dmseay

The bus left Chicago at five in the morning; darkness downtown, only the moon shined so brightly. Bums asking for a quarter, dollars, gas money to get em back home, hope, a cup of joe.

He sat in the back amongst the drunks; air filled with gin and cheap wine; the bathroom in constant use. The kid stayed to himself as the morning sun broke through ’round Champaigne. Soon they’d be in St. Louis looking at the mighty Mississippi. That brown water just kept rolling.

And the kid had on his earphones. Listening to Miles Davis, John Coltrane, some Bud Powell. The music was a soundtrack as the bus himmed and hawed down Route 66 on way to Joplin, then Oklahoma and into Texas to mark the halfway point. He rested his head on the window. Soon it would be night again.

Stars shined in the pitch black skies of West Texas. It was a yellow moon with haze wrapped ’round it. A man up front who got picked up in Oklahoma City kept calling out, Where’s Phoenix? Somewhere in an Arizona trailer park kin folk were playing cards and the loser had to pick up dad at the Greyhound station.

Eventually the old man got quiet. The whole bus was quiet as people marveled at the red clay of New Mexico. The tall rock formations and the desert with no homes, just highway running through. They’d be in L.A. soon. This is where the kid started to get scared. He counted fifty bucks in his front pocket waded up along with a black and white photo of Sam Shepard cut out of a magazine.

So, the bus drove through Southern California. Last stop before Los Angeles was Indigo where the night air smelled like alfalfa. The bus driver said L.A. would be next. He was too wound up to sleep. Took it all in. He knew he was ’bout to start on another adventure soon. The adventure of poverty.

They pulled into downtown Los Angeles early in the morning. And there were all these Mexicans standing ’round waiting to be picked up and taken home after working all night. Then were those heading off to work; carrying brown bags filled with tortillas, Jaritos, carnitas.

And just like Chicago, bums asking for money. Soon he’d be one of em. Soon. He was far away from home. Didn’t have a map. Just spent his days walking aimlessly ’round tinsel town, listening to jazz and looking every once in awhile at the picture of Shepard. And he asked it, Sam, what’s my next move? He never answered.

They walked through town. Past the liquor store, card shop, adult bookstore, the gas station where he used to get condoms when he was a kid. Today they walked at a slower pace.

And they walked by the movie theatre. Saw Planet Of The Apes with Charlton Heston back then, a long time ago. Charlton Heston fighting apes in uniforms; they sat in the balcony.

The ice cream shop was open. It always opened this time of year. Spring time brought allergies and ice cream into their lives; they sat outside in the cool evening breeze and ate their cones; like little kids; he kissed her on the cheek.

And as they walked back he held her hand. Walked her up to the front porch and kissed her goodnight. She did not pull away. He held her close. The old man missed his wife. And, she missed her husband.

The room was quiet. No one said a word. He laid there in the bed having his brown hair combed by a nurse, his face was shaved, and there was no expression. He had none at all. Just tubes tied to his arms and oxygen pumped into his nose. He seemed at peace.

His brother tried to open his tightly held fist. Tried to slip a finger into the fold. It was of no use. His fist was stronger than the jawbone of an ass; firm. It was that of a fighter.

And he’d close his eyes every once in awhile. Then he’d open them, look around the room, close em again. His body was tired, he needed rest; a long sleep like his mom and dad before him. They had passed two years ago, he figured it was his turn.

But, nobody knew what he was thinking. He remained silent. His last request was to not resuscitate. He was ready for heaven. He was ready for peace.

He talked the week before. Said he saw mom and dad at his bedside. I reckon that’s his truth. Who am I to question. A man’s final days are just that, his final days. I was not gonna get in his way.

The body tells us when it’s time. The soul separates. Leaving behind a shell. I kissed his forehead and told him, see you around kid. His eyes closed. Oh the dreams he must’ve had.

There were times when he’d just take off at a moment’s notice. He’d go anywhere; East coast, New England, Texas, out in the red clay of New Mexico. Always made sure there was gas in the truck. ‘Bout the only thing he was sure of.

He started taking these trips when he was a youngster. He’d save up money from working odd jobs and buy one way tickets all ’round the states. Taking off and roaming the streets of Los Angeles, New York, Chicago. His father called him the prodigal son. Every time He took off, daddy knew he’d return.

And return to what? a small town with two gas stations, a stop sign, and a tavern where locals kicked up their heels to old Bob Seger songs. The boy felt trapped. But, he’d soon learn that the whole country was one big trap.

Broke is broke, he said. You can be poor anywhere in America that you choose, he reckoned. It’s hard to find yourself in this land of opportunity. You look in the mirror each day and wonder. Just wonder, said the boy who’d become an old man.

There are those that sell insurance. And there are those that sell cars, or stocks, or television ads. Always selling something, he’d witnessed this from coast to coast. All I ever wanted was peace, he declared. Just peace. I think it’s too late for that.

Times are getting crazier. More and more people demanding you buy and sell. That’s all this land is about, he opened a beer and got into his truck. Turned on a country station. Merle Haggard was playing. He sang along. Put the key in the ignition. And was back on the road.

Some people have riches beyond their wildest dreams in America while others barely pull their weight. Then there’s those like him; a wild man that’ll never be tamed. Not a bad way to go.

He’d listen to her. That’s why she stayed with him. He listened.

She’d go on and on all evening long about unimportant stuff; what the neighbor lady was up to, the price of cucumbers at the Piggly Wiggly store, should she stay blonde or try a different color? He’d listen.

And he worked all day. Mindless work on the assembly line. Placing a bolt in a nut. Always waiting like a dog does for dinner to clock out. He’d stand in line with the rest of em. Time card in hand. Boy that line went quick when the whistle blew. He lined it up under the arrow and punched. Was his favorite part of the day. That and stopping by the tavern to have a couple. Can you blame him?

Well, one night he had more than a couple. Went home and she lit in to him. Asking him where he’d been? Calling him all kinds of names. And he just sprawled himself all over the bed; passed out. He wasn’t listening that night. Just slept there with a big grin on his face while she talked and talked and talked. She slept in the guest room that night.

Next morning there was coffee brewing in the kitchen. Eggs were being scrambled. And, toast was buttered. He entered the room. She didn’t say a word. Just silent. Asked her if she was OK? She said, fine.

I heard Carol Kinsley is leaving her husband, she said. Ain’t that a shame when two people can’t work it out? He nodded. Placed his knife in the preserves and slid it on his toast.

I also heard that Jenny Jones was gonna substitute teach this year. Those kids will tear that little thing to pieces. He smiled. Sipped his coffee. Wiped his mouth. It was good to be home.

Sounds came from the garage. A moaning of some heavy machinery came and went throughout the night. Occasionally you’d hear a man cursing. God damn this and God damn that along with other swear words could be heard down the block where the streetlights stayed dim in the midnight air and cop cars cruised by ever so often.

Everybody on the block said that the old man had gone crazy. They all thought of him as nothing more than a deranged lunatic. But, they never saw him. They just heard him curse behind a closed garage door. They all wondered just what kind of a man he was; white, black, Mexican, maybe he was Japanese. Perhaps he had survived the prison camps FDR set up during the war. No one was really sure; kept em guessing.

And no one saw anybody coming or going from his house. They say years ago some Philippine woman went in, but no one has seen her since. Not even a trace. Said she had long black hair that shined in the moonlight and she wore a red dress cut off at the knees. Maybe he was keeping her prisoner. Could’ve been he was in love.

People would stay up at night and just look at the garage with the noises coming from it. No one dared knock. Old man Pratt started up to his house once with a shotgun in his hands, but quickly retreated when he saw the light under the door flicker awhile;he got scared. Ran home to his wife who opened his beer for him and tried to calm him down. Don’t let me near that place again, the old man said. She stroked his forehead and whispered in his ear, ain’t nothin’ dear. Ain’t nothin’.

You can still hear him cursing at night. After all these years you can still hear the moaning of that machine he’s working on. And yes, the lights are still dim on Baker Street. And yes, the cops still cruise the neighborhood. But no, no one knows what he’s doing in there. No one will ever know.

There was never a trace of her. Not a footprint, a stitch of clothing, some lock of blonde hair. There was nothing.

He took off in the woods behind their house; filled with tall pines and oaks. It was Fall and the brown leaves crunched under his feet. Underneath, thick mud that caused his boots to sink in a little. It’d rained the night before.

A gun was carried in both hands as if he were hunting. It was a shotgun that his daddy had given him. He always carried it with him when he went out to the woods. He’d shoot at squirrels, rabbits, beavers in the dam that consisted of logs and sticks; pretty clear water flowed from one end of the forest to the other.

As he walked he kept hearing her voice singing a song. A spiritual song written years ago. One that they sang in church to a pitchpipe. He kept hearing her sing. It was, The Old Rugged Cross, she was gently giving voice to. He’d hear it, then it’d stop. Right in mid chorus it’d stop. Then, it’d start again.

And there was no direction that it came from. The singing was inside his head. Or so he thought.

He was out there all day looking for her. The voice got louder and louder. He decided to stop and put his gun down. Try and clear his mind. But, she wouldn’t stop singing. Just wouldn’t stop.

So he ran. He picked up the pace and ran out of the woods. And then, the voice stopped. It just got quiet. Got peaceful. He knew she was home.

The two of em sat there for hours without a word said. They just drank. One scotch after another with a cheap beer chaser; PBR, Rolling Rock, Miller Lite; didn’t matter as long as it was on special.

Jeopardy was on television. A few patrons would call out the answers in the form of a question while others just sat there in the mix of neon and sunlight silent; scared they could be wrong; motioning with their forefinger for another drink. The bartender nodded and poured from the well. Soon their SSI checks would be spent. Then it’s back to 40 ounce bottles of Black Label bought at the corner bodega.

They still sat there in silence. They didn’t look at each other. Just sipped from their glasses until there was no more.

Happy anniversary kid, the old man said to the middle aged woman with no expression.

Yeah, she said. Happy anniversary. They then exited the bar while the studio audience clapped for the right answer.

He never thought he’d see her again. Walked away years ago. Drove out of town leaving her behind. There was no letter, no note, not a single phone call, just silence. Nothin’ between em anymore. He stopped loving her and she stopped loving him. That’s the way these things go.

And he didn’t cry over it. Nor did he feel a pit in his stomach. He just felt numb. There was no pain, no sorrow, a ring was pawned; brass didn’t get that much.

Stopped in a bar outside of Dallas. Talked to a real pretty girl. Didn’t bring up the past. To him the past was just that, the past. He had erased her from his mind. She no longer existed. Told the brunette he was heading West. Going out to California to see about making it out there. Maybe stop at a ranch for work near Alberqurquee. He knew how to ride a horse. Knew how to say yes sir and took orders real well. Most important part of being a man; taking orders.

Asked her if she’d like to come along? She smiled and flipped her hair. Said she didn’t think her husband would mind. Said he never paid attention to her. She was real tempted, then she shook her head, no. Told him, some people like bein’ miserable. They plan their whole lives on a subconscious misery. Just get used to it, she said.

So, he took her in his arms and kissed her goodbye. Got into his truck and took off. Some people like misery, he whispered. I’ll be damned.

She’d sit on her front porch and watch the sun go down amidst the fireworks, gunshots, dogs barkin’ and alleycats cryin’.

Cars cruised by on Harrison Street. Cops made their way on Dewald. A kid would ride by and wave at her. It got darker and soon the firecrackers would turn to bright colors in the sky above the ball field where the Tincaps played year after year, but, not this year.

And the homeless took showers in the park’s fountains. Coolin’ off and washin’ off dirt and sweat from the 90 degree heat. She remembered when her boys used to play in those parks; not any more. One went off and joined the Army while the other boy, shot just a few years ago in a drive-by, died in her arms. She made a cross and placed it on the street corner by the stop sign. Blood stained the concrete sidewalk for days.

Yes, tonight there were more gunshots. And more cars drivin’ by slowly down Harrison. Playin’ loud bass lines as they rolled.

It was now pitch black as the streetlights stayed dim in the dark. Red, Blue, green, white, sparkled in the sky. She watched for a little while then turned and went inside only to hear fireworks and gunshots throughout the night. Happy 4th of July.