dmseay

What’d happened to him over the years, no one could really tell. He’d gone from being a relatively happy fellow to being down in the dregs. Which some say is the best part of a wine. Others would disagree.

Time flew by. He found himself alone in his closing years. Living in a room filled with books, words, a typewriter, an old wooden desk. Dust atop of bed posts, night stands, lampshades, shelves, a cleaning was needed.

And his own soul needed cleaning. Apologies needed to be made. People in his past he’d let down. Loans never paid back. Broken hearts along the way. He prayed for forgiveness everyday; confessed his sins on paper. Wrote stories ’bout less than savory types. The kind that run off; never stick it out. He never stuck it out.

Had a time when he was younger. A real night hawk. Drinkin’ and carousing until four in the morning. Waiting for waitresses to clock out. Driving ’round the country jazzed on some kind of manic mania; up and down interstates. Calling out for one more round, one more song, a lost tooth from a fight in Yonkers; should’ve seen the other guy.

Now youth was gone. Bed time was 8:30, a cup of coco from an unwashed mug, pillow case with saliva marks on it, sleeping on his side’s, scared to look up at heaven.

How does one know if they’re forgiven? Forgiven by those they sinned against. This is what haunted him. Debts he couldn’t pay back. Perhaps poverty was the price he paid.

Goodnight, he’d say out loud. Goodnight, as if she were there. She, one of many. But now those days are over. Aren’t they? Maybe we all live in the Tropic Of Cancer.

Winter came early.

Snow, rain, slush on sidewalks, your hand not there.

And, it darkened early.

Only the moon gave guidance. Oh North star, where are you?

Lifeless grass yellows.

Autumn has gone. You have left. My shadow haunts me.

I’ve yet to see your face.

We played as children. Rubbing noses. Eskimo kisses.

Love leaves us lost.

They sat there in a line of cars a couple of miles long. Waiting, the two of em could see cop lights flashing up ahead; an ambulance went past then another.

The sounds of semis standing still while drivers in Ford’s, Chevrolet’s, and a Dodge worked their way out of line to take off in the opposite direction. Going down the road where they just came from, heading home as red tail lights shined in the black night.

They sat there, the two of em. Radio turned down low, listening to old jazz on the local Public Radio station. Some Bill Evans, Coltrane, Cold Duck Time, by Eddie Harris, he nodded his head to the music, she just kept looking straight ahead at the cars and the lights and the moon on Highway 24.

It’s glowing tonight, she said. It’s glowing down on us, placing her hand on his thigh. You know what moonlight does to me, the middle aged lady put her head on his shoulder.

Yes, he said. I know what moonlight does to you. Just sit back and we’ll be moving again. Moving in no time.

In the old days you would’ve had your fly zipped down by now, the blonde whispered. In the old days we would’ve taken advantage of this opportunity.

You know. Someone could’ve died up there, he lit a Marlboro. How many cars you think they got piled up up there? Maybe three or four. Too far away to tell, he coughed as he blew out smoke.

She sat up and removed her hand from his leg. She’d tried things before. All kinds of flirtations. He always changed the subject. Always wanted to read the paper, or watch Vanna turn letters. He hadn’t touched her in years.

I can’t do this anymore, she said.

Do what?

You’re not even aware of it are you? You’re unaware of the non-actions you do. What happened to you?, she rolled her window down. You know how long it’s been? Five years. Five years of nothing. Not even a passionate kiss.

What do you want from me?

She paused. The diesel up ahead began to move. Nothing, she said. Nothing.

On the side of the road there were four crunched up vehicles being loaded onto a tow truck. They passed em in silence.

These were men without cars, wives, maybe some kids in another state, perhaps a family in a different country.

The bus picked them up in front of a cheap rundown hotel outside of Gary. Their clothes were dirty, smelled like cigarettes, liquor, men.

All of the men were old and black. Worn out from life. They’d worked in factories up by Detroit, steel mills in Gary, got drunk in Hammond, could never quite figure it out; the American dream had escaped them. Now they were just hanging on to the threads that make up America; the suit had been torn long ago.

And so they boarded the Greyhound. Got on in places like Burns Harbor, South Bend, Mishawaka, Fort Wayne; heading east, leaving another town, tossing eviction notices and gas bills into dumpsters downstairs.

They’d start all over again as dishwashers, car wash workers, day laborers, just keeping one foot ahead while the other dragged behind.

Benny had been out West. Spent time in Denver, Albuquerque, bummed around St. Louis and when he was younger, worked on Alaskan fishing boats and canneries cutting up guts then hauling them out to the garbage. He’d worked on farms in Georgia, picked cotton in Mississippi and was up to his knees in rice paddies in Arkansas. The old man had worked a hundred jobs and lived in a hundred places. He was getting tired.

This would be his last bus trip. The wrinkled work pants he wore was his only pair. In a bag he carried a few shirts, some underwear, socks, not much.

He was heading to Pittsburgh where he would live with a cousin he’d kept in touch with throughout the years of rousting about. But for now he slept with his head against the window. Dreaming of starting all over again. They all did.

They looked at old pictures together. Black and whites, some crinkled and tearing apart, held together with pieces of tape on the back of them. Others in fine condition, high school photos, wedding shots, pictures of a first Christmas together, some older ones of their parents standing beside an old Chevrolet; they remembered the car. Belonged to a friend of theirs from down the road who liked showing off his wheels.

Then there were color pictures too. Old Polaroids of the kids throughout the years. Bonnie wearing a two piece for the first time; daddy never did like that swimsuit; showed too much skin. Eddie in his Marine uniform. He was getting ready to go off to Afghanistan. Johnny graduating high school. They never thought he’d make much of himself. Now he owns a used car lot in New Haven. He got married. Raised a couple of kids of his own.

The pictures were all mixed up on the kitchen table. Dad picked them up one at a time and looked at them carefully while momma placed the photographs in folders marked with each child’s name on it.

Then there were pictures of mom and dad, mom smiling at the camera. Dad smoking a cigarette. There were a few where mom was pregnant. So full out she looked like she was about to pop. But, she didn’t look like she did in the other photos. She didn’t look happy. Dad remembered those days. He remembered that one pregnancy particularly. She was sick throughout the last few weeks of it. Had the flu real bad. He tried to hide them from her. He wanted to throw them away.

Momma grabbed his hand when she noticed the pictures. I remember those days too, she said. More so than you’ll ever know, she held his hand. They belong in the folder with the rest of them, dad lowered his head. The older woman got up to fix a pot of coffee. He came up behind her and held her.

You never forget do ya, he said. She shook her head. We were gonna name him Charlie after your dad, she dropped the spoon she was using to measure out the Folgers. I’m still sorry dear. All these years later I still feel terrible ’bout it, he squeezed around her middle.

I felt guilty for years, she poured water into the coffee maker. Just felt ashamed. I still do I guess. Some things never go away. That feeling. That feeling of losing something. I’m so sorry, she cried.

Shhh. You were sick honey. Couldn’t keep anything down, he reached up and grabbed two cups. It wasn’t your fault, he kissed her forehead. It just wasn’t.

They sat there drinking coffee and looking at pictures. Some color and others black and white.

The old Ford truck started right up. For months it’d sat out there on the gravel driveway without anyone thinking about moving her. The whole family, Bobby Jr., Tommy, and Lynette, just looked at it from the kitchen windows with snow piled up on it, thinking of their father and how he used to drive em through town in the back of it. He’d go nice and slow, all of em waving at on-lookers on the sidewalks, in the parks, drunks coming out of liquor stores, and folks exiting churches on Sunday mornings.

Momma couldn’t bare to look at it. Reminded her of the old man too much. Swore to her kids that she was going to sell it as soon as the spring came. Could get a good price for it too. Just a little rust. Use a paint job maybe.

The kids were in their late teens now. Soon they would be going to college, or taking on a job somewhere; moving out. Leaving.

The death of the old man took em all by surprise. Day before his heart attack he was teaching Lynette how to drive stick shift in the pickup. They’d go down country roads, parking lots, out in harvested old corn fields where they’d laugh while tearing through yellowed stalks. And now, she was going to sell it. All those memories gone.

So, momma told Bobby, the oldest, to go out there and start the truck. See if it was still running. He put the silver key in the ignition and turned it. It sputtered and spattered, black smoke came out the tail pipe.

He let it run for awhile, thoughts of taking off in it crossed his mind. Thoughts of leaving and never coming back. Bobby looked over at momma on the back stoop. She runs O.K. ?, momma asked. The boy just nodded his head. Alright. You can turn her off now, she yelled over the motor. He didn’t want to turn it off. Bobby, I said turn it off, she walked towards the truck. He kept it on. Put his foot on the clutch and shifted down. The truck began to move. And freedom took place in the young man’s heart. He could see her in the mirror shaking her fist. He just smiled. Going faster and faster. Thinking about his daddy.

Drove out to the county line. Turned the old radio on. Some Johnny Cougar song was playing. He wondered why she wanted to get rid of it so badly. And then it dawned on him. She was ready to move on.

He looked at the books on his desk; Norman Mailer’s , An American Dream, Jean Baudrillard’s, America, Ulysses by Joyce, were all lined up along with others; dust covered, pages torn, leather cover of the Holy Bible starting to crack, a collection of poetry by Ted Hughes folding and bending.

At one time he had over a thousand books. Hardbacks and paperbacks lined the shelves of his basement office where he spent most of his time; writing and reading, reading and writing while his wife stayed upstairs watching reality tv; shows about rich women with drinking problems and husband problems and fashion problems; all kinds of problems. They were becoming roommates.

What happens when you fall out of love with someone? you start to avoid them; spending time with yourself, alone, away from the breath they blow, their touch, mere presence. You don’t really hate the person you married, you just do better when they’re not around.

And so the young husband stayed to himself, she kept the bedroom at the end of the hall while he slept in the guest room. Maybe that was it? perhaps he was a guest. Just some man who came and went as he pleased.

He sat at the desk looking at how disorderly his life had become since the divorce. Change everywhere, half drunk bottles of whiskey, unwashed coffee mugs, litter upon the carpeted floor; maybe a woman’s touch was needed. Maybe?

It was winter when they divorced. Cold, bitter winter. The court date was the day after Christmas. When the judge granted the divorce she turned to him and said, What do we do now? He shook his head and said, whatever you like. She was free without guilt to watch as many reality tv shows as she wanted; perhaps living in a fantasy world. And he, was able to read and write in a room locked away from the world.

He was on his way to pick grapes; traveling ‘cross America on a Greyhound; came from Ecuador, Guatemala, some place in Latin America. He couldn’t speak English. Words were broken in two. Used a lot of hand gestures.

I could tell he was going North to the vineyards. Tons of em go to the wineries this time of year. Out in the fields all day picking purple, red, and white grapes. Sleeping in shacks. Sending money back home to family, wives, mothers, sisters and brothers. A completely different way than the American way of life. Americans are funny about money. Funnier about family.

He kept looking out the window as we drove past small towns, rolling hills, billboards he couldn’t read, trees bare in the Autumn sun. He’d look over at me, smile, and point at farm equipment out there in corn fields, soy, alfalfa. He was able to say, One day amigo. One day.

I smiled back at him, nodded my head and said, Yeah. One day.

He told the officer he never saw him coming. Said he darted out in front of his car before he slammed on the brakes.

He was chasin’ some ball I guess. Just ran out there in the middle of the street. Never saw him, his hands shook as he tried to light his cigarette.

Do you live over here sir?, the policeman asked. Sir, do you live over here in this neighborhood?, he shook his head no.

Where do you live?

1407 Pinedale Drive.

Where’s that?

Out South.

As the ambulance came, and the small child lay in the street motionless, a crowd began to form. A large group of men and women circled the dead body. A woman cried out, He done killed him. He done killed him, she wept loudly.

Sir we’re going to have to take you in for questioning. Have you been drinking tonight?, the cop smelled alcohol on his breath. You mind taking a sobriety test?, he nodded yes. Yes he had been drinking. Drinking for the better part of the day. Drinking ever since his woman left him the night before. Yes, I’ve been drinking officer.

The policeman got the breathalyzer out of his car. Asked him to blow into the device. More and more people gathered, street lights came on, shoes on wires disappeared in the dark.

On the way to the police station the man in the back seat couldn’t comprehend what was going on. The cops were quiet on the ride; lights on, speeding through neighborhoods and onto main streets; porchlights glowed and uncut grass waved in the wind.

The handcuffed man looked out the window at the other cars they were passing. He was looking for a silver SUV. Looking for a blonde inside of it. Wanting, one last time to see her.

He began mumbling about Macbeth. About dreams. “To know my deed, t’were best not know myself.”

His ex watched the news that night at the bar. She saw his mug shot up on the screen. She switched to coffee.

She was cold; got up to turn the furnace on; went back to bed where her husband was wide awake; couldn’t sleep; bad dreams kept him up.

They both pulled and yanked at the covers; naked underneath them; they’d made love before falling asleep. Something they hadn’t done in quite some time. It felt almost foreign to them both; nothing familiar about it. He had forgotten how she liked the back of her neck touched. And she did not rub his chest. It was mechanical. There was no passion.

He sat up on the side of the bed and tried to find his underwear in the dark along with a tee-shirt. She rolled over and counted sheep. They both went about their ways; she trying to sleep and he headed down the hall to the kitchen.

There was a note on the table next to some corn chips. He started eating them as he read, I’ve left for good. Can’t take it anymore. I want to see the world. I hope you understand. Love, Carrie.

He put another chip in his mouth and read the note again. This time with his reading glasses on which were over on the kitchen counter. That’s what I thought, he said out loud. She’s gone, he stumbled back down the hallway to the bedroom.

Wake up, he shook his wife. Wake up Gloria. She got up startled. He turned the lamp on next to her on the night stand. She left us, he said. She’s gone, he began to shake.

Calm down Jimmy, she spoke sense. We’ll call the police and have her tracked down. Go see if the car is in the driveway. Go on, she said as she dialed 911.

The red Ford Fairmont was gone. He began to put on his jeans and boots. She got dressed as well.

Where do you think she went to? Which way?, he asked. She paused told him how she had these dreams of being a movie star. She wanted to live in Los Angeles, that’s what she told 911 as well.

So they got in the truck and drove throughout the night and into most of the next day heading West. Drove through the rice fields of Arkansas, the soy and alfalfa of Texas, into the desert part of the state. West Texas. Going into New Mexico. He pulled over on 40 to the side of the road. Crying, just uncontrollably crying.

This ain’t our fault, she said. She’s got wander lust and a head full of dreams. He nodded. We couldn’t have stopped her. No way. All this driving is for nothing. We’re not gonna catch her. We’ll just have to see if she comes back.

Jimmy turned the car around. Headed back towards Memphis. There was not a word spoken. They drove in silence as radio stations came and went. Fading in and out. This life was chosen for them.