dmseay

A flickering light bulb dangled over a kitchen sink. Hardwood floors with boards missing. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner. Mice ran on counter tops. 

He sat in a metal folding chair, drinking what was left of a forty ounce. A pack of cigarettes with one sticking out upside down. His prison tattoos were starting to fade. The refrigerator hummed and kicked.

On walls are drawings in magic marker. Green and red with shades of orange leaves falling from a tree. It reminded him of his childhood. A cop car cruised by with its lights on. Sirens blared. The old man remained calm.

When he was a kid, he raked leaves every fall. His dad would make the boy sweep fallen colored pieces into piles around the yard. He was promised a dollar for every pile. Sometimes payments were made, other times not.

You’re not doing it right, kid, dad said. Put your back into it, he yelled. Girls walked by and laughed. And pick em up. All of them. I want to see grass. His father shouted like a Marine seargent. Pick em up. Pick them up. The leaves were placed in dark green trash bags and set out by the curb. You did good, kid. Here’s a five. Now beat it. The father laughed as his son ran away. Never to return.

That was years ago. Jobs had come and gone. Always on the bottom of the totem pole. He finished his beer and lit his last smoke. The one that was upside down.

Here’s to you, pop. Hope you’re at peace. The old man looked up and crossed himself.

The dangling light burned out.

They hiked through the woods over dead brown leaves and pine needles. A stream ran through the forest over rocks; beavers built dams.

Overhead, the sun was going down. A quarter moon shined. He set up the tent while she gathered kindling for a fire. A rain drop was felt.

Put the sticks in here, he said, pointing under the tent. You bring newspapers? he asked. She nodded. Good. We’ll build  a fire as soon as this blows over, he told her. Here. Have a Nutty Buddy. She unwrapped it and began eating the chocolate covered wafer immediately. I didn’t realize you were so hungry. Here. Have another, he tossed it to her. Eat. We got plenty. This is an appetizer, he laughed. She smiled.

Why are you always bringing me out here, Daddy? the girl asked.

Don’t know. I like it. Thought you liked it, she nodded. Tall, naked oaks stood over them. He opened his canteen. Took a drink and then sat it down outside the tent. Maybe it’ll collect rain, he said. She smiled and opened her canteen. What you got in there?

Grape Kool-aid. I put the powder in it, then add water and shake it up and down. Delicious. They both laughed. The rain began to let up.

His daughter began placing sticks on the ground and adding logs they’d bought at the gas station on top in a pyramid shape. Dad fit newspaper in between the wood and on the bottom. Doused it with fire starter, squirting it from the tin can with a picture of a man in an apron and chef’s hat on it. An orange flame began to glow.

You do like it out here? Don’t you? he asked her, with her hands outstretched towards the fire.

Yeah. I like it.

I do, too.

Wish mom was here, she said.

Yeah. So do I. We used to come here before you were born. Way back. Before we were married. She gathered kindling too. Roasted hotdogs on wire hangers.

Just like we do?

Yeah. They got charred black, the way we like them. Then we’d roast marshmallows. Chewy on the outside, gooey inside.

Right.

Yeah.

Think we’ll ever see her again?

One day, dear. Some day. We’ll recognize her by her spirit. 

What do you mean?

It won’t be physical. We’ll know her by her kindness, her love.

You believe in ghosts? the kid asked.

I believe in spirits. Waiting for us in heaven. If we’re good.

Yeah?

Yeah. So be good.

She took another drink of Kool-aid and passed it to her dad.

I see a lot of her in you.

Really? What do you mean?

Your mannerisms. The way you act. Soon, you’ll be just like her. He laughed.

Think so, huh?

Yeah. Time goes fast.

Yep. It sure does.

It’s time, he said.

Time for what? she asked. What do you mean? Are you trying to say something? Just spit it out, his wife said. And be honest. Stop this guessing game. I’m always wondering what’s next.

I’m just tired of this. Everything is wrong. It’s all messed up, he told her.

Are you leaving?

Yes.

Why?

Are you happy in this?

This. This. This is nothing. Not anymore. It’s just two people living under a roof. Parked on one’s own side of the bed. Leaving the room as the other enters, she said to him. This. This is gone. Done. Right? He nodded his head. 

Yeah. We’ve beaten this thing to death. 

Right, she reached for a beer in the refrigerator. She took the last one. You wanna split it?

What?

The beer.

No. Go ahead. Too early for me.

It’s never too early. She pulled the tab on the can. Took a swig. Foam came up over the top. She slurped on it and took another drink.

This, she said. This. It hurts, she cried. Like you ripped a band-aid off. 

It’s been coming off for some time now, he said. You’ve been pulling on it, I’ve been pulling on it, just dangling there. Holding on for dear life. Gotta throw it away. Be done with it. Move on.

What’re you going to move on to? The next one? You’ll fuck that up as well, she scolded him. You’ll never be happy. And you know why I know that? Because I’ll never be happy. We’re two miserable people. We might as well be miserable together, she placed her hand on the side of his face.

No, he removed her hand. Grabbed her by the wrist. Shook his head. No, he said. Not this time. And he walked out the door.

She screamed and cried. Kept saying, This. This.  This. This is done.

The wife took off her ring and watched as his truck backed out of the driveway. She downed the rest of the beer and threw the can across the kitchen. Now that’s done, too. This. What is this?

Birds fly around. I toss pita bread in the backyard like Frisbees. Trees are yellowing, turning orange, and rust. An American flag waves in a front yard down the street. The library parking lot is empty.

Semis drive by on Highway 41. Out of state plates. Missouri, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, all of these diesels traveling in one line. Making their way north and south. Maybe ending up in Arkansas or Florida. Just like the birds.

Kids on bikes riding to school. Cursing and talking like their parents. Repeating political slogans. No original thought. We are all sheep.

Did you see that? he asked. A trace. Some light in the sky. Going east to west. Glowing.

No. I missed it, she said.

Maybe a shooting star or a comet, he looked up again. Huh. Probably an airplane, he told her. Just some airplane or rocket. Perhaps a rocket? I don’t know.

Who shoots off rockets out here? she asked. They do that in Florida, not Tennessee. She looked at his face, outlined in the dark. You’re seeing things again. It’s your imagination, the woman said.

You always say that. As if my mind plays tricks on me. Like I’m not logical. You think I’m crazy.

Do not.

Yeah. You do. Think I’m nuts. Always have. When we were in school, you thought I was off. Always questioning me.

I just don’t think there was anything in the sky, she lit a cigarette and offered him one. He lit them both with a Zippo. They breathed in the nicotine and cold night air. Menthols taste good in the winter, she said. I don’t know why, but they just do. You think so?

I’m done talking to you. I’m done talking, period. I know what I saw.

No, you don’t.

Yeah. I do.

You saw a light or an airplane or a rocket or a comet or a blank blank blank fill in the blank. You saw nothing.

And that’s why I will no longer speak. Not a word. To anyone. I’ll live the rest of my days in silence. 

Now that’s crazy.

He looked at her. Just looked at her and walked away. Same way he did last weekend and the weekend before that.

Sonofabitch is crazy.

There’s no creamer, he said.

In the back of the fridge,  she replied. You have to move stuff around. It’s in there. The pumpkin flavored. The one you like, she got up from her chair.

I don’t see it.

Look, she pushed him aside. Behind the lettuce. See? Coffee creamer.

What’s lettuce doing on the top shelf ? It belongs in the crisper down below, he told her. He opened the bottle and poured some in his cup.

It doesn’t matter. The crisper does nothing. Vegetables still rot, she closed the refrigerator door. You can put the lettuce anywhere. A tomato, same difference.  These are just things they do to entice you. Makes you want to buy it. It’s cold either way.

That’s not true. That’s not what the salesman said.

They’ll say anything. 

Yes. I understand that. But I think he was sincere about the crisper. I don’t think he’d lie about such a thing, he said, stirring his coffee around.

You’ll believe anything. You probably think I love you.

Don’t you?

I don’t know. All this time. Not sure anymore. Weeks go by, and I think I still love you, but I don’t know. Maybe I just depend on you.

Depend on me?

Yes. Help with the kids. Bills. A roof over my head. That sort of thing.

How long have you felt like this?

A while. A while.

What do you want ?

I don’t know. I like security. It’s safe here. Almost easy. Too easy. The kids are gone all day. I make meals. Hold your hand. And that’s all that’s required.

Yes, he opened the door. Let me know when you figure it out.

Sure, she placed her arms around him. Have a good day. She kissed him on the cheek.

Another requirement?

Yes, dear. 

Stuttgart is north. So is Smackover. Locust Bayou is over there. Camden’s not far, the fellow at the gas station said. There’s nothing in these towns. A diner, couple of churches, Tastee Freeze. What’re you looking for? He noticed the Ohio plates on the station wagon.

We’re just driving, the man told him. Checking out parts of the country we’ve never been to, his young daughter was getting fidgety in back. We were in Tennessee before this. Heading to El Dorado, he said, the wife checked her lipstick in the mirror.

You gotta head west, said the man as he pumped premium into their tank. Yeah. I been there a time or two. You should check out Texarkana while you’re at it.

Maybe we’ll do that, the husband said. Maybe. The daughter was getting restless.

Honey, why don’t you say hello to the nice man, the wife said. The daughter rolled down her window a bit. Go-on. Don’t be shy, dad turned, and looked at her in the backseat with a pink blanket covering her legs.

Hi, the attendant said. I’m Rusty. Everybody calls me Rusty. Always has. Pleased to make your acquaintance, she rolled down the window a bit more. About eye level. Then, all the way down.

Hello Rusty, she said as she pulled a gun out from under the blanket and shot him. Bye-bye Rusty.

Retracing steps. Paths walked. There was always something new but never different.

How far did you go? he asked

From Indiana to Maine, I said. Stops in between. Taking long routes, unnecessary out of the way  back-roads. Watching autumn turn to winter.

How much money did you have?

Not much. Kept asking friends, family, and acquaintances to wire cash via Western Union; secret passwords.

I see. He motioned to the bartender and put two fingers up in the air. Tonight, we drink, he told me. To the poor man’s travel, he toasted with the shots of whiskey.  I drank it down. It warmed my soul.

Thanks for the drinks, I said. Gotta be on my way.

Where are you going?

I don’t know.

Night sounds. Trucks going down the highway. Wind blowing on trees. Maniacal laughter in the room next door. Bottles thrown out into dumpsters down below. A drunk throwing-up. The buzzing of an electrical current in a No Vacancy sign. Arguments in Urdu.

Class was a long way away. Drunks, junkies, whores, wild men screaming into night. Cop cars with sirens blasting. A cold rain hits my window. What I wouldn’t give for a little money, honey. Broker than broke, and that ain’t no joke. Somebody’s dog is barking.

The taste of blood comes up when I cough. That metallic taste. Please, God, don’t let me die here in Dante’s hell; this seventh level where I’m stuck along with  vagabonds and small-time con-men. Heaven never in reach.

She said I’d  never starve. As long as I stayed  with her. A woman I met in Pittsfield who worked at a strip joint declared. She had a thing for the wounded, the heart broken, souls that had been lost for years. She needed a new pillow to sleep with. The old one gave out on her, walked out, and left a note. It’s been fun, the letter said. Save your dimes.

We kept each other warm in the New York night. She’d bring home Chinese food, and we watched Jeopardy. Laughed a little bit. Made love on a torn mattress. Drank Gallo wine from big bottles in paper cups from the bathroom. Our naked bodies lying in the morning sun coming through a thick window. Her arms around my belly. Blankets kicked to the floor. Jazz played on public radio.

I thought we had something. You always do. Only to leave it behind. Never good enough. Always looking for the better option.

God help us all.

Quiet places scare me. Peaceful countryside, a farm, funerals, some dirt road in a Midwest county, all frightening. I’ve never been one for peace.

I prefer noise. The squeaky sound of a saxophone in a bar with people talking over it, ordering drinks from jaded waitresses, cops cruising by outside, chasing a Dodge with no muffler, lovers yelling in the room next door, a junkie crying for a fix, voices talking in my head.

Chicago, for the most part, sleeps at night. It is only the night hawks flying high that make noise. Drunks in Mexican restaurants at four in the morning, bartenders washing glasses in a sink, club goers dancing to electronic beats, blues wailing from Southside joints, Northside white kids eating char dogs at The Weiner Circle, a line out the door, sounds of heavy metal radio and rap in the porn shops, moaning and groaning coming from booths, homeless boys in wigs.

But, for the most part, Chicago sleeps. Jobs are to be tended to come morning in the city that works. Beer trucks delivering kegs, bread brought to diners and four star joints, drugs being sold on corners (they’re no different than pharmaceutical reps. Except for clothes and expense accounts). Everybody has to make a living, including whores on Lake Street calling out to me as I stand in line for work. A sign above says, Fresh Killed Lamb. Slaughtered years ago.

As I grow old, noises become less and less. Maybe it’s location. Perhaps I’ve tuned them out. Could be youth is gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Noise. I miss you.