dmseay

I wonder where she is. Last heard, she ran off  with some insurance salesman to Buffalo. He left his wife and kids to be with her. But Buffalo? Why Buffalo?

Of all the places they could have gone, they chose a dreary town like that. Why not some place exotic like Vermont or New Hampshire? Who knows?

She was always on the move. She probably chose to settle down to a miserable life like most Americans. These dreams we have. And we wind up settling for Buffalo.

The whole country is Buffalo if you think about it; a falling down city surrounded by suburban dreams. And we think we’ve made it. Thinking we live in the greatest country on earth. Yes, one big Buffalo.

We shared a small room in the Bronx. Walls were dingy from cigarette smoke. Pull tab beer cans in an overflowing trashcan. A coffee maker you had to jiggle a bit.

I wrote poetry. She was a hooker. Often at night, I would roam the city while old men undressed her. She left money around the room just to tease me. Didn’t bother me. She earned it.

At the end of the month, I’d take her out for a meal and a movie with royalty checks from book sales. These payments didn’t amount to much. Fifty here and sometimes seventy there. I never had rent. I made up for it in other ways. I listened to her. She always said I was the only person who listened to her. I was happy to oblige.

And then, one day, it was over. Came back to the room, and she was gone. Wrote a note saying she took off for Buffalo with an insurance salesman.

Damn. I hate insurance salesmen. And I hate Buffalo.

He looks at life. Every season of the year. Mornings, seated on a park bench as the sun comes up, he is out there. Watching light glaze tree leaves of green or gold, with a cup of coffee in hand, feeling morning on his face. Smiling as rain drops fall, snow lingers, and grass sparkling from dew. He lights a cigarette and prays to his god. God answers.

Take it in, the almighty says to the old man. Your journey is almost complete. Soon, you’ll be home.

The old man laughs. I’m already home, he says. I’ve journeyed long enough in life. This is my home.

Yes, God says. You have had a long, hard trip from Arkansas to Indiana.  Ohio to New York. Vermont and Canada. Midwest to California on busses filled with vagabonds and villains. There is a better place for you, his lord said. A place where there is no more pain. No more wicked thoughts.

I appreciate the offer. But I’m good right here.

He sipped his coffee, took a drag on his cigarette, and looked at the leaves.

A water heater hums.

It keeps me company.

He did not attend his wife’s funeral. She was buried with plenty of loving friends and family, praying and singing for her soul, but not him.

When the old man was told about her death, he simply said, ohhhh. He told me he couldn’t remember who she was. Wasn’t sure who I was for that matter.

I asked him if he remembered trips to Dallas when we were all younger; him and mom in the front seat, eating roast beef sandwiches while I sat in back watching America go by. We passed rivers, lakes, small towns, and diesel drivers honked at us when I gave them the signal, forearm, and fist pulling straight down. That always made us laugh.

But no, he did not attend mom’s funeral. We went fishing instead on the banks of the Ouachita River. He always loved going there, never caught anything, just sat in the sun for hours humming Glenn Campbell songs. Wichita Lineman and By The Time I Get To Phoenix, were his favorites.

He sat there pondering. Did someone die? he asked.

Yes, dad. Someone died. 

Someone I knew?

Yes. Your wife.

Huh. How strange. Did we love each other?

Yeah.

That’s good. You never know.

This house makes noises. It creaks and moans. Hardwood floors sag. Toilet runs.

The staircase is not to be trusted, broken boards, and a railing coming loose. They used to sleep in the bedroom up there. Now that she’s gone, he sleeps in his easy chair downstairs; a blanket she sewed keeps him warm from the draft.

He thinks he hears her voice at night. Talking to him the way she used to. Complaining about his snoring and gas. But, it’s only the wind howling through.

She died back in ’97. Cancer got her. Died in the bed upstairs. She didn’t get treatment. Saw it as a blessing coming to her. She was done with this life.

The old man didn’t question her. He figured she was entitled to make her decisions. She’d been through enough. The arguments, infidelity. He thought she deserved a rest.

And he sits there each night. Listening to the house moan and groan. Feeling wind blow in. Floors creaking when he walks to the refrigerator to grab a beer. He turns on the TV with no picture and listens to Lawrence Welk. Champagne music mixed with memories.

This house makes noises.

You know what makes us human? he asked. Guilt. The more guilty we feel, the more human we are, he told him. If we didn’t feel guilt, we’d all be monsters. Just evil specimens on a lonely planet.

Right.

There’d really be no use for us. We’re bad enough as it is.

Yeah.

The old man began flipping through television channels.  Stopping at cable news programs. Stories about politics and brush fires, shootings on the Southside, a woman was robbed at an ATM. See all this? he asked his son. Terrible, just terribile, dad kept flipping through stations. Wars, hunger. Some madman in control. All about money, he said. All about money. You listening?

Sure.

Right, he walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed two beers, and handed one to his son. Got your attention now?

Nope.

Guilt.

The kid opened his beer. He could feel the can sweat around his fingertips. It was ice cold.

Miller High Life. The king of beers, the father told him.

What?

Used to be commercials for this stuff. Claimed to be the king of beers.

That’s Budweiser.

Same thing. It’s all American made.

Some Brazilian Belgian conglomerate bought Budweiser.

Fucking krautes.

No, dad. Kraute would be a derogatory term towards Germans.

Same thing. Belgians and Brazilians. All the krautes went to Brazil after the war, you know. All those Nazis went down there. Girls in bikinis and plenty of sun. That was their punishment. Never trust a German.

Things change, dad. People change.

Guilt doesn’t.

We don’t feel guilt anymore. Keep watching the news, dad. Keep watching the news.

I didn’t say anything.

Yes, you did.

No. I’ve been quiet this whole time. Not a word, he said.

Not a word? Nothing? he asked. Must be hearing things. Strange. I could have swore you said something.

He shook his head. Looked into the dark. Could barely make out his face. He wanted to talk but couldn’t. He was being held back. His filter wasn’t allowing it. They sat quietly in the dark.

There. Right there. You said something.  I heard you.

No.

You wanted to. I can tell. Maybe I can read minds; your mind. Thoughts come out crystal clear.

Not too clear.

How’s that?

You’re asking what I said when I’ve said nothing. Then you said you can read thoughts, minds, my mind. I think you’re full of it. You’ve heard nothing. My thoughts are silent.

Loud.

What?

You’re being loud.

Yes. Now I am. Why do I stay here with you?

Because you can’t leave. Deep down, you don’t want to leave. You’d rather stay.

I don’t enjoy this.

What?

Being here. With you.

Right.

Yeah.

Leave.

It’s too dark. I can’t find the door.

Wait until morning. When light comes. Maybe then, at that time, you’ll have a whole new perspective. Maybe. Maybe not. But be careful what you think. Be careful. I hear you.

He placed his hands over his ears. Then, over his mouth. He kept switching back and forth. Slapping himself. Throwing a fit on the filthy floor.

What did you say?

I said nothing, he screamed. I have nothing to say. Just leave me be. Will you? Leave me be.

Yes. Those are your true feelings?

Yes.

OK. Goodnight.

This is the point, he said. What I’m telling you. Listen up, he offered a cigarette. I don’t tell stories. Lies. My tales are a whole new brand of truth. Bones are bare.

What are you talking about?

Stripping it all down to the very core. Get to the marrow. The bone, he said. What do we have if we don’t have truth? he asked. Honesty between human beings. People not scared, not afraid of confessing to this or that. These sins we commit. 

You’re on a roll tonight. He held up two fingers for the bartender to see. Cleared his throat. Tried not to make a face. 

You’re hiding something.

Yes.

Why?

Cause I’m scared.

Of what?

We’re all going to die someday. My father dead. Mom passed away. A boy on the news tonight died of a gunshot on the Southside. A woman in a hospital sacrificed her life for a child. We’re all going to die someday.

Yes. Yes, we are. Best to confess your sins.

I slept with your wife, he told him. Didn’t mean to. Just happened. You were out of town. That’s when it happened. 

More than once?

We used to sneak away to hotels over in Allen County. By the interstate. We’d have breakfast at Cracker Barrel.

Jesus. I always suspected. Never wanted to believe it.

And now I’m paying for it.

How?

An early death. Cough up blood. Taste it in my mouth.

Cancer?

Yeah.

You deserve it. They both laughed. She was always up to no good. And you took advantage of her nature.

Guilty as charged. He ordered two shots of cheap whiskey. Handed one to his friend. To Marilyn, he said. They clanked glasses and shot them back.

You know you’re going to hell.

I figured as much.

Why? he asked. What’s it got to do with me? he flagged down a waitress to fill his coffee. I seldom get involved in these sort of things. I like to keep my nose clean. You, on the other hand, you, my friend, run in the opposite direction.

How so?

You seek it out. You look for trouble. The waitress poured more coffee. He added cream. His friend took it black. Chet Baker sang Funny Valentine in the background.

I seek it?

Yes.

I go out and look for it on my own? That’s what you’re saying.

Correct.

I take that as an insult. Almost calling me an amateur. I am a professional.  Do you hear me? A professional. 

I hear you.

These things fall into my lap. These opportunities. What am I supposed to do? he poured sugar in the cup. Miles Davis now played It Never Entered My Mind.

Right.

You know. You come to me with a hell of a problem here. Asking me to fix it. We haven’t discussed money or the job itself. You tell me you want this woman killed. Why?

Just forget it. Forget I said anything.

Sure. I’m supposed to forget. Just let it go. And then the next week, maybe a month, I read about some dead broad on the Southside where there’s a million dead broads that usually don’t get reported or solved. Except this time, the job was done on the cheap. The killer or killers didn’t get it right. They made mistakes. Right?

What kind of mistakes?

Anything. Fingerprints. A gun thrown in a dumpster. They were followed. Too loud when they killed her. Too much noise. Could be a number of things. That’s what you get with amateurs. Savvy?

He nodded. Took another drink. Slid a small sack of money across the table.

I’ll be in touch.

Nothing works. It is dark. No heat. This blanket does not help. Up and down the street, there are lights on. People plotting. Planning holiday trips. Vacations in the mountains. Christmas in Chicago. But in this house, nothing works.

Cats cry. The place smells of piss. Mattresses with stains on them. Pillows colored from sweat marks and drool. An American flag waves on the corner. A spotlight shines on it. An old Dodge drives by. These cats. Damn cats. Stop crying. Stop ruining my life. Their dish is empty.

The cactus blooms.