dmseay

He sat in a dark room. Pitch black. Just a light from his cell phone. Trains went by throughout the night. Steel hitting steel. Northern Pacific carrying crates and pulling cars. A caboose at the end. This loud noise in the dark. The noise of travel, leaving, going somewhere. He’d been many places.

Canada, Quebec, Vermont, Maine, New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, California, New Mexico, Colorado, so many more. Hitchhiking over state lines in the heat of the day. Sleeping under bridges. His was a hobo life. It was a manic life. Couldn’t stay still. Always on the move. Comfort was found in strangers arms. Late at night. Carousing bars and midnight diners. Cups of coffee. Shots of booze.

And he went through old telephone numbers. Old friends he owed money to. Ex-wives ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers. He’d never see them again. Days of youth.

Bugs crawl on the floor. He feels them when he walks to the bathroom. Blankets stained with blood. His blood. Spends too much time thinking of the old days. Nothing to look forward to. Just darkness.

It’s always quiet on this street. No sounds. Weeds wrestle in the breeze. Tree limbs reach out for cloudy skies. Bushes and fences dividing houses. The grass was cut one final time  before winter  came. Candy wrappers from a Halloween night litter the sidewalks.

He raked his yard. Piles of leaves throughout his property. Gold, reds, rust, orange colors turning brown. They crackled when he swept them. He pushed fall’s harvest to the curb. Made a straight line, a wall of leaves. Kids jumped in head first. Not knowing what was beneath. Blue jeans with grass stains on knee caps.

It’s this time of year that he thought of his mom who had passed on. Autumn was her favorite season. Funny how she passed away in winter. Snow was in traces. Ice on streets. The Christmas tree had been put away. That’s what he was told. He was not there. 

They said he never was on time. Always a day late and a dollar short. It was evening when he got the call. Family told him she’d passed on. He said goodbye in his own way. Lit a candle, said a prayer.

Now he rakes leaves and thinks of her. Her favorite time of the year. In the spring the leaves will return. It’s all one big cycle. That’s what he believed.

Tracks were silent. No trains running that morning. Cars and trucks rolled over the steel with ease. He watched from the front porch. Semis going out towards the highway. Sounds like waves crashing though he was far from the sea. The distant cries of cars. Mufflers attached. Smooth sounding. But, no trains.

He wanted to walk on water. Had a Christ complex. Wanted to heal the sick and the lame. Had a desire to cure cancer. This was all talk. Had been his whole life. The old man just sits there, waiting on the train to come through. Listening to vehicles. Pretending.

See, in his mind he was married to Vanna White. She sat beside him on the porch. He’d reach out to hold her hand, but, it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Just the sounds of the pretend ocean. While he waited on trains.

There’s very little time.

Maybe, not enough time.

Where did time go?

The wind is cold on this October morn. Feels like December. I sit on the front porch watching black squirrels run in front of cars; playing Russian roulette. They’re not concerned with time. The time for them is now. Living in the moment. Quick actions. You find a nut, you store it. Putting it away for some other time. Or, at that time.

I talk with old friends about old times. Drunken afternoons, St. Patrick’s Day parades, Christmas of the past, a wedding day celebration. That’s when I thought I had all the time in the world. Careless we are in our youth.

An old grandfather clock stands in the living room. Telling time with brass hands and chimes. One day the clock will stop. And then a decision must be made; fix it,or,let it be. Just an old show piece it will become. Just like me.

There’s very little time.

Maybe, not enough time.

Where did time go?

They’re late. Haven’t headed south yet. It’s past that time of year. Off to Maryland, Virginia, Carolinas,old Dixie. Winter break. I hear them singing, but, I do not see them. Maybe they’re hiding. Maybe they got comfortable.

The couple drove south on I95. Past Baltimore, Washington, Richmond. He joked about following birds. Said he could track em; didn’t need a map. She asked if his map was internal, spread throughout his mind, his soul knowing which way to go from past lives. He just laughed. Said, something like that. Lit up a Viceroy.

Where do they go? she asked, twisting her auburn hair and smacking gum. He told her they went south. Could you be more specific? the young girl placed her hand on his thigh.

Southern states, he told her. All over the South. They fly in groups.

It’s called migration, she offered. I learned that in school. Junior high. You ever think that we’re migrating? There was silence.

When we get to Florida I’m gonna take a boat to Cuba, he winked at her. What’re you gonna do little girl?

I’m a young lady.

Right. I don’t know what you are. A mistake I guess. I shouldn’t have picked you up. Taking a big risk. How do I know there ain’t cops looking for you right now? he turned on the radio. Some A.M. all news station.

You worry too much, she placed another piece of Juicy Fruit in her mouth. When we get to Florida I’m going to lay on the beach. Watch the birds fly over.

They looked at each other and smiled. And birds began to fly before them.

A mess. Trash everywhere. Broken bottles, crushed Coke cans, old newspapers flying through the air. Street sweepers can’t keep up. Nor can the bum collecting aluminum.

There are pink ribbons wrapped ’round trees. The breeze blows making them fold in the wind. A mural painted on brick. People pass by without looking. Unaware of their surroundings.

Leaves in the street turning brown. Soon a frost will come. Tomatoes rot on the vine.

I am getting older.

Leaves turning colors amidst outlet malls. Exit signs and I69. Semis with trailers piggyback on each other. Stop, and pay the toll.

Billboards with advertisements on them for hotels and lawyers, fast food restaurants, fireworks; bumps in the road.

She left him ten years ago. Wanted to see America. Needed to be out on the highways and backroads. Said it was nothing personal. Maybe they just grew apart. That’s what she said.

And, he stayed where he was planted. Family kept him there. Still went to his mom’s for Sunday dinner. Still swung on the same swingset in the backyard. At times he missed her. Wondered what she was doing. Never heard from her. She changed her number.

The sun shines bright through gray clouds. He can see it where he’s at and she can too. That and the moon at night. Maybe that’s all they ever had. Maybe.

The couple with two kids were twenty-five miles outside of Dallas. They had driven throughout the night from Little Rock. A mini-van can only go so fast. The little boy sat in the very back of the vehicle; watching America go by. While his older sister, a teenager, listened to music with headphones on; detached from the experience; keeping her family far away from her thoughts, her fears, her dreams.

She couldn’t wait to graduate. Leave her family behind. No college, just save up money from McDonald’s and leave. Maybe New York, or, Chicago. Perhaps Los Angeles. The girl had just got her first tattoo; a boy’s name on her ass. Later that boy would break up with her. But, she didn’t feel foolish. It was her secret. Soon she’d have full sleeves just like her hero on one of those cable shows. Rebellion can kill you.

Mom and dad kept flipping the radio dial as they crossed a big lake; looking out at tall buildings in the distance, seeing semis and Greyhounds pass them by. The boy pretended he was in a space capsule and played with pretend buttons above him. Soon will be landing, he whispered. Ready for touchdown, he said with hushed sound effects. The van was only going sixty-five; hardly breaking the sound barrier.

A blue Texas sky was above them. The sun was glowing a bright orange, while a milky white moon stuck around for a little while longer. You think we made the right decision? mom asked as she patted dad’s thigh. He nodded his head. Said what a great opportunity this was for the whole family. What she wanted to say was what a great opportunity it was for him. He’d dragged them around the country from one job to the next. Indiana, Tennessee, Missouri, Arkansas, now Texas. Seemed like every two years they were on the move. Nothing stuck.

I promise this is it, he said. Last time we move, she nodded her head; she’d heard that before. I promise.

Rain falls hard.

It’s cold and miserable.

But, you were warned.

The fish in the refrigerator was leftover from the night before. Cod. Yes. It was cod pan fried in olive oil with salt, pepper, a tiny bit of garlic and paprika. He remembered she shook the seasonings on lightly.

While she tended to the fish, he chopped a blend of yellow squash, zucchini, and onions. These were perfectly seasoned as well, but, with a little basil chopped up for good measure.

He heated the pan with oil from olives as well, and began placing the vegetables in the pan. You might want to turn your heat down, the wife said. He grinned and did as he was told. And basil? Why are you using basil? Will that taste good? she turned the fish over in the pan; one side had become crispy brown.

This ain’t my first rodeo, he said, again turning the flame down more. He kept stirring the squash, wanting it to snap when bitten into. The husband looked over at her fish. Always the star of the show, he thought. Me, I’m stuck with the sideshow, the assistant said in a whisper. The chef looked at him as she placed the fish on a paper towel for the grease to absorb.

Always in second, he said.

Pardon?

I said, always in second. Never the featured act.

What are you talking about?

The meal, the husband said. I’m always the supporting cast. Obviously your fish is the star of the show.

Really?

My mixture is simply meant to accent it.

You feel that way?

Yes. Yes, I do. In twenty-two years of marriage I’ve become nothing but an assistant, second to your first. However, the fish does look very good. I probably could’ve had the same results. Yes. I believe I could have.

Well, I suppose so, she said, shocked by his tantrum.

Who makes the turkey at Thanksgiving?

I do.

And the prime rib at Christmas?

That would be me.

Yes. Yes. And I’m stuck with stuffing and Yorkshire pudding. Simple tasks. Wouldn’t you agree?

Oh darling…

Don’t darling me. You’ve plotted throughout this marriage to always be the star of the show.

Have you lost your mind?

Perhaps. Yes. Perhaps.

There was a pause between them. The onions had began to caramelize. It smelled wonderful. The whole meal did. And, they looked at each other and began to laugh. He held her close and whispered, I’m sorry. At which she apologized as well.

The meal was eaten in silence.