dmseay

Where were you when I was single? she asked. I would have gobbled you up, the middle-aged woman swung higher on the swingset; he pushed her again. I waited as long as I could. But, a girl gets tired of waiting. You know? he grabbed the metal chains and slowed her down. Now I’m stuck. I mean, I’m not in love. Maybe that’s what happens in marriage. You fall out of love. He lets go of the swing and sits in the one beside her. Maybe I was never in love to begin with. Damn you. Where were you? they laughed while stirring dirt with their feet.

Nowhere, he told her. Everywhere.  Just roaming around.

Roamed where?

Out East. Philadelphia,  D.C., New York. Got all mixed up. Just drove back and forth on I-95. Went all the way to Maine. Saw the ocean.

Never seen that.

It’s something. Beautiful tide, dramatic sunrises, fishing boats, and sails. Makes you feel alive.

I’d do anything to feel that way.

Alive?

Yeah.

You got a family. Roots here. I don’t have that. Used to, but not anymore.

I should have swallowed you up in high school. You were getting all the girls.

Nope. Kids thought I was getting all the girls. Rumors. I just spent my time here on this swing. Drank beer from my parent’s fridge. Falstaff. And then, one day, I just took off. Went down South for a while. Took odd jobs. My whole life has been odd jobs.

Can’t hold onto a woman that way, they smiled.

I suppose not.

Have you been everywhere?

Nope. Never been to Europe. I guess that’s next.

Stay here.

Why?

We could have one of those romantic affairs. Sneak away during the week. Some motel no-tell.

I don’t do that.

Why?

Ain’t right.

But it’s right for you to go around the world breaking hearts?

I suppose not.

I gotta go cook dinner.

I have to go fix a lady’s deck.

Take care of yourself.

You too.

This business. It’s a mess. What to do? Needs a cleaning. No doubt about it, he said. We think we know what we’re doing, but we don’t.  Haven’t the slightest clue.  All this talk. Of nothing. Just jibber-jabber. Speaking to hear yourself speak. And who are you speaking to? he lit a cigarette. No one. Because no one wants to hear you. They gave up years ago, he paced the room. Do you think for one second you have their attention? Rest assured, you do not, he poured a whiskey.  You’ve gotten old. People laugh at you. You’re nothing more than a stupid little fat man running about, looking for a seat in musical chairs. This is what it comes to. Soon, you’ll be non-existent. Gone. And here’s the sad part. No one will notice.

Cheers.

Shadows on walls. Fans spinning above. Leaves falling off plants. A sink filled with dirty dishes. Rips in a couch. The phone rings; another insurance salesman. Christmas lights sparkle in July.

I can’t do this anymore, she said.

What? What can’t you do? he asked. Do you know what you’re talking about?

Yes. I believe so. I have to leave.

Where to? Where you gonna go? You’re gonna wind up dead out there, he told her. All kinds of evil out there. Murderers, rapists, thieves,  cops, criminals, wild dogs roaming, always growling, looking for prey.  Can you handle that?

I think you’ve been lying to me, she said. Lying this whole time.

They looked at each other. Stared. He pulled a pistol out of his pocket. Pointed at the metal chair in the corner. 

Sit down, he demanded.  This is for your own good, he said. He took rusty chains and a couple of locks and placed them around her waist. She began to cry, kick, and scream.

I’ll bet that gun is not even loaded, she said. Prove it to me, she grabbed it and pointed it at her head, pulled the trigger; nothing. Just clicking sounds. You’re a fake like all the rest of them.

I’m going to get us food. That’s what I do for you, she shook her head.

Yeah.

Give me the gun.

What does it matter? There’s nothing in it. No bullets.

Just give it here.

Look, she pointed it at him. Nothing, she pulled the trigger with a sweaty finger. 

Put the gun down. 

Something gonna happen? Scared? I’d be too. She aimed and pulled the trigger again.

This ain’t funny. This ain’t funny.

A car warms up across the street. Garage lights glow. A little light peaks through darkness. The chained dog barks. 

He drinks coffee while seated at the kitchen table. No sugar or milk. He adds whiskey. Drinks it down quickly. Places the bottle back in the cabinet behind baking soda, Crisco, cereal boxes, and a moldy loaf of bread he’ll feed to birds later in the morning when they gather in the backyard.

Looking out the window, the old man sees a deer. He acts as though he’s holding a shotgun and makes a noise while pointing the imaginary weapon at the animal. The buck runs off.

It is autumn. Leaves are wet from dew. Grass is slick and shiny. He walks outside and stands on the back porch smoking a cigarette. Remembering his past life; the one that got away from him. His younger days when it seemed easier. Everything is easy when you’re young, he whispers. Everything. Jobs, women, hangovers, the world, all of it is easy. Until they force you to grow up, he thinks.

The old man points his finger at his temple and acts like he is pulling the trigger. Bang, he says. Bang.

Are you going into town? she asked.

Yep, her husband answered.

How long you gonna be?

Not sure. Why? You watching the clock?

Nope. Just curious.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Well, stay curious. Keep guessing, he put on his boots.

I wonder about you.

How so?

Where you go. What you do. Always taking off after dinner. Every night. 

I suppose so.

And you come home sober. Not a lick of alcohol on your breath. I mean, most husbands go out drinking. Where do you go?

I just go. I drive and clear my head. Get rid of junk inside of it, he lit a cigarette.

You go out to the cemetery?

Sometimes.

You gotta let go of her.

I know. I just go every once in a while. Just when I feel like talking to her.

You can talk to me, she grabbed him. We can talk.

Yeah. I know.

You’re never going to let go of her. He shook his head and walked out.

I saw you come in, and I said to myself, there’s a real man, the waitress said as she stretched her arms across the table, handing him a menu with a thousand choices on it. Coffee? he nodded his head. You know what you like or do you need a few minutes? the cowboy held up two fingers. I’ll be back, the brunette told him. He watched her walk away.

Steak and eggs. Western Omelet. Denver Omelet. Mexican Omelet with chorizo. Pancakes. Waffles. Pork chops and eggs. Bacon and eggs. Biscuits and gravy. Too many choices, he whispered. 

You decided? she placed her hand on his shoulder.

I’ll stick with coffee and some buttered toast.

That’s it? he nodded. White or wheat, honey?

Wheat.

We got Texas toast, too.

Just wheat, he handed her the menu.

Coming right up.

His wife used to make breakfast for him. She scrambled eggs and fried bacon with toast. He liked bacon burnt. She was the only woman who ever got it right.

He stared at the pictures on the walls; a Western motif. Paintings of Cowboys and horses on velvet throughout the diner. Hank Williams played on the radio.

Here you go, hon, she handed him the toast and a note saying, I get off when the sun comes up.

He looked at her. She winked at him. He considered his options.

I warned you, he said to his reflection.  Told you. This is not right, he leaned into the mirror. No. This is not right.

He heard the train coming down the tracks behind his mother’s house. He grew up with that sound; the loudness of the locomotive. Often at night, when he was a boy, he placed teaspoons on the tracks to be flattened by trains. He’d pick up the spoons and study the flat pieces of silver. His mother wondered where all her spoons went. The boy never said a word.

What do you want from me? he asked himself. Am I paying for my sins? he lifted his shirt, exposing a fat stomach. Gluttony.  Theft. Adultery. Lying. All these mistakes,  he said. Too many.

The train was passing. He went outside to listen in the dark. He heard a dinging sound coming closer. The train disappeared. A second train would come later, close to morning. He took out a Zippo and laid it on the tracks. Flatter than a pancake, he laughed. It’ll be flatter than a pancake.

Mirrors don’t lie. He looked closer at himself in the bedroom. Heard the next train approaching. It’s time, the man said. It’s time.

Standing on the tracks, he closed his eyes. How do people do it? he asked out loud as the train got closer. How do they do it? He felt autumn’s  breeze. Guilt will kill us all.

The pillow was soaked. Blankets kicked off the bed. A message from his ex-wife on his phone. Are you awake? I love you, she said. Another train rolled through.

Smell of cat pissed carpet. Pots and plates piled in the sink. Mice laughing at traps.

Windows broken. A cold breeze blows through the house. Men sitting in a circle passing a bottle of cough medicine around. Lips chapped, bloody. Scabs on their bodies. Seated on cardboard.

Don’t drink it all, Pete said to Mikey. Save some for the rest of us, he demanded, the two stared at each other. That’s it. You’re cut off, the old man said to him, grabbing for the bottle of suppressant. Give me that. The two began to wrestle. Punches thrown. Mikey drinks the final swig of medicine. He throws the bottle down, spiking it like a football. You’ve gone and done it now, Pete warned, pulling out a knife. I told you to share. That’s how we do it here. How we survive.

I’ll get more, Mikey said. I’ll steal it.

How? That’s prescription only. We were lucky to get it from the clinic. What kind of magic are you going to pull? Pete asked.

I’ll go there and tell them I’m sick. Real sick. I’ll get it. Just put the knife away.

Pete puts the switchblade back in his pocket. He warns him, be back by sundown. Mikey runs out into the street.

He’s not coming back, Thomas said. He’ll  never come back. What? You think he’s just going to stroll in here with a bottle of cough medicine? I doubt it.

Yeah. If he did get it, he’s somewhere drinking it right now, said John.

He’ll get it one of these days. He’ll run across his maker, Pete said. There are rules, the men nodded their heads in agreement. 

It’s getting dark, John told the group. Should we go find him?

And then what? Thomas asked.

Kill him, Pete said. He has to pay for these sins.

You sure?

As sure as I’ve ever been.

Have you ever killed anyone? John  asked.

People who have don’t talk about it. It’s the ones who brag about it that haven’t. 

Mice ran across the floor. A black bird flew in through the window. Night has come. A reckoning awaits.

You can’t see in the dark, he said. Have to turn on the light, the young man lit a cigarette. A lamp, overhead light, crystal chandelier, something.

Electricity’s been shut off, pop said. Been off for a while now. I guess about a month. Wandering around in darkness. Thanking God for the sun. And then at night, the devil takes over. Blank. Can’t see a thing. Like someone’s covering my eyes, he motioned to his son to hand him a cigarette.

Gotta flashlight?

Nope. Just this Bic, he held it up with a big flame, lighting his face, then shutting it off. Now you see me. Now you don’t, dad laughed.

You can’t go on living this way. Here. Take some money, the kid took out a twenty from his wallet.

That’s not enough.

How far are you behind?

Months. They let it slide for a couple. I’d send them a ten or fifteen dollars every once in a while. Then I just couldn’t send them anything.

Why’s that?

Drank it all.

All your social security check ?

Yeah. Not much anyway.

Are you behind on the trailer payments?

I owe for the lot.  They threaten me all the time. Tell me to clean up my property. Give them money. Live like a white person. They’re quite cruel.

I had no idea, dad. Why didn’t you tell me?

You got your own problems. Wife, kids, that retarded son of yours…

He’s challenged, pop.

Well, I don’t care what he is. He ain’t right.

I gotta go, dad. Take this. I’ll give you more tomorrow, and we’ll clear these bills up.

No. I just want to sit here. In the darkness.

You can’t watch TV or anything.

Right. I miss Wheel Of Fortune.

Sure.

I’ve landed on bankrupt.

Right. No, this place needs cleaned up, dad. You need to clean up.

I haven’t seen you in months and now you come here telling me this. No calls. Nothing.

Your phone’s dead, dad.

Oh. Well, you could’ve stopped by more often. 

I’m here now. Sitting with you in the dark. 

Yeah. Here in the dark. The devil makes his deals in the dark. Always has. 

Just take the money, dad. 

Right. How do I know you’re not the devil?

I’m your son. 

My son lives across town.

Dad?

Who are you? And why is it dark? Turn on some light. You hear me? I said, turn on some light, he yelled.

I’m leaving, dad.

Turn on the TV.

I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring you McDonald’s.  You like that?

I prefer Wendy’s.

Fine.

It’s dark in here.

Yes, dad. It’s dark.

Raindrops bounced off the window unit. Winds whirled and moaned. Trees bendt. Alley cats hid behind dumpsters.

He lay in bed, listening to opera on the radio, sung in Italian. Foreign words floating over his head. It soothed him. The soprano made him cry.

On his desk sat a bottle of Beaujolais and a dirty glass. He got up and washed it in the sink with his hands and hot water. The legs of wine before disappeared like sin after a baptism.

Fat man sat in a metal chair and poured himself a glass from the pretty bottle with flowers painted on it. A twelve dollar Beaujolais, he thought. Mmmm. Not bad.

The opera was hitting a critical point. The lover had just died in the man’s arms. He carried her through town. The fat man sensed that something tragic had taken place. A single flute told him.

A tear ran down fat man’s cheek.  He looked outside, and rain had turned to snow. The Bronx streets were white. Cars skid across lanes. Tires screeching. Another glass of wine poured.

The opera had ended. Now, it was  jazz throughout the night. He hummed along to all the songs, even the avant garde bop of Ornette Coleman. Those notes made him cry as well.

He crawled back into bed. Prayed as he lay there. Said, it’s good to be alive. It’s good to be alive.