dmseay

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.

They put a For Sale sign up in the front yard; digging straight down into the frozen ground. Snow almost covered it, the real estate man had to brush it away.

And, the house was empty, not even a single ghost could be found. Just some newspapers and white sheets covering the piano, dining room table, some chairs. Plastic covered the love seat and couch. It’d been years since anyone had sat on them. Years.

Long ago they used to throw grand parties at the house. They’d hire a bartender, had a piano player, always catered; chicken livers wrapped in bacon, maple scallops, spinach dip, those were her favorites. And, to top it off, a cold gin and tonic with a lime. He’d follow her around all night; refreshing her drink, getting small plates, helping his wife to climb the stairs after midnight.

But, now that is gone. They are gone. There were no children, nor nieces or nephews when it was over to will anything to. The estate would be auctioned off and money given to a favorite charity.

She would die first. The gin and tonics eventually got her. And, the smoking didn’t help.

He would go to the other side a few years later; heart broken. He took his own life; died of poison right in the same bed as she did. Quietly, going into night.

They put a For Sale sign up in the front yard. Digging straight down into the frozen ground.

He washed his face and said nothing. Absolutely nothing to himself. Looked in the mirror. Turned his head to the left, chin out, and to the right, sucking in his jaw line, and stood there for a moment. He was not what he used to be.

The once thin waist line had now become loose flabby flesh. His chest had become teats, rolls of fat flabbed under his arms, the neck that was a single column now doubled in size. A gray beard helped hide it.

If we’re not careful, there’s a transition the body goes through. And now at fifty-three, that transition was in full effect thanks to years of neglect.

He’d taken off and put on over a hundred pounds three times in his life. It was a constant battle. In his twenties and thirties the young man ran over five miles a day. Neighbors would laugh as he had a cigarette in one hand and a Slimfast in the other while stretching, preparing for his run.

This married man, whose ring never fit, would run through the streets of Chicago at various times. Mostly around seven in the morning when the rest of America was going off to office jobs, schools to teach at, construction sites, climbing into Kendals and Peterbilts with packages of powdered donuts on dashboards.

But, not this man. He bent over and twisted his lean body into that of a pretzel, placing one foot at a time up on the back stoop and slowly holding his hands on his ankles and keeping it there for the count of thirty. He’d shake the legs out and do it again.

There were also those nights when he could not sleep. And, without waking his wife at two or three in the morning, would take off on his run then as the North side bars were closing, pouring the drunks and the broken hearted out into the streets to catch cabs, eat burritos, all night diners along Broadway, Halsted, Clark, where the self abused would drink pots of coffee loaded with sugar and cream.

He’d run along North Clark towards Halsted and turn right. The amateur athlete ran in the streets, avoiding the buckets of dirty water being tossed onto the sidewalks and the people waiting for their sober moment to come.

Running south on Halsted past the bars, the busses, the yellow cabs, the boutique shops, grocery stores, down towards Lake Street where the day laborers were lining up to get their shekels, past the sign on the brick wall that read Fresh Killed Lamb.

And, it was fresh killed lamb. The son of God looking over the whores, pimps, pool hustlers, junkies, drunks, the sick and the lame, and Michael as he ran home to toast and honey.

And now he sits alone in a rented room looking out windows, listening to the trains run throughout the night, watching green and red neon glow in the dark. Sleeping most of his days away while night is spent in silence.

I saw you

Dancing in the street

Sneakers tossed over electrical wires

Dogs howling at a wolf moon

Swaying back and forth

To Muddy Waters

Brown skin glistening in starlight

Were you high

Or just in love

With Rain?

He thought about it briefly; giving money to the beggar. He had nothing on him, but a debit card, as he tried to explain to the man. That’s OK, the beggar said, there’s a ATM right up here at this gas station. All I need is a ten spot and I’ll be alright, he pleaded.

There were thoughts going through his head. The man remembered when he was homeless; in Chicago, St. Louis, Joplin, New York, criss crossing America without a dime in his pocket; working odd jobs to make ends meet.

Alcohol was smelled on his breath. The beggar staggered around, saying just a ten spot. That’s all I need. The man hesitated then remembered it wasn’t up to him to decide where the money would be spent; a grocery, or, a liquor store.

He started walking, Come on, he said.

Yeah man a twenty would be good, the beggar bargained. The man looked up at his black face and said nothing.

They came to the gas station up the road, his glasses steamed over from the cold and mask on his face. The man wiped his glasses with his fingers making a greasy print. He could barely see the ATM. The beggar was happy to direct him.

The man entered his code and said yes to the fee on top of the twenty he pulled.

And out it dropped. He grabbed it and handed it to the beggar saying, Merry Christmas to you. Of which the beggar replied, Happy New Year.

He listened to the train roll through town; thinking of Kerouac’s adventures. The stories of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty cooked up and running through his veins. Catching trains, busses, hitchhiking, and driving back and forth ‘cross America while bop jazz cleansed the soul. Living on apple pie and ice cream. This is the America he dreamed of.

A knapsack and a few books; Oh Whitman, Thoreau, Oh Ginsburg, Oh Corso; reading and leaving sins behind, a sleep of purity.

He had this need to go, go,go, and not be left behind by his ideas, but, to have them in front, chasing dreams, keeping our youth, loving the Buddha, this Zen that is life.

And, like that the train rolled out of town. And, so did his dreams. No more Paradise, nor Dean Moriarty. No more thoughts of chasing girls till the wee hours in San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Denver. These experiences he never had. Only read about them. It was time to start living life.

They looked across the room at each other. She, picking up pillows and placing them on the bed while he tucked in corners of covers.

Saturday morning and the usual ritual would take place; coffee made, eggs scrambled, and toast buttered. It would take hours to get their youngest out of bed; he’d sleep until noon if they let him. Like most college kids, he was out all night drinking beer; she always prayed for him to get home safely.

The two of them sat in the kitchen listening to some swap meet on the radio; AM dial. They read the paper. She looked over the grocery ads while he perused the front page. He kept looking at his watch from time to time. They both wanted to get an early start on traffic. 80 going to Chicago can get busy, he thought. Better wake up the kid and see if he wants to go.

He could smell it as he walked down the hallway. He could hear the bubbling of the bong. He knocked on the door softly, You wanna go up to Chicago today?, the laughing father said. There was silence. Can I come in? The sound of an air freshener can hissed through the door.

Yeah, just a minute dad. OK, come on in. It smelled like a Vietnamese whorehouse, the father thought while the son sat on the edge of his bed buttoning his shirt.

Did you save me any?

Any what?

Come on now. Give me just a toke. A little taste.

Dad.

Seriously. I haven’t had any good stuff for quite some time. Sometimes when you’re gone I’ll sneak in here to see if you might’ve left a bud behind. You never do. I’m always disappointed.

Does mom know?

Oh yeah. We go out to the garage and blaze up. The young man laughed as he took out the instrument and packed the bowl.

OK pop. The dad took out a five and gave it to him. Keep it dad, he said. Anytime your low check with me.

Thanks. Dad inhaled, coughed a little then passed it back to his son. I gotta drive today. Get dressed and come up front when you’re ready.

Love you pop.

Love you too.

There was a large coffee and package of powdered donuts up on the dashboard underneath the cracked windshield. He had a map in his lap, looking over the eastern side of the United States. The radio was turned on to some jazz station out of Pittsburgh. Diesels and cars driving on 76 with the sun peeking through. The young man lit a cigarette and walked out into the cool morning air. First, he stretched up to the sky on his tippy toes and let out a roar. He hadn’t slept much in the Ford. Semis came and left the rest stop throughout the night. And those motors hummed. He figured he’d take a nap later on that day.

The morning was quiet. It was spring. There was no rain or snow, no ice on 76, just clear road ahead. The brown haired boy of twenty-seven thought about driving into Pittsburgh and spending a day or two. Really whoop it up with some college girls, he thought. He had enough cash to spend. That stimulus check had been deposited into his bank account. Now it was up to him to do his part and pass the $1200 around. Put cash into the pockets of those that needed it, like bartenders, waitresses, and dancers. It was a messianic mission. And, he was the right man for the job. Or, so he thought.

He’d quit his job at the gas station as soon as the check from the Treasury cleared. Just walked in one morning and said, I’m gonna go get some breakfast. I might be back, probably not. I hope that suits you.

And he drove cross Ohio and into PA. He stopped at diners and massage parlors dotted on the road. He spent $400 alone before getting to the rest area just outside of Pittsburgh. Now he was down to $800. His mind was racing with thoughts. Gotta get this money out to the people, he mumbled. Gotta do it. Folks are depending on me, he lit another cigarette as he looked at the green trees, the hit deer on the side of the road, the billboards advertising fast food chains and gas stations; hotels and motels with free HBO. What a great country, he thought. All these choices.

So, young Oedipus decided he’d stop in at a strip joint. The place had just opened up. Curtains were closed and green neon lit the place. Up on stage was an older woman with curves and wrinkles dancing to Bon Jovi’s, Bad Medicine. He took a seat down by the stage. Picked a few twenties from his wallet and ordered a beer. The dancer came over to him and got down to make eye contact with him. She shook everything she had for him. He gave her a $20 saying, Plenty more where that came from. And, she asked in a coy manner where the bills came from? The United States government ma’am. I’m doing my job to distribute em. She laughed. Opened her legs and got the other $20 as well.

Soon the word was around the strip club that he was going for broke. He had more drinks and several lap dances. The women folk just smiled at him as he handed out bill after bill until he was pleased to say he had no more. His stimulus journey was over. And, they waved goodbye to the young man. Knowing that one day he’d be back. Whenever another stimulus came, he’d be back around.

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.