dmseay

They sat on the couch watching Shark Week. Seven whole days and nights of nothing but sharks on television.  She didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Blankets were wrapped around her and a bowl of popcorn at her side; her left hand was greasy from the butter and salt. Her other hand held the remote. She would not let go of it; like some life line. The tall brunette needed it to exist. 

He looked at his phone every once in a while to see what the time was. Every fifteen minutes, he checked it. Nine o’clock. Quarter past ten. Eleven o’clock. Two hours had passed. And still, it was nothing but sharks. People in search of sharks. Divers in cages teasing sharks. There were even people dancing with sharks. It would not stop.

He grabbed some kernels, which stuck to his teeth. Tried to hold her hand like in the old days. Her eyes remained transfixed on the deep blue and its predators.

Isn’t this fascinating? She asked. I love Shark Week. Tomorrow night, a whole new show. I can’t wait.

Yes. Yes, it is true. Of all the cable channels we have, which cost over a hundred a month, we’re watching sharks. Yes. It is truly fascinating. I must admit, he looked at her. My interest in TV was starting to dissolve. But those sharks. Drew me back into a whole new world. 

Stop.

No. Really. Fascinating.

We could learn something from sharks.

Oh, I’m sure.

Yes. We can.

Like, how they mate?

We’re going to find out this week.

I can’t wait. 

A rusted pickup truck in the driveway. Bumperstickers on it that read, DON’T TREAD ON ME, and LIVE FREE OR DIE. A step ladder hangs off the tail with a DIXIE flag tied to it.

He sits on his riding lawnmower with a beer in his hand, steering with the other. The middle-aged man cuts the grass in a circular fashion, going back and forth across the front yard. Brown needles under a Pine tree.

The boy, not quite six, sits on the front porch, playing make-believe with his toy firetruck and Army soldiers. He points at his dad, laughs, and runs after him. The father scoops the boy up into his arms and continues mowing the yard. Rocks from a gravel driveway tossed aside by mud-caked blades of steel.

The mowing stops. He lets his foot off the gas and coasts like an airplane into the garage. The boy is laughing and smiling as Dad lifts him off his lap and tells the kid to grab him another beer.

Daddy is so proud of him. Ready for Kenny to grow up. But not too fast. He goes inside with his shadow following him. Sits down at the table. And calls his ex-wife. 

Yeah. We’re done. I’ll drop him off in a while. I said a while. Father looks at his son. Takes out a cigarette and lights it.

You shouldn’t do this, the father says.

I won’t.

Promise.

I promise.

Pinky promise? He asks the boy. Kenny nods his head. They lock fingers together. He downs another swig of Schlitz.

Let’s go.

The moon is yellow tonight, she said. Kind of hazy. Wonder what they’re doing up there? She looked at him. You ever think about that?

I look at the sun, he told her. Big burning ball, both laughed. Think about who is burning there. Robbers, murderers, rapists, C.E.O.’s, criminals of  all kinds. Probably me some day. When it’s all over.

Really?

Yep. That’s where Hell is. A constant fire that never goes out. He drank from his Coke can and threw it in the trash.

I don’t believe you, the wife said. She moved in closer to her lover’s side. None of us are going to Hell. Or, we’ve already gone through it here on earth.

Her side piece laughed. Is that what you think?

Yes. She put her arms around him. Kissed him. That’s what I think. She pouted.

You don’t know what hell is. You think this life is hell. He squeezed her. It’s not. I mean, terrible things can happen. In this life. Horrible. But, it’s not Hell.

It’s the sun?

Afraid so. A constant reminder from God to be good. Or, you’ll burn for eternity.

On the sun?

Yeah.

You think we’re going to Hell?

I think we all are. Name one good person.

I think we’re good people.

We cheat on our spouses, Joan. How’s that good?

I don’t know. We’re both giving something to each other.

Sex, Joan. Pure fornication, he laughed. She smiled. Held him closer.

Let’s go back to the hotel and make love.

OK.

They walked off the beach. Hand in hand. The moon was fading away. The two stopped in the parking lot and watched the sunrise. 

Grace. The father bowed his head. Who would like to say grace? His wife, children, nobody responded. They all sat there in silence while the roast beef and mashed potatoes got cold.

Nobody? Dad asked. Nobody is thankful? Am I the only one? All kept their heads down as the old man spoke. Fine. I’ll pray, he proclaimed. He let out a heavy sigh of disappointment. 

Our Father in heaven. Thank you for this meal before us. We pray that it goes to the  nourishment of our bodies so that we can serve you here on earth. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

Please pass the vegetables. The insurance salesman asked his son. A bowl was handed to him. It was not the mixed vegetables. It was a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Remember, dear. We pass from left to right. Eventually, it’ll get to you, the thin wife said.

Sorry, honey. I forgot. The brother and sister smiled at each other. Missy, the Retriever, circled the table. Missy, the father said. Go on. Get.

Paul. Go get a Milk Bone and let Missy out in the backyard, please. The son folded his napkin and led the dog outside. There you go, Robert. He’s outside now. Dad stared down at his plate.

It was quiet while they ate. Only the sounds of forks and knives sawing on Fiesta Ware could be heard.

Nice meal, dear, Robert said. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

Everything alright?

Yes.

In the garage was an old piece of rope in Robert’s Craftsman tool chest. He knew exactly what drawer it was in. He looked at it every day after work. 

Holding the rope in his hands, he made a noose with a tight knot, flung the rope over the garage beam, as the father of two sat on the backend of his Dodge Ram pickup. All was set. The rope scratched his throat. He held his  breath and jumped off the truck.

Birds eat stale bread on the ground. Tortillas, potato  chips, and a half torn pita lie in the grass as well. They are picky; leaving a lot behind as they fly away in the evening. Maybe they just like the bread. Perhaps they’re saving for tomorrow.  The alley cats know.

I sit here on the fire escape, watching, waiting for the sun to go down; the streetlights to come on. Night is round the corner.

Opossums scurry below. Dumpster divers. I light a cigarette and wait to see what their meal is tonight; a quarter of a Quarter Pounder left behind by some drunk earlier in the day? A piece of lettuce? Maybe apples brown and rotting. Time passes.

Pulling a beer from my cooler, I notice the ice is melting. Cold, cold water. I plunge my face into it. The freezing temperature feels good. Like the pool at the Russian/Turkish baths on Division where fat men go and yell, more heat, more heat, just before plunging into bliss or pain. No one cries out. They are stoic like statues of Stalin and Lenin.

I pour the cold liquid over my head and laugh. Another Friday evening. I am alone. 

Fake flowers on the fireplace mantle. Christmas lights glow on the plastic tree. A dead poinsettia sits in the corner. It is July.

He comes home to no one and grabs a beer from the mini-fridge. Foam sprays him when the top is popped.

God damn it, he mumbles, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing his tee-shirt. The old man slurps it down till it’s empty. He crushes the can with his right hand and throws it towards the garbage; he misses.

Outside, the streetlights are coming on. The red neon in the bar across the street shines brighter. He opens a window and leans on the frame.

Cars drive up and down Broadway.  The fat man remembers when he had a car. Used to drive all over this country. North, South, East, and West. Made it all the way to California one time. Swam in the ocean. Dug shells in the sand.

One time, he drove all the way to Philadelphia just to try a Philly steak sandwich. He was disappointed. Turned around and drove home.

He opens another beer, which sprays him too. God damn it, he says. God damn it.

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.