half, I don’t know what the cut is, the old man said to himself. One eighth, or, one half, maybe a quarter, he rattled on. I just don’t know, he brushed saw dust out of his grey hair.

She came to the door and the old man pointed to his home made sign that read, NO WOMEN FOLK ALLOWED. Can we talk, she said. I’d like to tell you some things before I leave, she said. I gave you thirty years, can’t you give me ten minutes, he looked up at her, took off his goggles and took a bar stool out and had a seat with his arms crossed.

I’m leaving, the woman said.

I know you’re leaving. I’m not leaving. Where you going to? Some place back East. Ohio, or, Pennsylvania? I get confused.

Up state. I’m going up state. I just can’t do this anymore. We’re room mates. Certainly not man and wife. That’s just a title.

A kid walked by down the alley yelling into a phone. Saying all kinds of curse words. They both paused. The old man walked over and pulled the rope to shut the garage door. Mumbling to himself, This neighborhood. If I had any sense I’d leave too.

Like I was saying. We’ve just grown apart. You spend more time in your shop than you do with me. And as for me, I’m always dreaming of leaving. That’s no way for the two of us to live.

Go on, he said. Just go on. Is it a half or a quarter. An eighth or a fourth.

I’m leaving.

He placed his right arm under the blade and turned on the saw.

There was talking downstairs, out in the parking lot. It was Friday, the eagle would fly today, everybody knew it.

He sat up in his room with the window open, listening to drunks and bums talk about where they were going to get dough in different parts of town.

I’m going out to the mall, Shorty said. Gonna hold up a big sign that says homeless vet on it in red ink, he lit a cigarette and took a swig from Jackie’s jug of wine.

Well I’m gonna go downtown and hang out on the square and tell people I’m short for gas money and I got to get my baby to the hospital, Jackie raised his finger in declaring.

The fat man upstairs listened to their plots and came up with a game plan all his own. He poured another cup of coffee and considered his options. He had twenty more days in the month until his check came. Looked over at the table and saw four packs of smokes next to some needles. He walked over and lit a smoke and said out loud, I’ll wait it out. I’ll wait it out. Nothing changes, finished his coffee. ‘Sides, he smiled, Need to lose some weight anyway.

She’d sleep under trees in Central Park using rust colored leaves as blankets. The dreams she had. Thoughts of leaving and never coming back to this earth; going on to make her home in the heavens.

Policemen and park security would pass her by in the midnight hours. A whole city lit up and alive surrounded her dark space; she paid no attention.

Columbus Circle with horse carriages carrying tourists around the park. Browns and greens with golds spill onto the pavement. The cleaning crews take it all away. The leaves, hot dog wrappers, twelve ounce cups, the dirt of the city being taken away while she dreams.

This girl thought New York was her home. Same as Cleveland, Philly, New Haven, the list goes on, realising there is no home in America when you’re broken. When you’re filthy and spat upon. All the days become as one. And her dreams of flying away o Lord become more and more real.

It is not the country she grew up in up on daddy’s shoulders watching parades go by on hot summer days. She is no longer able to smile at marching bands and clowns. This is not what she wanted. Or, is it?

Freedom. That’s what she always wanted. Thought she’d found it in Central Park. Believed her hours could be spent in beauty. She forgot about winter. She forgot about darkness. She just dreamed of home. And, soon she’d be there.

The refrigerator hummed throughout the night. A toilet kept running down the hall. He tossed ’bout in his twin bed.

A Mexican blanket covered him. At the end of the bed were black and blue feet exposed. His toes cold. He shivered. A cold chill ran throughout his body while sweat poured onto a soaked stained pillow.

Thoughts ran through his head. Not dreams; thoughts. Thoughts of leaving and never coming back to the town he grew up in, that’d left so long ago only to return again and again. Adventures only last so long.

He sat up in bed; flabby stomach itched, his nose filled. Looked at the clock. It was past two in the morning. And it was quiet outside. No cars, nor wind. Just silence. The old man began to get dressed but remembered he had no place to go to. It would be another day of talking to spirits, ghosts in silent babble.

The wrinkled man looked over at his small bar. A bottle of Jack Daniels stood there along with Paddy’s Irish whiskey; choices. There was also a bottle of Titos he’d been given, but no tomato juice, no celery stalks, or, dill pickles. Just vodka straight.

Be a man, he whispered. Make a choice, he ran his fingers over the dust on the bottles. He’d picked one. The fat fellow made his way to the freezer above the refrigerator; no ice cubes. He would have to drink it straight.

So, he poured Jack into a small glass. ‘Bout two shots worth. At first he sipped at it, then in one gulp downed the whole drink.

Crawling back under the blanket, he crossed himself, thanking God for this night. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Sins forgiven for one more day.

There was nothing left in the pot; some pitch black sludge and grounds covered the bottom. It’d sat there for awhile; week, maybe two.

He finally got out of bed. He’d been there for a week, maybe two himself. Just laying there half asleep, kind of in a dream state.

His stomach was growling. He had not eaten in days; maybe some corn chips, a cold can of Wolf Brand Chilli. An empty can sat atop a pile in the kitchen along with used paper towels, some old sandwich bags, cardboard boxes from fast food joints. It was the only trash can in the house. Hadn’t been emptied in months. Bottles used to piss in lined the walls.

He stood at the sink in a robe, bare feet on linoleum, trying to clean the sludge and grounds out of the coffee pot. The water was turned on as hot as it could be, swished ’round in the marked glass. Finally the grounds ‘came loose and he breathed while he emptied them down the drain. The cat meowed.

He made himself a new pot of coffee. There was no cream, no sugar, just black coffee. That’s how she used to drink it. For a brief second or two he thought of walking to the corner store for some goods. How much would cream and sugar cost?, he asked himself; then turned over cushions and trash, under the sofa he looked, and in the cabinets. He came up with $2.56. A tough decision had to be made; cream or two boxes of generic mac and cheese?

He wished she never left.