dmseay

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. 

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.