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Past Burger King, Sonic, and Galloway’s Car Wash, you’ll find him, he said. Car’s been parked there for a week. Know he’s up to something. The old man spit on the ground.

Last time he was in town, he made a ruckus. Went everywhere yelling at people, shooting his gun, racing out on Highway 41. Really thinks he’s something, the old man continued talking to the police officer. I wish you boys would run him in.

What for? The cop asked.

For being an asshole, the old man said. He’s never been no good. Even in grade school, he caused trouble. 

We can’t just arrest him for being an asshole.

I give up then. 

How do you know him?

He’s my son.

July. Christmas lights glowing at night in the trailer park. A pink plastic flamingo stands in the yard next to a gravel driveway; an old Ford up on concrete blocks. Grass is tall and waves in the wind. Storms are coming.

He pulls back curtains and looks at gray clouds forming to the south. Temperature is dropping from pretty hot to just hot.

Probably gonna have one, he says. Turn on the TV. His wife stumbles over to the television and turns it on. The lines are wavy.

Damn it. Fix them rabbit ears, he demands as he walks over beer cans and empty buckets of chicken. Come on now. He wrestles with the antennae. A clearer picture comes in. It’s a weatherman in a  checkered suit pointing at a map of Arkansas around El Dorado.

Yep. Just like I thought. Tornado is coming. Go get in the bathtub, he orders his wife. Go on now.

Ain’t you coming?

I’ll be in there. Just do what I say.

The overweight woman makes her way down the hall and closes the bathroom door.

Leave it open, he yells. Give me a minute. Damn thing is forming. God damn. Look at that. It’s coming. The TV goes blank. A rush of wind breaks the windows. He’s knocked to the floor. The ceiling cracks and falls. Debris covers him. Cuts and blood on the kitchen tiles. He lays there. The strong winds have stopped.

Honey. You OK? She asks.

I can’t move.

What did you say?

Said. I can’t move. I think my legs are busted up pretty good.

Sirens are heard. Fire trucks and squad cars go past the trailer park. Clouds break. Sun comes out. Soon, it’ll be dark.

I did this.

Yeah.

I did.

Is that your confession?

He nodded his head. Things got outta hand.

I’ll say they did.

The man looked at the detective. You ever get scared? He asked. I mean, terrified.

Used, too.

What changed?

Years. You get jaded. Nothing affects you anymore. Babies dead in overheated cars while dads are inside strip clubs. Some bar. An old lady brutally murdered in a bathtub washed in her own blood. Two teens killed in an accident, car wrapped around a tree. I could go on and on, the cop said. You get the picture.

Yeah. I do. He pointed to the cigarettes and asked for one. The detective lit it for him. I was just wondering if you admired my work. I put a lot into it. Lots of thought.

I see that.

I’d like to tell you everything. All that was involved.

I got nothing but time.

Yes. Time. I’m not going anywhere either. Just sitting here. I used to sit and watch the sunrise over fields of soybeans. Green fields. Next to a vegetable stand where overpriced items were sold, he smiled and inhaled. Jars of apple butter. Canned peaches. Strands of rhubarb. Sweet corn. All up and down the highway were signs for sweet corn. You like sweet corn?

Sure.

The stand was owned by this couple. Open from July to October.  They worked sun up to sun down.  Hard-working Americans. The kind you’d see at church on Sundays. 

Go on.

I got to be pretty friendly with them. They used to give me bruised apples. Out of date cider.

They were kind to you?

Yes.

Those are always the toughest ones to kill. Kindness goes a long way.

It sure does detective. It sure does.

What happened?

They were late one day. Then, late another. Not on time. I hate people who aren’t punctual.

So you killed them over that.

They didn’t show up till noon. He put his cigarette out. They made me wait. Just like when I was a kid. I was told to wait my turn. Dad slapped me. Told me I was a spoiled child. Do I look spoiled to you?

Go on.

Well. Anyway. They were late. Several times. So one day, I got out my gun and waited for them.

I see.

I blasted out the windshield before they even parked it. I just kept pulling the trigger. He tried to run. Limping. She was already dead. So I shot him in the back. Several times.

For being late.

Yes. For being late. Wouldn’t you?

Odds run north and south. Evens go east and west, he said. You can look at a map all you want, but if you have that basic knowledge, you can go anywhere, the old man told the kid, as they rode on I-95.

Think of lines, he continued. Going up and down, sideways, too. Stick to that, and you’ll never get lost. The kid popped open a cold one for him. He took a sip  before he handed the beer to his Papa. 

Hey there. Get your own, Granddad told him. Go on. Reach in there and grab one. Keep it down below the windows. Sip it every once in a while. Don’t want anyone to see you. People frown on this.

The kid reached back into the cooler and grabbed a Budweiser. He liked the commercials with the pretty horses in them; playing in the snow. The old man lit a Kool.

We’re heading to Maine, Papa said. Ever been there? The teen shook his head. Beautiful. Absolutely magnificent. He took another drink. When your mom was a little girl, I took her up there. Me and your grandma drove up I-95 just like we’re doing now. Slept in tents back then. Nowadays, it’s too hard on my back. We’ll find a cabin. No one goes up there in the wintertime. It’ll be cheap to rent.

Both of them kept looking out the windows. Pointing at semis as they passed by. Looking at signs along the way, trees, counting blondes in cars. They opened two more.

I’m sorry about your mom and dad. Sorry it’s come to this, he told the kid. All that yelling. Fighting. They never should’ve married to begin with. She should’ve handed you over to me and your grandma when you were born. He turned on the radio. Flipped through the stations. Settled on oldies out of Philadelphia, playing Aretha Franklin.

Some say Dionne Warwick does a better job with this song. But, I don’t think so. What do you think? The boy took another drink of beer.

Well. I’m sorry about your mom and dad. That’s what that shit will do to you. Just messes things up. Tears up lives around you. The grandson kept looking out the window.

Your Grandma’s looking down on us. She’s keeping an eye on you. Don’t ever let her down. He hit the kid’s shoulder. Your mom let her down. She let both of us down. Well, that’s all over now. You’re safe. Safe as can be. The kid grabbed two more beers.

Every year, he said. Never fails. The fat man pulled a wrench out of his back pocket. It taunts me. Like some outer space robot. Something you’d see in the movies, he mumbled. An outer space robot that doesn’t work.

My dress is soaked, the wife said. You can almost see through it. She stood behind him as he bent on one knee again. You want a Pepsi?

Yes, he nodded. I’ll take one, he said. It was his third can of pop that morning. What the hell is wrong with it?

The phone rang. Fat man could hear his wife talking. Talking about how hot it was outside.  Flirting almost with the next-door  neighbor. He threw his tool at the window unit.

Robert? That was Charlie. He said he’d be right over to help you fix it. Here. Here’s your Pepsi. He took a long drink as condensation ran down the aluminum can.

You think he can fix this?

I don’t know. Maybe.

Maybe?

You’ve been trying all morning.

Right. The husband stared outside.  Charlie’s grass was cut and green. Flowers and plants were in an array of colors. The siding on his house was washed. His wife was thin.

Take a break, dear, she said. He’ll be right over. 

You can’t wait, he mumbled. Can’t wait for Charlie. Robert got off the floor. Sonofabitch.  

The doorbell rang. I’ll get it, Helen told him, making her way across the shag carpet. Oh, look. He brought his toolbox. Always thinking, that Charlie. 

She opened the front door and there he was. Tall. Square jaw. Blonde hair. Looked like a German, Robert laughed. 

Hey, neighbor. Heard you had some trouble. You know, one of these days you’re going to have to get Central air. There was silence. Well. Let’s take a look.

You want a Pepsi? Helen asked as he made his way to the window.

That’d be great, honey.

Robert just looked at his back, facing him. He called her honey. Comes into my house and calls my wife, honey.  Sonofabitch.

See. You’re not going to need that wrench, Charlie smiled at Robert.  Need a screwdriver instead. Gets in there. He took the front of the window unit off. Examined it. See, he said. New filter. Needs a new filter. That’s all.

Here’s your Pepsi, she smiled.

Charlie turned his back on the two and started to take out the filthy filter. Robert looked at the back of his blonde hair, held on tightly to the wrench. Do it, a voice inside told him. Just do it. Now’s the time.

These filters. Like I said. Central air is the way to go. Might cost you, but… Robert? You OK?

There was silence. Robert placed the heavy tool on the coffee table.

I’m fine.

Sure?

Yeah.

Well. I better get going. Gotta take Jr. to baseball practice. You know, he’s getting better and better.

You do that, Robert told him. You do that.

OK.

Thanks, Charlie, Helen placed her hand on his back as she walked him to the door. Thanks again.

You bet.

 

I sat inside the bus terminal, looking at people around me. Some sat on hard plastic chairs with sharp edges from where the backs had been torn or chipped away. Others stood up against the glass windows with moisture on them, smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking from brown paper bags.

A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker telling the ticket holders that the bus leaving for Chicago, St. Louis, Oklahoma City Dallas, with connections to Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Phoenix, Indio, and Los Angeles, was now boarding.

The ticket was $99 one way. I saved the money from working at a car wash, which I quit after two weeks of working there. Satisfaction, the owner said. Customer satisfaction is what we strive for, he told me with a slap on the back, not knowing that the only satisfaction I wanted was to leave as soon as the first paycheck was signed. Go get ’em boy. Go get ’em, he cheered.

Pulling out of the station, I looked around my hometown from the backseat of the bus. There it all was before me, the place where I grew up. St. Mary’s on the corner, the soup kitchen for the poor and powerless. Cap n Cork liquor store across the street from a gas station. I bought my cigarettes there for seventy-five cents. Henry’s bar where I had my first drink; a scotch and soda. I was leaving it all behind. Head West young man.

The sun rose over the Mississippi in St. Louis, waking me as light came through tinted windows. A full bus. Filled with Mexicans, blacks, old people, runaways like myself, and kids with dreams of  being more than what their talents allowed. 

I listened in on conversations; a young woman wanting to get into the porn industry, Mexicans speaking in Spanish about finding jobs and new lives, some black kid who had his heart on being the next Sly Stone. An old lady snoring. Noises of the road.

Chili. The best bowl of chili I ever had was in Oklahoma City. It was red with beans and thick from ground hamburger. I crumbled up  packages of Saltines in the bowl and ate it slowly; enjoying every bite. Chili would become my staple; cheap and plentiful.

The future porn star sat next to me. She had a piece of chocolate pie. The redhead said chocolate was her favorite. Of which I responded, I’m vanilla as they come. The seventeen year old laughed. So did I.

Where are you going? she asked.

California. Los Angeles.

Gonna be a movie star?

Nope.

Then why are you going there? I mean, the only reason to head out there is to be famous. Right?

I suppose.  I’m just running.

From what?

I don’t know. I just needed to take off. Leave.

I hear you.

Red clay. Mountains look like giant walls of red clay. New Mexico. I looked on in wonder. How could a place be so beautiful yet so abandoned.

The bus pulled into the Greyhound station around midnight. I got off to stretch my legs and smoke. There were all these Indians walking around. Talking to themselves. Some drunk. Others just waited like the rest of us; alone, tired, and hungry. I counted my money. Forty-eight dollars left. Tired and hungry. I bought another bowl of chili.

Downtown L.A. moon rising. I decided to call home and let my parents know I was OK. Meaning, not dead. The phone was answered on the first ring.

David?

Yeah.

Where are you?

Los Angeles.

Dear God. You know, your father is out there on business.

I wasn’t aware.

He’s at this hotel downtown. Let me get you the number.

OK.

David. I love you.

I love you, too.

The fan rotated at a slow speed overhead in the carpeted living room. He laid on the couch beside a window unit blowing cold air. The air-conditioner was on eco. He did not believe in wasting energy, although he drove a truck that got nineteen miles to the gallon; he believed everyone had a secret pleasure.

He looked outside his front window at the green trees bending a bit, stretching left to right, nature’s calisthenics, and remembered the tree house his father  built when he was a child.

His father did not build a ladder on the tree for him to step on with ease. Instead, the old man made the boy climb the hard, thick bark to the house; to this day, he blamed dad for his permanent scarred knees and everlasting bruised ankles.

He watched the wind blow the trees. Thought of his dad. Nothing is ever easy.

Walking outside, the middle-aged man wondered if he could still climb trees. The tall oak reminded him of the challenge of his childhood. Now, at fifty-five, he was not sure he could complete the task.

Some jobs men look and walk away, he thought. Others try and fail. Very few succeed. 

He went back to the couch and cried.

The Potter’s Field. Field of blood. A place of comfort for those in need; their bodies laid to rest. Souls rise to the heavens, anew.

God waits for them. The poor, the hungry, afflicted, forgotten, who lie there hear God’s voice.

They do not receive riches, shiny pieces of gold. The gift is salvation; a longing in life is completed. For they sit by Christ’s side. Feet  washed.

Sins never committed.

The End

Meg sat on the edge of her bed. She was thinking of Ben and Frank. She thought about Salomon  collapsing on top of her as well. Stared into space while images of johns came to her head. Johns who were old and fat. Greasy and some wearing suits. Those that did not pay. And those who raped her, punching her face until it was bruised and bloody. Offering crack as a payment. Kicking her back into the streets from vans, Cadillacs, station wagons that were driven on family trips across the country. And she knew her time was up. Time to head back to the streets. Back to living under a bridge, on a park bench, or a cardboard box. Bellevue was a nice vacation.

Dr. Eamons and a social worker came into her room with the news that she was waiting for. The pleasantries of a psych ward were over. They suggested she go to a shelter until she could qualify for a New York program. 

Come see me once a month, the young idealist said. Come this time next year, you’ll have your own room. Meg looked at the social worker blankly. She just nodded her head. She knew what she had to do.

She immediately headed back to 42nd and 8th to look for work along with the rest of the ladies. Soon, she’d be back at it. Staring into space while men violated her.

Meg smiled when they were done. It’s a living, she told them. It’s a living.

Where you from?

The Midwest.

Never been out there. Never left the East Coast. I go to Connecticut and Philly sometimes, rarely. I stay here mostly.

From here? Jamie asked.

Not originally. Moved down from Lowell years ago. Had nothing. Just a couple hundred bucks, he told her.

Oh. Sounds familiar. 

How so?

Had a friend who did the same thing. He came here with not much. Drove here.

From your town?

Yeah.

You meeting him?

Afraid not. I was told he died.

Sorry. He raised his hand to the bartender. Two more, he said. Me and whatever she’s drinking.

Thank you.

Sure. We’ll raise a glass to him.

That’s not necessary. He could be a real sonofabitch, she laughed. Real unpredictable. Got to where he drank all the time. Did drugs. Ha. He was a high school teacher. Almost done. About to retire. And then he just took off. Left.

How about that.

He’d call and ask for money every once in a while. I’d wire him a few bucks. Not much.

Yeah. I know how that is. Had a girlfriend who used to call me up and ask for money. Don’t know what happened to her. Probably married. Or dead. Who knows.

Jamie sipped on her vodka and soda. I should have come when they told me he was dead.

Why didn’t you?

Mad. Broke. Sick of it all.

Right.

Where’s he buried?

Don’t know.

Have any family?

Nope.

I see. No money?

Jamie looked at him. Stirred her drink. Noticed the guy at the end of the bar eating a corned beef sandwich. Mustard dripped from his mouth. No, she said. No money.

I’ll bet he’s buried up at Hart Island. The potter’s field.

What’s that?

You never read the Bible? Where they bury the poor. The nameless. Criminals. No families to help out. Judas was  buried in a potter’s field.

I see.

It’s in the Bronx. You cant get to it. Closed to the public.

Hart Island, huh?

Yeah. You want another?

I better get going. She pulled her chair out.

Do you want me to walk you to the hotel?

I’ll be alright. Thanks for the drink.

Sure.

Jamie walked out of Smith’s Bar at 44th Street. The older man watched as she left.

One more, he said. One more.