dmseay

He sifted through old pictures on the small wooden table. Some Polaroids, others were black and whites. He went through em one at a time looking at faces; none were familiar to him. They were just faces. Women in beehive hairdos, men wearing hornrimmed glasses, hair parted to the sides, sideburns lined the young jawlines. A long time ago, he thought. These pictures are ancient, the old man said out loud.

And, maybe they were. Time strips away memories. He couldn’t remember his wife who’d gone before him. Or, the sons and daughters that visited him on Sundays at the nursing home. He was told he had grand kids; never recognized em. They’d all come to see him and he would just sit there with a blank look on his lined face. A look of confusion, anger, never calm. There was always something ticking in his mind. It was disbelief. No longer believing the physical. No more trusting of his touch.

The old man would sit in his wheelchair and wait. Wait to be pushed down the halls. He liked to go on rides. When he was younger he’d take the family on rides in their old Impala. They’d ride throughout the Midwest on full blown Autumn days. Looking out windows at trees, stopping for ice cream cones, counting mile markers; this was how weekends were spent. There were pictures of the old Impala, he’d just sift em through with the rest of the pics. Not really looking. No smile came to his face.

He’d look ’round at the other patients. And one thing he knew was, we’re all old, he’d think to himself. All of us are old. And we can’t remember how we got here, he’d say.

Beers on Saturday nights at the VFW were now replaced with chocolate pudding in the dining hall; being fed one bite at a time by a middle aged black woman with a tattoo on her arm that said, BLESSED. Blessed, he ran his fingers over the word; sounded it out. That’s right sweetie, the aid said, you are blessed.

Maybe he was. Maybe we all are. Blessed; by whom?

There was no mail that day. Nor the day before that. Or, the day before that.

A long streak had occurred, days and weeks, months even years had passed since any letters, advertisements, bills, notices, anything had been placed in the silver box at 2216 Northwest Highway. It was a drought. Had been ever since they left years ago. Packed up the Chevrolet station wagon and headed South. Somewhere in the South.

People said New Orleans while others told tales of em going down to Memphis. They were in search of something; freedom, happiness, blue skies, hard to say. But, they were definitely gone.

They were young too. He worked at the Bakery and she was a shelf stocker at the library. Had plenty of money, no kids, just that old house out on the highway. Thing was falling apart, people said. Said it needed roof work and some t.l.c. on the insides as well. Don’t think they cared; hardly ever home.

Drive by and you’d never see a light on, or a truck in the driveway, or a screen door open on cool Summer nights. Seemed as though it was always empty. Some say, it was haunted. Filled with ghosts from way back. People’s imaginations.

But no. Them two left. Got in that old station wagon and took off. Nobody’s heard from em. They didn’t say a word to anyone. Just left. Neither of em had given a two week notice or said, I quit. No report at the Post office of a change of address. Just disappeared.

Never had coffee with em. Or, got invited over for dinner. Seen em in church a couple of times. He wouldn’t sing. The Lord commands us to make a joyful noise in praise; his mouth never moved. Just stood there while others carried on about their Lord God Jehovah. He passed on communion; never broke bread.

She sang though. Squeaky little voice. Clapping her hands. She’d break that cracker in two and take half of it. Always threw in a ten. Always.

They never became official members. Some said, cause they weren’t married. They was living in sin. Just showed up ever once in awhile. That’s all the religion they needed.

And, so they left. Took off. Furniture left behind. Plates, clothes, old paintings of red barns. Ain’t nobody been in there ever since. Just an empty house. Just empty.

The train wailed into the night. And, he sat there, listening as other sounds came in from the neighborhood; a car radio playing a rap song, a wooden door being slammed, some woman’s voice calling out; there is no response.

It is quiet for a brief moment. A truck goes by. He listens as the sound of the train whistle blows again. Slowly, a car drives down the alley; brake lights blink every few feet. His coffee pot has piss stains in it and empty packages for cold medicine pile up on his desk. It’s the desk his father gave him; a man he barely knew.

And, he asked himself, why didn’t I know that man? Why didn’t I know that man who was my father? Was there talk? There was talk at times. Coffee was drank on the back porch. Sunday rides were taken. He bought me cheeseburgers at McDonald’s. There was talk. Specific communications about things, he stopped as another truck rolled down the street, shifting gears, getting louder; that sound too vanished into the night.

What did he know,? he asked about himself. He was a kid who followed pop around town. Quietly hiding behind bushes as dad made his way to his office. Watching the old man in the window of the town diner eating scrambled eggs and hash browns. Hanging out downtown at the fountain store waiting for him to leave each day and see where his path would take him. And, it always took him to the same place; a bar called Broadway Joe’s. I’d hide behind cars and see him sitting at the bar drinking . I’d watch him as he came out of the bar and stumbled a bit. Looked to see what decisions he would make. Past porno houses, paint stores, massage parlors, gas stations, insurance companies. What did I know,? he asked himself. What did I know?

The train whistle wailed some more. He listened. Looked outside his windows that faced the alley, looking down on St. Pat’s church. He said nothing. He said nothing.

Did ya hear him come in last night?, he asked her as she sat the table for Sunday lunch; she shook her head and continued placing forks and knives at plates with pretty pictures of red barns on em at three seats.

What do ya think that boy’s problem is?, her husband poured iced tea into glasses in the kitchen and placed them at each setting. Not goin’ to church is unheard of, he said, and I don’t wanna hear no excuses ’bout how he’s not feelin’ well, the middle aged man snapped.

I wanna have a nice lunch dear, the petite brunette said in a shy voice. Just a nice lunch for all of us. Can we do that?, she put sugar on the table along with salt and pepper too. Will you bring in the chicken fried steak and the mashed potatoes? There over on the counter. The husband of twenty years grabbed hot gloves and reached for the bowl and the platter. She went down the hall to knock on the boy’s door. She walked past the bathroom which had a nightlight on, and a room with it’s door closed as well before getting to Gary’s room.

At first she knocked softly and whispered his name, Gary, Gary, lunch is ready. There was no response. So, she got a little louder, knocked a little harder. Gary, Gary, you wake up now you hear. I got a nice lunch made and I want you at that table in two minutes. She heard a moan.

Sandy walked back down the hall to tell Junior that his son was on his way. They took a seat at the big table with four chairs. Should we say grace?, the blue eyed woman asked. Junior looked at her and said, we’ll wait.

They waited a good five minutes and Junior bowed his head. Sandy took notice and did the same. She took his leathery hand and he took her’s. He asked for forgiveness of their sins, thanked God for the food and his blessings, and said a quick word for their first son who was not at the table. Amen, Junior said and looked up to see Gary there tucking in his shirt. Amen, Gary said.

Well, let’s dig in, momma said. The two men stabbed with their forks at the chicken fried steak while Sandy helped herself to potatoes and green beans. Gravy was poured over the steak and Junior added salt and pepper to it. They sat in silence for awhile, eating their food, drinking iced tea, when Junior asked Gary what time he got home?

Junior admitted it was late. Said he was sorry he missed church. Told em that he had gone out to the graveyard again to spend time with his older brother. What he didn’t tell em was that he brought a six pack with him on these meetings; just him sittin’ alone drinkin’ in the dark, talkin’ to a spirit.

The old man nodded his head; he’d been out there a few times himself at night when he couldn’t sleep. I understand, he said, chewed on gristle and washed it down. We should go out there together some night, the boy nodded.

I’ll bring the beer.

He let her set for awhile, didn’t call or go by the house; just let her stew. The young man wanted to see her, but, he learned from older men to just let em simmer before you stop by with flowers, chocolates, a ring you got at the pawn shop. This bright eyed boy followed their directions. He let her set.

Couldn’t remember what the fight was over. Both of em had fierce tempers and were quick to jump. They were also quick to get in the sack. Seemed like breakin’ up and makin’ up was all they ever did. That’s why this time he was trying something different; let her come ’round; wait it out. He learned that in the Corps when he was over in Afghanistan; don’t jump to rash decisions and always keep your guard up.

She was a pretty girl. Chestnut eyes and long brunette hair. Looked like Crystal Gayle back in the 80’s when she was on television. That’s what his daddy said. The old man was more of a Tammy Wynette type. But, he saw the beauty in her.

She was sweet too. They dated throughout high school. He dreamt of seeing the world. She had wild desires to be a mom. Which happened after he left for the war with another boy here in town; that didn’t last long. Left her in the middle of the night with dishes piled high and the garbage not taken out. Said he was going out for smokes; never came back.

So, she set her hopes on her sweetheart. He’d be coming back to town soon. And, he did. Got a job at the mill, a new house, wasn’t too long ‘fore she was his and he was her’s. They just kind of picked up where they left off; kissin’ and cursin’. It’s what they did best.

It had been a few days. Drove by the house to see if she was home; maybe catch a glimpse of her in the living room window. Never saw her. The lights were out. And that’s when he knew. Knew she was gone. Least that was his suspicion.

Kelly, he called out as he entered the back door, Kelly you here, no response. Maybe she was at her mom’s. Maybe she was out with the girls. He turned on the lights.

There it was. A letter from her on the kitchen table. She left early that morning for some town out West. Wanted to know if he’d Western Union some money when he gotta chance.

Somethings you can’t count on, he mumbled and opened a beer. Tried calling her, but her phone was turned off. He just sat there and polished off a six pack. Made himself a sandwich and watched an old movie on T.V.. It was Gary Cooper in, The Pride Of The Yankees.

The floors were dirty; couldn’t eat off of em like mom’s. A good sweep and mop was needed; he was neglecting his duties; chores didn’t matter much anymore. He just let things go.

Sitting in a chair with it’s fake leather peeling off, he could feel the filth on his feet; dust, cornchip bits, popcorn kernels, leaves from the dying house plant atop the greasy fridge; an accumulation had occurred.

A pile of unwashed laundry lay in the corner; days had gone by without underwear. The same sweats worn for weeks in a row. He didn’t eat or drink. None of his medications were taken. It was truly a state of decline. He was ready for it all to be over.

In the cabinet above the desk, sat bottles of Trazadone; a very strong sleeping aid. He had been saving up for months at a time. He was ready for the big sleep. It’s all he thought about. Sat around his rented room looking out windows and thinking, saying out loud, I don’t want to do this anymore.

He examined the drugs carefully. There was enough there to kill a horse; a thoroughbred euthanized; cut down past his prime.

So, he sat there holding onto prescription bottles. Looked out the window at St. Patrick’s church. Thought of his early childhood Bible teachings; a wooden rosary hung on his door.

He began to sing, humming aloud an old Dave Mason song, Feelin’ Alright…not feelin’ too good myself…, and he laughed. He laughed for a good spell. Fell asleep and awoke to the dark, the sounds of cop cars, ambulances, cats callin’, and bums down below yelling out at the world in a drunken rage.

Another day has passed, he thought. Another day has passed. And with that he was thankful.

Was it in Paris?

Maybe Manhattan.

We climbed stairs from one street to another.

Sang in the rain.

Held hands.

It could’ve been Quebec.

An accordion played in the streets.

This couple dancing under a maple tree.

How in love they looked.

Looks can fool you.

And that was years ago.

Love was easy then.

A simple embrace.

Words spoken softly in the ear.

Promises made on alters.

Do we ever live up to our claims?

What did I bring to the table?

Only myself.

My faults.

May we never suffer again.

You’re not sure what you want are you? Say one thing and do another. Good thing Christ was nailed to the cross. Otherwise, you’d be screwed my friend, he said as he smoked a cigarette, sucked it down to the filter, stomped it out.

Is it some kind of a game to you? Just going through life day by day, same actions hour by hour. You wake up, take a shower, get dressed, go down to the diner for the same breakfast; two fried eggs over easy with sausage and hashbrowns; coffee included.

Then you come home and think for awhile. ‘Bout the state of America. And, you go into this dreamlike trance. Dreaming of being unprepared in life. It’s like you’ve always been unprepared. You don’t know the lines to the play, words to a song, how many cups of flour to put in the cake.

And this dreaming makes you sad. Puts you in a depressed state where you think ’bout ending it all. You think about it.

But, then the sun comes through the clouds giving off a brilliant light. You worship that light. Thankful for it. It’s all you ever wanted; all you ever wanted.

Noises came from the back of the bus throughout the night. Cell phones, laptops and voices all mixed together as the old Greyhound made it’s way down the two lane highways of the Midwest; cutting through fog and black skies, temperatures dropping, red taillights playing follow the leader, cigarette butts bouncing on pavement.

He was so sure he’d be home at a decent time; that was hours ago when the bus left Chicago in the afternoon; traffic, weather, road work, orange cones lined along interstates and backroads making cars and old pickups come to a standstill; drivers were in a prevent defense mode.

The old man kept his eyes locked on the darkness outside. One eye would begin to shut and then the other. His salt and pepper hair leaned on the headrest. He was just about out when from the back of the bus came loud rap music being played in a tin can sound. Both brown eyes would open and anger was all that he felt; rage towards the black kids in the back for playing their music so loud; crazed thoughts crossed his mind.

There was no peace. The loudness kept coming in waves. He wanted to stand up and tell them to turn it down, to keep their mouths shut, follow the rules, but, he couldn’t. Something was preventing him from taking a stand. Something was telling him to take it, just take it. His heart pounded, stomach turned, and tears came down his face. He was outnumbered. And, he knew it.

This common man no longer had strength. He no longer felt as if everything was going to be OK in America. This old man was beat. He began to weep as the rap music played louder and the voices in the dark from the back of the bus yelled out profanities; words dribbled in the dark.

It was over, he said to himself. It was over. The bus stopped and the driver announced,Cleveland. He was home. Off the bus he flew, never turning back to look at it. It was over. And, he knew he was defeated.

He looks out a window from his rented room; the street below has no traffic; the bells of St. Patrick’s have yet to ring. This gray day offers no hope.

Two cats hissing at each other in the alley as bums walk by collecting garbage from big blue dumpsters with rust on the hinges; the two Mexicans open the dumpsters quickly making a squeaky sound. They take their goods; beer and soda cans placed in a grocery cart; nails and screws spread out below their feet; cheap dress shoes which have mud and white streaks on them from doing labor jobs; no socks.

He looks out his window. A yellow van goes by. It too makes it’s way down the alley. Slowly driven by a black man, it makes no stops. The van just creeps along like a turtle emerging from a river. Slowly pulling up behind the two short Mexicans. They look behind them and give him the finger; say words in Spanish; they come to a halt.

There are no more words spoken. The fat black man gets out of the yellow van and pulls a gun from his baggy pants, declaring this to be his alleyway. In fact, he declared all alleyways in town to be his.

I hope he do build that wall, the black man with the golden front tooth states. Send y’all back to Mexico, he shoots his gun off into the air and goes back to being silent. The Mexicans leave their day’s possessions behind and quickly walk back to the main street.

He looks out a window from his rented room. This gray day offers no hope.