dmseay

A grasshopper walks into a bar. Bartender says, I’ve got a drink named after you. Grasshopper says, What?  Steve? The old man laughs at his own joke. He laughs hysterically. Everyone else in the pub is watching Jeopardy and calling out answers. The old man tells the bartender to pour him another. The beer is placed in front of him, and he adds salt.

A priest and a rabbi are in a canoe. The priest says to the rabbi, I’ll give you a dollar for your life jacket. The rabbi responds, I should be so lucky. What a generous offer….

Men in the bar turn and look at the old man. Shhh. Be quiet, they say. Shut the hell up, others tell him. Jeopardy is on.

Don’t you want to hear how it ends? The punchline?

Nooooo. Stop.

It’s a good one. The Jeopardy music for final Jeopardy begins to play. The old man yells out, Jonah. 

The patrons look at him. 

The answer is Jonah. Go on. Look it up. The minister’s sermon in Moby Dick is about Jonah being placed in the belly of a whale.

How did you know that? One man asks.

It’s a rerun.

Hanging pictures on the walls of barns and farmland. A windmill hangs over the television set. Framed black and whites of grandmother and grandfather on a mantel. Books on the coffee table.

He sits on the couch, tossing a baseball into a mitt. The kid wears a Cleveland Indians cap turned backward on his head. Mom’s in the kitchen fixing dinner.

Is dad ever coming back? he asks. Where did he go to?

He went away for a while. A hospital to try and quit smoking, she tells him. He’ll be gone for some time. But, he’ll come back a new man, she smiles.

Tommy down the street said he went to jail for beating up a man. Said he  nearly killed him. Told me it was over a woman. Is that true?

No. Dad’s in the hospital. 

Can we go see him?

They don’t allow visitors.

Was he cheating on you?

Your father never cheated.

Are you lying to me?

She shook her head and placed hot dogs on their plates.

We sure do eat a lot of hot dogs. The kid squeezed mustard on his dog, then spooned relish.

Mom slapped him on the cheek.  Never complain when you have food, she said. It’s ungrateful.  There are people starving in this world.

The boy began crying and ran down the hallway to his room, slamming the door.

Mom stayed at the table and finished her meal in silence. 

Blankets cover windows. Christmas lights dangle from the ceiling. Artificial flowers in a vase. He pulls back the blue blanket and watches as snow falls; streetlights cast a blue haze on white.

The old man stands there and touches the glass with his fingertips. He draws a stick figure horse with a cowboy on top of it. In a circle above the cowboy he writes, giddy-up. The old man smiles.

There is day-old coffee in a mug. He pours it into a pot on the stove and warms it. The flame is orange. The old man places his hands on the side of the fire. Heat, he says. Warmth. He breathes in and blows out cold air.

His mug of coffee sits on the table next to a high school yearbook. The old man looks at the color photos of kids. He sees a picture of himself in a football uniform. Is that me? he asks out loud. He laughs and turns the page to find a blonde that looks familiar. The old man spots her name underneath. JoAnn, he says. JoAnn. Haven’t seen her in years. I wonder what happened to her. Probably married some insurance salesman most likely.

The old man closes the annual. He feels the red leather and traces gold letters that spell out Wayne Generals on the front. It’s dated 1974. 

Where does time go? What happened to all these folks? Grandkids. Wives. Husbands. Tax scams. Baptisms. The old man laughs. Life goes on.

They laid in bed with blankets over them in darkness. She stared up at the ceiling. So did he. Cars drove by. Loud music played. A muffler dragged on the pavement.  They didn’t move.

He looked over at the alarm clock. Three in the morning, rolled over on his side and looked at his wife. He couldn’t make her out but heard her breathing. The husband rolled over onto his back and stared up again. Coyotes howled.

She faced him and placed her head on his chest, pretending to be asleep. Grabbed his arm and held tightly. He closed his eyes.

Go to sleep, he said. Shhh. The sun will be up in an hour, he told her. We’ll talk then.

The television was off. He looked at a blank screen. Black. No pictures. No sound. The old man just looked at it. Waiting. Wanting to see something. Anything.

He sat on the couch, wondering where the TV remote was. Where did I put that thing? he asked himself.  Can’t find anything anymore. It’s all disappeared. Gone.

Trash and boxes covered the floors and countertops of the trailer with black ink, saying what was inside.

Jewelry. Pots and pans. Dishes. Pictures. Winter clothes. Blankets. Craftsman tools. Old worn-out shoes. He was too lazy to look inside the boxes. He sat talking to himself. Talking about Barbra Eden. Saying she was a fine looking woman. Saying he’d do anything to have her. A real-life genie granting him wishes. He took a drink of cold coffee.

Dad? You in there? Open the door, his son said as he knocked. Come on, dad. It’s moving day.

He continued looking at the blank screen, disregarding the pounding on the door.

Dad. I’m going to kick this door in if you don’t open it.

Where are we going?

You’re moving to your new place.

I want to stay here. Go away.

Can’t let you do that.

Have you seen the remote? he yelled.

What?

The TV remote.

It’s by your ashtray where it always is.

The old man looked at the coffee table. Looked at the ashtray. Ahh. There it is. He hit the red button, but the television did not come on. Does anything work anymore?

Dad. Dad. Open this door.

What’re you going to huff and puff and blow my house down?

Just open the Goddamn door, dad.

Staring at a blank screen. The old man continued staring at the blank screen.

Dad. Dad.

Empty fireplace. Cobwebs in corners. A half empty coffee pot with mold floating. You can see your breath.White sheets over furniture. Hardwood floors no longer shine.

They’re buried out back. Two rocks with initials on them in red. Stick crosses tied with rubber bands mark the spot as well. The grass is brown and yellow.

Broken glass. Holes in windows. Kids look inside on Halloween. Nothing but darkness.

Used to visit here when I was a child in summertime. A swingset and slide in the backyard. Shiny metal and iron are now rusted.

I look at this place and remember my grandparents. Grandma who suffered from depression and Grandad always drank from the bottle. A constant pack of cigarettes by his easy chair as well. He was the first to go. Didn’t believe in a heaven or hell. No god or devil. Just Johnny Walker Red was used to guide him through a life that ended on a winter’s day.

My father and I dug the holes in the backyard. We placed his fragile body down in the earth. I asked my dad why we were digging two holes at the same time?

We might as well do it now while we got the will, he said. Sides, she’ll pass on pretty soon.

And she did, January, 1st, 1982. We didn’t even have to place her in the hole. She was found there with a gun in her hand and a hole in her soul.

What’re you having?

I’ll take the ranchers special.

How do you want your eggs?

Sunny side.

Toast?

Wheat. Buttered.

You got it.

He watched her walk away. Opened up a packet of marmalade and spooned it into his mouth. Quickly, there were four empty packets of marmalade on the table. The truck driver started in on the wild berry jelly just before the waitress brought over more coffee.

Sure do like sweets, don’t you? she winked at him.

Yeah. Always have. Shows, don’t it? he rubbed his fat belly.

Not too much. Not too much, she laughed. I’ll be back with your breakfast. He smiled at her.

A Charlie Rich song came on the speakers. Behind Closed Doors softly played throughout the diner. The old trucker smiled and whispered the words. Cuz no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, he sang; rubbed his eyes.

Here you go, honey, she placed the plate in front of him. Need anything else?

You, he said. She turned red in the face. You’re blushing. She looked away and laughed. You must be new. Any other waitress would have slapped me for saying that.

Let’s just say I’m not jaded yet.

I see. So I got a chance?

Need more coffee?

No. Sorry about that.

It’s OK.  I’m flattered. Also married, she held up her wedding ring.

Lucky man.

I guess so.

No, he is. You’re pretty and nice.

And smart, she laughed.

Yeah. And smart.

I’m going to check on my other tables. I’ll be back, she told him, doing her best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. He nodded his gray head and opened another packet of jelly.

I’m waiting, he said. You take forever. What are you wearing anyway? A black dress? You always wear that black dress. This isn’t a funeral. He laughed. I’m going to fix a drink. You want something? Scotch? Maybe a cranberry and vodka? You hear me?

It’s too quiet in here, he said. The husband walked over to his album collection and picked out Dexter Gordon. This will get you moving. Still didn’t tell me what you want to drink. How about a gin and tonic? It’s getting close to summer. Remember? We used to drink those on summer evenings when the kids were out. Or in. He placed ice in a highball glass. I’m guessing you want a double. Coming up.

As he made drinks, wind began to blow the swings. The iron chains and wood made a creaking sound. Sounds like us, he softly said out loud. We’re getting older.

He heard their bedroom door shut. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floors. She stopped by a mirror in the living room and looked into it. Not bad, she said. Not bad at all.

How do I look? she asked, flattening out a wrinkle on her cocktail dress. You like it?

Yes, he said. Yes. Very much.

A lava lamp. Candles of different scents. Blankets on the floor. Books about kama sutra. Cosmopolitan magazines.

She walks across wood planks naked with two martinis in her hands. She has a green olive between her lips. We kiss and I take it from her.

Lying on the floor, listening to Miles Davis. Holding hands, intertwined, looking at each other like we did forty-seven years ago when our bodies didn’t fail us. The ceiling fan twirls above.

And I say to her, I still love you. She kisses me. Runs her fingers through my hair, looks me in the eyes, and says, Happy Anniversary.

The cacti are dying. Some say they can live forever without any water. That’s not true. Depends on the type.

A Christmas cactus needs water every four to six weeks.  Touch the soil. If it’s dry, water it. Use the tips of your fingers and place them in the dirt. Does the soil stick? If yes, then let it go a while longer without water. Do you hear me? he asked.

Yes. I’m listening, she said.

Go on. Touch the black soil.

I don’t want to. You do it.

Why won’t you?

Because. I’m tired of being told what to do. Tired of completing your tasks, she lit a cigarette.

That’s not good for the cacti.

It’s not good for me either. She blew out smoke. You care more about them than you do me. You got me coming and going.

Don’t argue around the plants. They don’t like that. They like classical music. Bach. Mozart.  Music from a different time.

They don’t like country western?

You’re stereotyping. Gabe and Grace like classical. I raised them on it.

She laughed and picked up Gabe and threw him against the wall. There. I killed him. I killed one of your cacti. Watch this. She picked up Grace, opened the door, and tossed her outside in the cold snow.

She’ll die out there. Murderer. I’m calling the police.

Why? Cuz I killed your plants.

They’ll come back. They’ll come back and haunt you the rest of your days.

Right.

He put on his coat. Picked up Gabe and walked out the door.

Where you going?

To bury them.

Bury?

They were living creatures. Never harmed anyone. And you killed them.

You’re fucking crazy.

Yes. That has been established.  But in the spring, they’ll return. You watch. It’ll be curtains for you.

You’re nuts.

Spring time. Spring time.