dmseay

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.

There was snow piled high in the streets; covered everything; cars, trucks, tricycles, concrete blocks in the yard, old remnants of Autumn, were burried in the white fluff with crystals on top. Old Men speaking Polish stood in driveways with shovels and cases of beer, wearing sweatshirts and workpants with boots laced-up, as fumes from the steel mills pushed into the sky.

First, a group of them would dig out Ms. Yablamowitz driveway. She would be grateful and feed the men later on with sauer kraut and sausages, some potato filled pierogis, and more beer. Then the crew would remove the heavy powder by Zimski’s garage out into the street. There was no pay expected; they’d lost their little boy earlier that summer and were still grieving. Stosh and the boys figured it was their honor. Then, when the sidewalks were cleared, they’d all have an Old Style and eat braunsweiger sandwiches on rye with thick slices of onion; congratulating each other on a job well done.

Later on that evening it was back to the mills, all of them laughing having slept off the afternoon beers. And, Stosh was grateful to live where he lived. Seeing his friends and family seven days a week at the mill, the home, church. There was always a toast. Here’s to Northwest Indiana. Nostrovia.

He looked at paintings on walls; old and some contemporary. There was one that grabbed his attention particularly. It was a clear blue body of water. Just stood there gazing at it. He wanted to take it down and carry it home, but, it wasn’t for sale. It was to look at, admire.

It was a French painter; couldn’t pronounce the name. He’d been to Paris, but, never saw a body of water in France. He knew they were there, just as the painter painted, however, he never saw it in person. Made him want to go to Cannes, sit on the beach, maybe wade in the water. Just something peaceful.

The painting brought him serenity. Everything in his head stopped. The constant babble, silently talking to himself, stopped. You could say he was carried away by the painting. He wanted to kiss it.

And, he waited for the security guard to leave, that wasn’t happening. The man in the blue suit jacket kept looking at him as if he knew his thoughts.

Have you been there before?, the tall black man asked him.

No, he said. I have not.

Looks nice don’t it?

Yes, very nice.

I know you like it, but, you’re standing too close. We get nervous when people stand too close, the guard laughed, he backed away. Makes you want to jump into the water doesn’t it?, he nodded his head.

Thank you.

Alright.

The guard turned his back quickly to walk away. The man quickly kissed the painting. Felt the smoothness of the paint. He touched his thin lips to it. And, he felt cleansed.

The old Ford had a line going across the dirty windshield; a crack that had been there since he bought the truck back 2015. He always swore he’d get it fixed; swore to himself.

He bought it off this dying man in Tulsa. Got it for a thousand bucks. Rust underneath the quarter panels, just over a hundred thousand miles on it, the blue paint was dulled by the Oklahoma sun. So was the old man.

Cancer had him. Never bothered to get checked, even when he felt weak. By the time he was sixty-nine it was too late. It’d spread all over. The old man wanted one last thrill and he was willing to part with the pickup to do that. Willing to part with a lot of things actually. Sold his John Deere tractor which was getting old and ready to go to heaven, got rid of his pontoon boat that he and Charlene had thrown lake parties on, and he got rid of the house where they’d raised two kids, a boy and a girl. Don’t come around to see him since mom died. That was years ago. They’d talk on the phone. Neither of the two knew he had cancer. He kept it as quiet as he could.

And, the old man wanted to go to Vegas one more time. Had twenty grand on him after he’d sold everything. Just wanted to stay at a nice hotel, eat a few good meals, and shoot some craps. Maybe find the charms of a young woman to take him away for awhile. Everything was negotiable.

He decided to take a Greyhound out there, travel across the land that’d been a dust bowl at one time, a hot bed for socialism back in his grandpa’s day, where Indians once ruled, where grass was brown in summer.

The old man traveled with a bottle of Jack Daniels up under his coat. Sat in the back and sipped on it. Kept looking at road signs and billboards, truck stops and weigh stations, he took it all in.

Had it in his mind to put a hundred in a slot machine when he first got there. Charlene would’ve never let him do that; he was gonna break all the rules. He put in that hundred and won back fifteen hundred; felt good to be ahead.

Placed the fifteen on craps and won there too; got him twenty-five hundred. He was starting to bleed from his mouth a little. And his nose. Took out a white handkerchief and applied it firmly. Went on and placed a bet on the Super Bowl; more dark black blood was coming out. Sat and had a scotch when the bartender asked if he was alright? Yep, the old man said, then fell to the floor. Took his last breath and noticed flashing lights of red. Somebody had won. His hand was done.

The truck had a crack in the windshield. Still hadn’t been fixed.