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Can you see? It’s dark, she said. Do you need a flashlight? I think there’s one in his toolbox. Or out in the garage.

Got any candles? He asked.

You’d rather have a candle?

No. You’re right. Go get the flashlight.

He stood there looking at a fusebox. He didn’t want to take a chance and flip the wrong one.

I can’t find it, she said. It’s not where I thought it’d be. She placed her hands around his waist.

Is that right?

Yeah.

I think you like the dark. He told her. I think you like it when I can’t see you while we make love.

Is that what we’re doing?

Silence. They faced each other. Traced their finger tips, following dark outlines. They kissed.

Yeah. That’s what we’re doing.

I see.

What did you think we were doing?

Just fooling around. She laughed.

No. I never fooled around. There was always some intent.

Like what? She pulled him closer.

Having you all to myself. Moving away. Far, far away. Like Albuquerque or Santa Fe. Maybe head east. I don’t know. Some place where no one knows us. Start out fresh.

She ran her hands through his gray hair. Petting him smoothly. She kissed him again.

I’m married.

Yeah. So am I.

They both laughed. The lights came back on.

Must have been a glitch, she said.

Yeah. A glitch. Are you tired?

Yeah.

I’ll check on the kids.

Meet you in the bedroom.

They both laughed.

Bill Evans plays in the background. Sunday At The Village Vanguard. Scott LaFaro is on bass, and Paul Motian plays the drums. She yells at him just a bit above the music. The song playing is My Man’s Gone Now.

There are scratches on the wax; appropriate for its age. He purchased the record back in 1977 when he lived in New York. A tiny room with the toilet down the hall; a rusty shower. Or maybe it was mold. Memories fade.

His room had a mattress, a sink, French windows that opened up and let in sounds of nightlife, and a record player he bought at a used shop over on 7th Avenue. The tinny speaker was built into it. It got lost along the way.

But, not the Bill Evans album. He held on to it for thirty years. Until one night, it was gone. Broken in two.

The argument escalated. Fighting over money as always. Fighting about tough times. She, with her self-manicured nails and her blow dried hair. Looking every bit like a pinup girl from the 70s. The ones in bikinis hanging on boys’ walls in the suburbs. She always questioned why she was with him. Always thought she could do better. And he believed deep down inside that she could.

I’m leaving, she said.

There’s never enough for you. Is there?

I guess not.

I guess not.

She placed her arms around his fat neck. Kissed him on the lips. This is goodbye, Charlie. 

Fine.

Fine? 

Fine.

You’re not going to fight for me?

Why should I? You don’t even like Bill Evans. Never did.

And with that, the record  was broken. Thirty years of Bill Evans down the drain. Gone. Never to be replaced.

Goodbye Charlie. 

Nothing matches, he said. It’s all discombobulated. Helter Skelter. There’s no plan. He went on. Never has been.

Some say it’s all laid out before our eyes, he said in a slur. They say something like, predestined. You believe that? His eyes looked at his wrinkled face in the mirror.  I don’t. Never have.

I was told when I was younger that God had it all planned out. I was told He knows everything. Then you get older, and you yell at God. Asking Him, why didn’t you lead me down a different path?

And, there’s no response. Just a book that has all the answers. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t.

So, you read it. You get scared. At the same time, there’s salvation, there’s so much death and destruction. Makes you wonder.

His cell door opens. A new day begins.

Winds blew heavy across the fields. Dust where soy beans used to grow. Rusted tractors. Tin roofs rusted.

This land was once green in the summertime. Corn stalks rose from the earth; turning brown in the fall. Now, the ground is a hard clay. Tumbleweed dances across the highway. 

The livestock was sold years ago. Cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, a rooster that crowed at the crack of dawn, all of them gone. Money exchanged hands. A poor man’s still poor. 

He loaded up the truck and went looking for a place to land; some town to call home. Start all over again. Take a job. Any work would do. Couldn’t afford to be picky.

They found a spot in Tulsa. She worked at the grocery store as a checkout girl. He scrubbed vehicles down at the car wash. The price you pay for voting against yourself.

There was no safety net anymore. They thought the farm would last forever. No one saw the drought coming back to America. One big dust bowl again.

Do you wanna eat? Get in the back of the line. Wait your turn. Maybe they’ll be some left for you.

Don’t count on it.

Summer ends soon.

Green turns to gold, red, rust, and brown.

Tear off a leaf and examine it. Try ripping it with your hands. Taste the stem. Take it home to use as a bookmark; Tropic of Cancer, Ulysses, On The Road, stained with a green freshness.

Come autumn, leaves will crumble. By folding your hand, the dead stiff leaf will fall apart; spreading on the ground with brown pine cones. It goes back to earth. Stepped on. Mowed.  Mulched. Piled up for kids to jump into. Swept away and placed in bags. Come November, they’ll be gone.

Ashes to ashes.

Hello.

Hi.

There was silence.  That awkward silence when nobody knows what to say. She cleared her throat. There was music in the background; an old Billy Strayhorn song.

Did you want to say something? He asked. Three beats of quiet. I mean, you called me. Three more beats of nothing passed. It’s late.

Yes. Sorry about that. It is. What time is it there?

Midnight.

Here it’s two.

Yeah. I remember.  Two hours ahead of Los Angeles and one hour behind New York.

Right.

I was a kid, I used to watch the late game from the coast after the Bulls played. I stayed up late. Games didn’t come on till ten o’clock at night. But it was always on a Friday. No school the next day. Mom didn’t care. She made me popcorn. And I got to drink Pepsi. I cheered for Seattle.

Yeah. I remember you telling me about that. About when you were a kid. Do you still watch the late game?

No. I’m here now. It’s right on time .

She laughed. That’s good. One of the things about living out there. I guess.

Right.

Back to silence. Now Johnny Hartman sang in the background. My One And Only Love. Coltrane played on that record. Some scratches were heard.

I don’t know why I called, she said. I just did. It’s been a long time. Billy works third shift now. Money’s good.

If you’re into that.

Yeah. Money’s not everything.

Nope.

Where you at again?

I’m in L. A.

Yeah. I meant what part?

Over by Hollywood.

Oh. That’s nice. I’ve never been there.

It’s not great. I live in a motel. Monthly rates.

I see.

Couple next door bangs on the walls. Always fighting. They’re going to kill each other. I’m expecting a body bag to be on a stretcher outside one of these nights. Carted off somewhere.  I don’t know.

Oh my.

It’s not that bad.

Good. No talking. She could hear an air-conditioner coming on now. Is it hot there?

Yeah. It is.

Sorry.

Always sunny. Good for my mood. Keeps me stable. No more running around. Plenty of vitamin D.

You sound good.

Yeah. I’m OK.

Good. That’s good. Quiet.

You take care.

You, too.

Silence for three beats. He hung up. She kept the phone to her ear. There was a beep beep beep coming through the receiver.

A thin futon on the hardwood floor with Mexican blankets wadded up on it. Some Jean jackets with patches on the sleeves  folded to make a pillow. Next to the bed is a tall flashlight and a copy of Moby Dick that puts him to sleep each night. Images of Queequeg dance in his head.

Paul sits on a metal folding chair in the corner, looking out a window, down below where there’s hookers and drunks, speed freaks, tweakers, neon lights flashing, Old Style and cars filled with lovers passing stop signs on their way home. Cops cruise up and down. Ignoring what Paul  clearly sees in the midnight paint. Cold coffee poured in a cup.

On a small table sits a collection of library cards; NYC, St. Louis, Montpelier, Vermont, Fort Wayne, Indiana, Cleveland,  Cincinnati, Newport, Kentucky, and Bangor, Maine, all of them laid out in front of him. He picks one up at a time and remembers each city or town. The fat man thinks about books read, meals devoured, women toasted, the old Ford he drove; sleeping in it when September turned cold on the Canadian border. Niagra Falls at night.

Racing around in America. Looking for something new. Always finding the same old thing; poor and rich. The needy and lost souls making up a country. Truth and lies. You get one shot at the good life in the USA, he thought. Paul pulled the trigger and  missed a long time ago.

So he collects his cards and wonders, what would Quegueeg do? What would he do? Maybe he had one more voyage in him. One last look. He laughs.

Moby Dick is waiting.

Did you ever feel someone behind you? Following. Tracing your steps. Getting closer.

He might want to mug you. Steal from you. Commit murder. These thoughts go through your head.

And then, with a pair of eyes in the back of your head, you see him . Could be tall or mid-heighth. Big or small. You can make him out. He’s none of the before mentioned. He just is. Not black or white. Hispanic nor Asian. He’s just an outline. Maybe a ghost.

You walk faster. The pace has definitely quickened. He keeps up with you; keeps his distance, but has you in his sights. Do you walk forward or turn onto lower Broadway where there’s more light. You decide to turn. And something sweeps past you. A gust of wind, air coming up from the subway beneath you. A presence.

You turn around. No one’s there. It’s three o’clock in the morning and no one’s there.

You’re alone.

Sunlight came through trees. Brilliant gold shining on lush green. Pines rich in their summer dress. Chipped bark from squirrels and birds. Needles on the ground.

I walked these woods in my youth. I played war amongst the oak and hickory. Treaded lightly through swampy ponds. Waited for Charlie to come out to play. He never did.

My uncle was a Marine in Vietnam. He’d send letters home with pictures to us. Photos of him shirtless. Smoking a cigarette with a gun across his shoulders. Hanging there like Christ on the cross. In-between two thieves. All were smiling.

There were pictures of the woods I sent to him. Asking if they were anything like the jungles? Asking if it was hot? Asked if he’d ever been shot? Asking if he’d ever bled?

The last letter he sent me said, You don’t want to know. There was a black and white photo in the foreign stamped envelope of him in his uniform. Gun at his side. He was not smiling.

I walk this forest today, thinking of him. Letters sent back and forth. Pictures.

I miss him.

He used to sit at the counter eating a Western omelet. Ate dry rye toast with it and black coffee. A cigarette burned in the ashtray.

The waitress would walk by to check on him. Asking if he needed anything; commenting on the weather, local politics. Grandkids.

He never talked to other customers sitting by him. Didn’t even wish them good morning. Roger was there for two reasons only; breakfast and the counter girl.

She flirted with him. Kept the top two buttons on her blouse undone.  Smiled as she poured coffee. Treated him differently than the other old men sitting at the counter. She talked to them but never got too involved. However, when it came to Roger, she listened to his every word; knew everything about him.

The middle-aged blonde knew about his wife dying of cancer. She knew he missed her. Knew about his granddaughter going off to college.  And she knew no one came by near enough to check on him.

One morning, Roger didn’t come in. His seat was vacant for a couple of days. She started giving the obituaries a glance.

And at the end of that week, it appeared. The Journal Gazette briefly stated he passed away suddenly. Services would be at McCombs and Sons.

The tall blonde placed the paper on the counter, grabbed the coffee pot, and asked who needed a refill.