dmseay

Highway 41 was slick; rain, sleet, snow; cold temperature; so much for weather reports.

He stopped at a motel in Morocco, Indiana; up in the northwest section of the state; south of Gary in Lake County; dead cornfields; yellowed by the winds and seasons; bedbugs made him itch.

The old man couldn’t sleep. A hollow wind blew debris all over the parking lot. He pulled back the curtin and watched potato chip bags, candy wrappers, fast-food boxes fly around under blue lights and a silver moon. This wind hissed. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the pleather chair. At least he was dry.

A car pulled up and shined it’s headlights on the old man. He sat still as a tall man with a cowboy hat got out and walked towards his room with a gun pointed at the door. He knew it was his time.

Open up, the voice said. Police. Open up now nice and slow, the old man followed directions. Place your hands behind your head, the cop spread the old man’s feet apart with a swift kick. Virgil A. Ives, you are under arrest for the murder of one Dorothy Ives. You have the right to remain silent, the old man knew the rest, he tuned out.

In the squad car back to the jail, the old man kept whispering in between sobs that he was sorry. Kept on saying he was sorry. Said he had to. He had to. There was no other way. Put her out of her misery.

She would’ve wanted it that way.

I’ve become that old man.

The one that sits in coffee shops talking to himself.

Stirring a drink with a silver spoon.

Looking at youth.

Thinking of younger days.

People look as I mumble.

I was once skinny too.

He asked her what she wanted? Told her he’d give her anything. She just shook her head and took a sip of coffee. The young lady didn’t say a word. Instead she just sat there. In silence. He felt like he was talking to himself. Saying words out loud. Asked her if she wanted more coffee? Pushed her cup forward towards him. He picked it up and started to cross the kitchen, but she stopped him with her hand. Wrapped her arm ’round his leg. Leaned her pretty blonde head against his hip. He brushed her hair. Said, It’ll be alright. It’ll be alright, continued on to the counter where he poured her another cup with some sugar and cream.

You feel bad ’bout what you done?, asked as he sat the cup down in front of her. Think you made a mistake?, she took a sip, swished it around in her mouth. That happened a while ago honey, he reached out for her hand. All you gotta do is say you’re sorry.

That won’t make it go away, she said softly in a whisper. I did a terrible thing. I can’t expect him to ever forgive me for it.

Hey. He wasn’t no saint. He made mistakes as well.

Not like this dad. Not like this.

I see.

You ever cheat on mom?, he shook his gray head no. You were married for fifty years and you never once cheated on her?

He shook his head again and said, No I did not. Had plenty of opportunities, but, I never did.

You’re makin’ me feel real good ’bout myself.

Go on back home to him tomorrow. Tell him you’re sorry.

No. It’s too late. He’s done made up his mind. And, I guess I have too.

Do you love him?, she stared at the black and white photograph that hung on the wall. Just stared at it for a minute or two.

No. I never did.

Why’d you marry him?

‘Cause I wanted to be like you and mom. I wanted a house and a car. Hell, I even wanted kids. But, love him? No, I did not. I don’t think I know what love is.

Don’t tell him any of this. Just let things be. That would put a world of hurt on him if he knew that.

I know. I know. …I’m gonna take off for awhile. Pawn my wedding ring. Get some money that way. I’ll come back in a month or two.

What ’bout your job? What ’bout him and the divorce? You just can’t take off like that.

I’m already gone dad. I’m already gone.

He followed along the path lined with pines, sycamores, oak, cedars. Off in the distance the smell of cherry wood burning on a campfire. White smoke made it’s way through the forest where birds, crows, hawks, cardinals, flew over the tops of these trees, high in the sky, making their way down South for winter rejuvenation. He followed them. He followed.

Took up a stick for a cane. Dug it into the soft earth with each step. Noticed the sun was going down. Could feel the moon creeping in on him. He knew he had to make it out of the woods before dark. That’s when the ghosts come out, coyotes prowl, and bobcats hiss into the night.

The old man checked his watch. It read Nov. 1 1986 5 p.m. in a digital green light. His son had given it to him for his 50th birthday. It was the only gift he got that year. His daughter had let time slide by and his ex-wife was just that, an ex-wife. There had been no communication between them for years. She took off for San Francisco and he had taken off on the road leaving all responsibilities behind. Picked up odd jobs here and there, slept under bridges, shelters, cardboard boxes. He had no need for the riches in life; a good pair of boots and a cup of coffee was all he required.

Up ahead he could hear cars and trucks moving down the road. He knew he was going to make it out this time. Make it out of the hands of nature, back to hitching on the main roads where black top heats up in the summer’s blaze. He listened as the birds sang a song upon their flight. Free, they were free too. He admired that about them, inspired him. Kept him walking along the path of completeness.

A full moon always scared him. Full and white, shiny, glowing behind clouds that crossed it’s path. He’d look up at it in the early morning hours with his binoculars in the backyard. Just stand there in the wet October dew looking at the moon and thinking, The end of the world is soon.

The sounds of diesels running up and down 41 set a kind of soundtrack to his viewing of the heavens. Very few stars were out, mostly pitch black, he couldn’t see his hands in front of him. Vrmmm…another semi went down the highway. Errr…air brakes were applied. Sounded like a dysfunctional symphony. He continued staring at the moon.

The old man noticed the kitchen light come on through the back window. His wife was up standing at the sink. Probably filling a tea pot with water. Watched her as she walked away. Looked at her through the lenses. Noticed she was knocking on the window and waving at him. She thinks my moon watching is a joke, he mumbled. The whole world’s ’bout to come crashing down and she thinks it’s a joke, he continued. Some joke.

And he waved back at her. These being the final days he thought it’d be best if there was a peace between them. So, he waved real hard and smiled when she turned on the flood lights outside attached to the garage. She waved for him to come inside. Get out of the cold. Leave your moon chasing for another night. He followed her directions.

They sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of them. I better check my sugar level, the old woman said. Been feeling funny all night long, she got up and walked over to a drawer by the refrigerator. Took out the tiny pin and pricked her right finger. Blood was drawn.

It’s the moon, he said. First full one on this date for seventy-six years. That’s when they saw it up in the sky; seventy-six years ago on Halloween night. Strange what the moon can do to ya, he told her.

She shook her head. Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me is the four horsemen are comin’, he nodded. You get scared too easily, she laughed. You think that moon is out to get ya. I should’ve never got you those binoculars. Should’ve never done it.

Trump being president. The pandemic. A full moon on Halloween seventy-six years later. He knew the world was ending soon. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

The sun was coming up. The moon was going down. And the day would begin soon. He looked outside at the orange ball in the sky. Just looked at it. Said, Thank you Lord. Thank you.

She’d stay up all night looking at magazines; Vanity Fair, Glamour, Cosmopolitan. The middle aged lady didn’t read any of the articles, she just looked at the pictures; some in color, others in black and white. All of em models and famous people; she liked the ads the most. Took her off to another world. Made her dream of being a size six, having perfect breasts, long legs. She looked at the pictures longingly. Just her. All alone. A cup of tea and a yellow hue from the lamp next to her. Seated on an old broken in couch with the periodicals stacked next to her. It’s how she spent her evenings.

During the day she worked at Wal-Mart as a stocker. A big girl who never watched her diet, she drank 32 oz. orange fountain drinks along with her foot longs from Subway each day for lunch; her favorite was the chicken teriyaki on white. She’d sit by herself in the back of the store and look at People magazine. Day dream ’bout being Mrs. Clooney or Mrs. Pitt. Sometimes you could catch her talking to herself as she looked at the photos. Saying things like, I love you George. I love you Brad, real soft like. One could barely make out what she was saying.

The blonde haired lady took the bus home every night. Sat next to no-one. She’d look around at the mental health patients getting off and on at the free clinics, the homeboys listening to rap on their phones, older riders talking gibberish about when the world would end. She sat in silence, peering out windows at rust, golden, and brown trees along the streets. Looking at front yards with kids playing in piles of leaves, houses well maintained, and cars in driveways. She never wished she had that life, but then again, she wasn’t opposed to it neither.

Her’s was a simple life. She paid rent on time, had some tv dinners in the fridge, and never missed a day of work. When she did sleep, she dreamt of having someone next to her. The plump woman had never had that before. She’d have men ask her out before only to find they were after one thing only. And, sometimes out of sheer lonliness, the old girl would give into their whims of desire only never to be called on again. That’s when she decided she was better off with her magazines and imagination. It was safer that way.

And so, she kept on dreaming. Dreams kept her alive. And, she kept talking to herself and the pictures in magazines.

He was approaching Chicago from 30 in Merrillville. Soon the old man would be on 80. Then The Skyway taking him into the heart of the city. Leaving Gary, Blue Island, the Southside behind. Skin and Bones was heading North. Goin’ back to his Lakeview neighborhood of old. Back to the old bars and joints he used to frequent as a kid in his twenties. Long nights of drinking and carousing back then amongst pushers and pimps, whores and junkies, narcotic officers and beggars with signs reading, Feed The Poor. He always gave a buck or two when he could.

The old man was clean shaven for this trip. Got his haircut earlier that day by a big blonde who gave him a shave as well. He liked it when she grabbed his head and held it close to her chest as she cut. It was the closest he’d been to a woman in years. Some things just don’t work out.

So he drove up Clark Street. Passed Division, North, Fullerton, Diversey, and sped onto Broadway. Drove by Friar Tuck’s bar, the adult bookstore, deep dish pizza joints, Halsted to the West of him and Belmont to the North.

It was one in the morning. The drag queens and leather boys were out in full force. They were heading into the same place he was, the Lakeview Lounge, a smorgasbord of various drunks. He checked his look in the mirror, slicked his gray hair straight back and locked his Nova. Looked one more time at himself in the car window and saw his reflection, tall and skinny he remained while the others got fat.

It was a warm breeze blowin’ down Broadway and the front door was open with a fat bouncer checkin’ id’s as sailors walked in and toxins from the night walked out. On the jukebox Monkey Man by the Stones played as he made his way to the bar. Sat down and ordered a Gin and tonic, extra lime.

Seated next to him was a tranny whore named Vicki. She was drinking beer from a plastic cup, lipstick smeared on the sides. She looked over at the old man. Said, haven’t seen you in here before, and scooted closer to him.

No, I guess not, the senior said. Used to come in here all the time. ‘Fore you was born.

Really?

Yeah, took a swig of his drink.

You look good for your age. How old are you?

Sixty two.

Yeah honey you look good. Hey Charlene, she poked her friend sitting on the other side, don’t he look good?, the old man smiled.

He sure do, the black tranny said. He sure do.

Thanks ladies. Now if you’ll excuse me, he got up and walked a slow jaunt back to the pool tables. Couple of bikers were playin’ eight ball. He put his money on the side to take on the winner. Grabbed a pool que and took a seat at the end of the bar. He tried to look important, like he was some kind of royalty. The one biker waved him over.

Eight ball cool, the tall, husky biker said to him. The old man nodded his head. You break, he barked, And make it a good one alright. Skinny grinned.

The different colored balls flew all over the green table. A couple went in, a stripe and a solid. I’ll take solids the biker said. And with that, he ran the table, hitting everything in the pockets as if he were a two time champ. He approached the old man who sat at the bar and just watched in amazement.

What do I owe ya?

It’s a fin for a game.

He took out two twenties and a ten and handed it over to the biker’s greasy paw. And, just like that, he was back at square one. No money to his name and a quarter tank of gas. It felt normal.

She sat in the front room knitting a sweater while he watched Wheel Of Fortune. Both of them, sitting in their Lazy-Boys with old feet propped in the air as Vanna turned letters and Pat was wittier than ever.

Buy a vowel, the old man said. I said, buy a vowel you idiot, he took a sip from his iced tea.

He can’t hear you dear, she said. It does no good to yell at the television set. You think they can hear you?

Should’ve bought a vowel. That’s all I’m saying, a commercial came on, something about life insurance. The cat jumped up in his lap. He pet it. Stroked it’s tummy. It purred.

The sweater was almost done. Orange and blue were the colors. She was making it for their grandson who lived ‘cross town with his mother in a trailer park called, A Thousand Dreams, on the west side of the city.

You like it? she held it up for him to look at. He nodded his head. You think orange and blue go together? again, he nodded his head. Well, I just hope he likes it.

Come on spin that wheel, the old man cried out. Spin it, took another sip of iced tea. You got the address?

Yes.

I bought him a ball glove. I wanna put that in there before you close the box.

Alright.

The boy was almost seven now. Seven years. Long time since they’d seen their son, took off the night the baby was born. He was never one to face responsibility. Started at a young age. Never did what he was asked. Had a wild streak in him. Used to run away from home at the drop of a hat. Quicker than you could say leave. He’d be gone. Taking Greyhounds, hitchhiking, walking down the highway at two in the morning. Always left a note though. Told his parents he was leaving. Must’ve left a hundred times. Phone calls from New York, Chicago, Amarillo, Texas. He always would call late at night. And, he was always asking for money. Always.

Here, put this in there, the old man pulled out a twenty. Spend it on candy or pop. Whatever they spend it on, Grandma nodded her head.

Sure would be nice if we could see him. I’d like to watch him grow up. You think some day she’ll let us?, the old man just shook his head.

There’s a lot of hurting going on there. She’ll never forgive him. And, she don’t need us around to remind her, he turned the sound up on the tv.

I ‘spose.

They both nodded and watched as the contestant hit BANKRUPT.

There was nothing he could do. After driving for days, miles and miles through the West, he’d come to that conclusion.

Maybe it was better this way. Penniless, gas tank on E, no dog to take care of. All responsibility tossed aside; he figured she’d make it on her own.

At the rest area, he shook the snack box until a bag of chips and a Milky Way fell to the bottom. It would suffice.

October nights get cold in Idaho. He got out his Mexican blanket and tucked his arms underneath. Chewing on candy he could see his breath in the night air. Rolled up his windows, turned the radio on to some college station playing Chet Baker. It was Chet Baker singing, Autumn In New York. No one ever played that. It helped him dream.

As the moon ripened and night dragged on, a Plymouth pulled up next to him. He sat and watched her as she got out of the car and walked into the rest stop’s restroom. The outline of her body shined under the blue lights leading the way. John Coltrane played, Central Park West; he hummed along.

He saw her climb in the back seat. A petite woman with dark hair. Looked Indian or something. He didn’t think much of it, fell back asleep to Bill Evans playing, Gloria’s Step; what dreams. Dreamt of hanging out at City Lights Books, talking to old Beat ghosts, Kerouac, Ginsburg; born at the wrong time.

When he woke up her car was gone. She was gone. And he, was penniless with a gas tank on E.

Watching hyenas run from lions.

Thinking of you.

Watching hyenas attack a deer.

Eventually the fool wins.

We always wanted too much.

Too many vacations, too much money.

The odds stack up.

We never had a chance.