dmseay

He quit. Quit trying to track her down. Some said he should’ve stopped years ago; a wasted life. Others said you do what’s in your heart; she was in his.

They stopped talking a long time ago. He used to call her in the middle of the night. She said she was living in Bloomington, Illinois at the time. Then she told him she’d headed out West. Said she was living in California. Around Big Sur. Sleeping in different beds every night to make ends meet. Told him she had countless clients. Men who paid her well. Much better than what she was making on the phone. Talking to complete strangers about God knows what. These men she said knew her. Took care of her. He wished he had that opportunity in life.

So without much money in his pockets he took off for Big Sur. Had just enough cash to get him to Colorado. Lived on the streets of Denver for awhile. Waking up at four in the morning to do day labor. That’s when she told him her luck was running out in Big Sur. Said the men she was involved with were growing tired of her. And, she was getting older. Crow’s feet had set in.

The old man told her to meet him in Denver. He talked real pretty to her on the phone. Told her he’d leave tomorrow for California if she’d just tell him where. She hung up on him. He tried calling her back, but, she wouldn’t answer. Then she changed her number. That’s when he went crazy. Crazy with love.

In the middle of the night he got a phone call a couple of years later. It was her calling from Portland, Oregon. Asked if he could send her some money. Didn’t give her address. Just told him to wire it to her in Portland. He sent her a grand and kept just enough for a bus ticket out there. He knew in his heart of hearts he’d find her. Knew she’d be waiting for him; fool’s errand.

The woman took that money and bought herself a junker. An old rust bucket Ford that got her all the way to Chicago. He kept calling her from all over. Spent time in Portland, Northern California. Picked grapes with Mexicans. She continued sleeping with strange men. They were both worn out. Life played them both.

Again, one night at midnight, she called him. He was asleep with twelve other men in a tin shed. Dirt was on the floor. I need another loan, she said. I’m keeping track. Just send me five hundred, she told him. That should be enough, she begged.

Send me a picture, he said.

You don’t want to see me these days, she cried.

Send me a picture of you in a nice red dress. With flowers in your hair. Let me see you, he said. I just want to see you.

She hung up the phone and never called him again.

The blinds were drawn. It was mostly dark in the house. An overhead light in the kitchen shined, casting a shadow of the ceiling fan over the table where he sat. The old man stirred his coffee and looked through the blinds at darkness outside; pitch black. He sat quietly. Humming an old Merle Haggard song. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of coffee.

You call that coffee? he said out loud. Brown water leftover from yesterday. She’s always gotta save things. Always gotta hold onto stuff. All we have are meals from the day before. Coffee that we didn’t finish, he mumbled. Hell with this, he poured the remaining liquid in the sink and began looking for coffee grounds.

He opened the cabinets above and below; no sign of it. Just cans of beans and bags of rice. Beans and rice, he said. What’re we? Mexicans? he continued looking in the cupboard. Where the hell does she put that stuff ? She’s always hiding things from me, he said. Always trying to trick me, he opened the freezer door and moved around chicken thighs, frozen ice cubes, California Medley, peas and carrots, finally in the back a can of Bustello coffee. The old man quickly opened it and smelled the black and brown grounds. He smiled.

What’re you doing? she asked, standing there in her robe.

What does it look like I’m doing? Making coffee.

Making a fool out of yourself, she said. We have to save damn you. The apocalypse is coming and we ain’t gonna have nothing.

You think it’s gonna matter? he continued making coffee. The gray haired wife hit him in the back of the head. The old man fell to the ground. She stood over him. Looked at him.

Get up, she said. He did not move. Blood ran from his front temple. I said get up, she kicked his legs, he was out cold. She took a pitcher and poured water over his lined face. There was no movement. The old lady looked outside. The sun was coming up.

All this yelling, he said to the two of them. You gotta be so loud? the television was turned down. Think you’re the only two that live here? the old man asked his wife and son. It’s midnight, he said. White people are in bed, he lit a cigarette and sat in his recliner. You two are carrying on like I don’t know what, the mother and son stared at him.

This don’t involve you, the boy said. We’re trying to work something out here.

I’m your father. Of course it involves me.

Stay out of it, the mom said.

Listen here…

I said stay out of it.

This is my house God damn it. It’s my business to know, dad said.

Your business? mom asked. You ain’t had no business here for twenty years. Sit around drinking all day.

That’s his business, the boy said. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

That’s the problem, she said. Too much drinking in this house. I’m leaving.

Where you going? the old man asked.

I don’t know, she grabbed her coat and keys. I don’t rightfully know.

It’s midnight. White people don’t leave their house at midnight, dad said.

Goodbye, she turned and slammed the door. Walked out to her Ford and turned the ignition. The old man and his son watched from the window.

You wanna beer? the son asked. The old man nodded. They sat there in silence drinking. Gunsmoke was on the TV.

There’s nothing out there, he said. Nothing is left. It’s all gone. Went with the wind down the road, he took a drink from his cup. Some said they saw scraps of the barn over in Jasper County. And, I also heard parts of the Chevy were tossed over there too, the old man coughed and wheezed. I’m surprised the trailer is still here. Skipped over it. Bounced over it, he told the officer. I got what’s important to me. My home. Few pictures of Marie. Coffee maker, he joked.

We just wanted to check on you, the patrolman said. You’re lucky. Some weren’t so lucky. Took everything they owned, he said.

Every year it happens. You’d think everybody would move away from here, the old man smiled. That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll take off. Go on and get out of here. Some place nice. Like Florida, they both laughed.

What is it?

Couldn’t tell you.

Some kind of rock. Crystal.

It shines.

Sparkles.

Don’t touch it. Let it be. Let it stay there. Shining. The human touch will ruin it. We have oils in our skin. Fingers are always dirty. Leave it for others to admire.

You think it’s a diamond?

Nope. Just a beautiful rock. Actually I’m not sure. I don’t want to put a title on it. The minute you do that the thing loses it’s beauty. Then you’re just stuck with a shiny rock.

I want it.

Can’t have it.

Why?

It’s nature.

People take diamonds.

And look what happened there. Blood money. People die over em. Kill for just one precious stone. I won’t have it. Leave it be.

I gotta have it.

Place one finger on it and I’ll shoot you. I’m not joking. I’ll take this gun and fire it into your head.

You feel that strongly about it?

I do.

There was silence. All you could hear was dripping water. The two looked at each other; lanterns lit. The rock shined brighter; a brilliant blue.

It’s just a rock.

Yes. Just a rock.

Two cars pulled up side by side at the red light; one Ford, one Chevy. The woman behind the wheel looked straight ahead. The man turned and looked at her through the glass. She looked more than familiar. He knew her. Hadn’t seen her in years. He honked his horn.

At first the blonde didn’t look over. She kept staring straight ahead. The wrinkled man honked again. And, again. She gave a quick glance. He motioned for her to roll down her window. She smiled and turned the other way.

The light turned green. She decided to drive a little faster. He did his best to keep up. They came to another red light. Their engines hummed. He rolled down his window. Hey, he said. Remember me? she kept looking straight ahead. I said, do you remember me? she glanced over at him.

The woman knew who he was. An old lover from way back when she used to work at the A&P grocery store. She was seventeen. He was twenty- four. They didn’t tell anybody.

They’d drive off in separate cars when they got off work. She followed him up to the lake. They’d park under a tree. Meeting each other in the back seat. Radio on some FM station and the windows fogged up. She’d draw a heart on the back window and put an arrow through it. They both laughed.

This went on for a year. Till she got pregnant and they decided a child was not in their best interest. Words were never spoke again.

And now, here they were. Stopped at a red-light. Her looking straight ahead and him staring at her. Light turned green. He let her go.

These noises in the night; clock ticking, refrigerator humming, hot water heater kicking and coughing. He sat in darkness taking it all in. The combination of sounds was like a symphony; some kind of strange music. It put him to sleep. Dreaming of his past. Movies in full color. Every night a different story. Memories from his many stages in life to where he was now. Sometimes he’d smile in his sleep while other nights he would cry. Different stories. Different dreams.

The heat kicked on blowing warm air through the vents. Outside a coating of snow was on the ground. The old man slept in blankets covering his frail body. He’d shake a little. Then warmth would go through him like an old ghost. A spirit from the past maybe. Visiting him to tell him about his life; where it’d been, where it was going. His eyelids shuttered a million times.

He dreamt of his childhood sometimes. About playing with Tonka trucks in the sandbox. The heat from a Texas sun making his body brown. His mom called him her little brown bear. He laughed, holding his pillow tightly in the middle. The way he would hug his mother.

A drip from the kitchen faucet kept a beat as he continued dreaming. His stomach growled; lived off Ramen noodles and Pepsi. His dreams went onto when he was a teenager and he no longer hugged his mom. He would turn her away when she reached out for him. In his dreams she’d stretch her fat arms out to catch him, but, was never able to. The boy just kept falling. Never landing. Just falling. His back to her. Never turning ’round to see she was crying.

His cat would wake the old man. Calling out for food at midnight. He wiped sleep from his eyes and stumble down the hall way. Placed food in the dish along with water. He was alone. Just him and his cat. He thought about his mother for a second or two. Then stroked his pet. Remembered leaving long ago. Taking off on a Greyhound for Chicago. Leaving her behind. She waved at him. Waved goodbye. He never waved back.

In a dream came the night she died. He didn’t go to the funeral. Lit a candle in a Catholic church. Said a prayer. Then went about his day. He said goodbye to her in his dreams. Waking up. Regretting he never did. These things we never do.

Heat came back on. He stood over a vent letting warm air blow on him. His cat curled around his ankles. Morning would come soon.

He was scared of the unknown. Frightened of death. Read the Bible everyday, but, took no solace in it; just stories to him. Nothing devinely inspired. Although he liked Paul. Thought he was a tough guy. Like Lee Marvin.

There was dust on his mantle. Burnt wood in the fireplace. He hadn’t moved anything for years. No cleaning; ate off of paper plates, or, right out of the can. Cold chilli, cans of tuna, sardines in mustard with Saltine crackers, was all that he ate. Always had a six pack of Old Style in the refrigerator ; a bottle of whiskey on his coffee table; a cat that shit on the floor. The whole trailer smelled of urine. Milk jugs of piss.

The old man was nearing the end, he thought. Had these wild conversations with himself. Spoke of missed opportunities, girls that got away, never finishing anything in his life. Said he’d never finished a task handed to him. Always left midstream. Went from job to job to job. Traveled around the country on a Greyhound bus. Sleeping under bridges, in homeless shelters, rented rooms. Living off of Supplemental Security Income. Never having a buck in his pocket.

Had a son out in New Mexico. Went forty-two years without knowing him; some one night stand when he was living in Pueblo. Turns out the son moved around a lot too. They had that in common. The two of them wrote letters to each other. Talked about the weather, his mom, stories from the road.

The boy was missing a leg. Got ran over by a truck in the middle of the night while he was hitchhiking along 41. The old man asked him what he was doing up that way? close to Chicago. The kid said he was trying to find him. Went on a hike cross country to find the old man. Wound up in a hospital with his leg cut off. Figured it was never meant to be.

They never saw each other in person. The son tracked the old man down through police records and old addresses. Traced him all the way to Hammond, Indiana. The mom thought he might be in the Midwest. That’s where the old man was from. Said he talked about Hammond, Indiana.

Some how we all return to where we came from. That’s just what we do as Americans. We wander around for years then return to our roots, whether that’s physically or spiritually; we all return home.

He sat in his recliner watching television; feet up, eating popcorn and drinking beer. An overfilled ashtray was by his side. He pulled out butts every once in awhile just to get a final drag; too lazy to go to the gas station. Too broke to afford another pack.

There was a dog barking outside. Chained up next door. He heard the neighbor yell at him now and then to shut up. The pitt bull kept on barking. The old man turned the sound up on the TV. Tom Snyder was on. Smoking cigarettes and talking to attorneys about the Charles Manson case. The old man watched and popped open another Old Style. Soon he’d reach for the whiskey.

Evan Williams was on the counter. He made his way over to the bottle. Poured in three fingers. Sipped on it while Tom continued talking to his guests. That damn dog kept barking. The old man walked over to the window and opened it. Be quiet, he yelled. Shut that dog up, or, I’ll shut it up…permanently. The dog continued to bark.

The old man got his shot gun from the closet and made sure there was a bullet inside. He pulled up a chair by the window and pointed the rifle at the dog. Shut up you mutt, he said. I’m warning you, he spoke louder. I know you’re of the devil, the dog began pacing, dragging his chain on the frozen ground. You son of a bitch…shut up now, the old man’s hands were shaking. The dog growled. I’ll show you, he fired the gun, missing by a counrty mile. He could hear the bullet hit the window in the trailer next to his. Glass shattered and lights came on. The old man retreated back to his recliner. There was a knock at the door.

You shooting at my house old man? the young neighbor asked. It’s two o’clock in the morning God damn it. What’re you? Crazy? Drunk? Both? You’re gonna replace that window. I ain’t paying for that, the kid said, his blonde wife came over in a short robe with slippers on.

What the hell is going on here? she asked.

The old man’s gone crazy. Shooting holes in our home.

What the hell? she lit up a smoke, folded her skinny arms.

Can I have one of those? the old man asked.

You tried killing us. I ain’t giving you no cigarette, she said. Her husband laughed. I’m calling the cops. Get a police report on this. They’re gonna haul you in old man, she said. That’ll show you.

The dog kept barking in the background. Shush now, the blonde said. And the dog stopped. The three of them stood there waiting on the cops. Waiting to tell their sides of the story.

Now the dog sat there in silence. They all did. Waiting. Just waiting.

There is nothing worse than the Flashdance theme loudly playing in a psych ward.

“Take your passion. And make it happen.”

What if your passion is to kill somebody?

Goodnight, Mr. Simic.