dmseay

A red rusted Ford truck sits on blocks in the yard. Trailer park cats crawl all over it. Everywhere there are cats, under the hood, on the ripped black leather seat, lying on the cracked dashboard, in the back where the truck’s bed has become one big litter box with weeds growing in it. Holes from BB guns have pierced the side. Kids take target practice in the afternoons. The windshield is broken.

Walter lights a cigarette butt, trying desperately to suck down what poison there still is. He burns the tips of his calloused fingers and places them in his mouth. He sucks on the digits like a baby.

The old man thinks of the other night. Was it real? he asks out loud. Was she really here? He shakes his head and rattles a beer can. Some warm beer is left mixed with ashes from hand-rolled cigarettes. He drinks it down in one gulp and wipes his mouth. Rattles the can a little more. There is nothing left.

No more, he says. That’s that. He walks around the room and picks up empty cans of Old Style, and shakes them. The old man hears nothing. Not a drop of beer in any of them. Coffee, he whispers. I need coffee and about five Tylenol. He walks back to the bathroom where the sound of piss hitting water pleases him. Just like a racehorse, he tells himself.  I still got it. The rug around the toilet is urine soaked. He goes through the medicine cabinet, but nothing is there except a bottle of cough suppressant. He opens it and downs what is left.

There is knocking on the door. He yells to hold on. The beating gets louder. Are you back to haunt me?  Bobby makes his way inside by pushing the door open and knocking Walter to the floor. Bobby laughs.

He walks in with a six-pack and a bag filled with small bottles of Fireball. He holds them high over his head as the old man jumps for the bag and a beer.

Yeah. I got something for you, the kid says. MerryfuckingChristmas. He reaches into the brown bag and tosses a bottle to the old man. Walter opens it quickly. Unscrewing the cap and spilling some on the floor. Don’t waste it,  Bobby tells him. Savor it. Just take it nice and slow. The old man tries but can’t resist. He downs the cinnamon liquid in a quick gulp and begs for a beer.

You want a chaser? Bobby asks. The old man shakes his head. Bobby hands him a can of Coors. It’s Christmas, he says. It’s Christmas.

Thank you.

Sure.

I didn’t get you anything, Walter tells Bobby.

I didn’t expect you would. Now. Let’s get down to business.

Orange, red, and green lights begin to glow through windows on the trailer. They blink on and off to the beat of a dragging muffler. A loud bass beat is heard as well. Boom boom, it goes into evening. A game of basketball is played with a milk crate makeshift basket. No backboard, just a black crate with the words Dairy Fresh on the sides nailed to a pole. Opossums rummage through trash cans.

The old man sits on the couch as Bobby paces the room. Four Old Styles on the table. Each has a beer in their hand.

You telling me she was here last night? Bobby asks. In the flesh? Wasn’t some ghost, was it? Some apparition?

No. She was here. She stood there, Walter points at the wall, looking at your artwork.

This is a figment of your imagination. I’m gonna quit bringing you booze, Bobby sits on the folding chair. It’s that Fireball.  Shit will make you crazy.

No, no, no. I’m as sane as you are. Granted, you’re crazier than ten niggers. But, no. She was here. We talked. Said I hadn’t changed.

Well. That’s true.

She has gray hair now. No longer blonde.

That so? Bobby moves over to Walter on the couch. Why do you have to lie to me? Mom’s either dead or living some place else. Cause she ain’t here. She doesn’t come to visit you. He picks up the four remaining beers and heads to the door.

No. No. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

I’m outta here.

Just leave me one, Walter begs. Just one.

Bobby tears a beer from the plastic and throws it at the old man like a fastball. It hits the floor and rolls. The old man gets on his hands and knees and chases it.

That’s your salvation. Bobby tells him. Hold onto it. Might be the last one you get. He exits the trailer.

Walter sits on the floor and opens the foamy beer. He begins to cry.

A cat in heat is heard outside the trailer. Over and over the animal moans. A tall woman with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail looks at the drawings on the wall. She runs her finger over the stick figures and mouths, Bobby was here. The cat is still squealing.

The woman plays kick the can in the living room and looks around the place. A broken TV,  cushions and springs exposed on a couch, nothing has changed since she left some time ago. Everything is broken. She crushes the beer can with her heel.

Thelma left Walter and Bobby behind a couple of years ago. She and the old man would argue till early morning every night. She threw plates at him, glasses, turned over the table. She’d scream out at Walter. Tell him what a terrible husband he was. The old man just put on his hat most nights and went to the local drinking hole where he’d forget about her for a while, only to come back and find her asleep on the hideaway bed with Bobby in her arms.

Down the hall, the toilet begins to run again. The old man yells at it and kicks the base of the commode. He jiggles the handle and laughs. Nothing works, he says. Nothing.

Walter walks into the front room and sees Thelma standing there. They both look at each other in silence as the toilet stops running. The old man holds out his arms. Thelma does not move.

What’re you doing here? Walter asks. You still have a key? Thelma nods her head. You always had the prettiest green eyes. The kind of eyes that catch you. Make you feel something.

Thelma picks up an empty bottle of Fireball off the floor. Some things never change, she tells him. You still running?

Running?

From truth.

I never lied to you.

No. I guess not. You just made things difficult. Drinking made things difficult, she walks over to the door. See you around. Softly, she closes the door. Walter sits on the couch. He puts his hands over his ears and screams, which turns into wild laughter. The cat is still moaning outside.

A cigarette burns in the dark. Orange glow of the butt dances around the room. A beer can is popped open. Foamy liquid drips on the floor. Nobody bothers to clean it up. It is silent and Bobby takes a seat on the folding chair, looking at his dad lying on the couch. The old man drools and tosses under the blanket.

You were never any good, Bobby says. Lazy. Just plain lazy, he whispers. Bobby drinks from the Old Style can and gurgles it in his mouth while walking over to the old man. He then stands over him and spits it out on his face.

What the hell? the old man yells. Bobby laughs like a child on a playground. He takes another swig and spits it out at his pop again. Boy, dad yells. You better stop if you know what’s good for you. The old man sits up and looks around. Where am I? he asks. What are you doing here?

Just thought I’d pay you a visit, Bobby says. Thought I’d see how the other half lives.

What other half is that?

You old man. The local gentry.

Huh. Is that so? Hand me one of those beers. If you would. I always wake up thirsty. Always a dry mouth. Like I got cotton in it.

A cotton mouth?

Yeah.

Like the snake?

I don’t know about that. They both laugh. Yeah. A cotton mouth. Why you think they call them cotton mouths?

Don’t know. Bobby tosses the old man a beer. He clumsily catches it. Looks at the can. It’s sweating. The old man runs his fingers over it.

You could’ve just handed it to me, the old man says. Like a white person.

Bobby laughs. They both sit there drinking. Not saying a word. Light is coming through the windows. A dove begins to sing. Some old frog is croaking. Mice scurry across the floor. Neither one of them  notice.

Let’s talk, dad. Let’s talk about something real. You wanna do that? Talk about something real. The old man guzzles more beer. He looks at Bobby. He drinks more.

Why do you come here? Do you enjoy torturing me? Your mother tortures me.

Tortured, dad. Past tense.

Whatever. She makes me feel like a fool. But, I still love her.

You loved her?

I do. Present tense.

It is dark. Sounds of diesels passing by on the nearby highway make a melodic song. Cicadas are also singing. Making high-pitched sounds early in the morning. Through the windows, darkness becomes light, and dogs begin to bark loudly every once in a while, making all of this a symphony as the old man snores and dreams.

He sleeps on the couch in a fetal position. His mouth is wide open, and occasionally, he talks out loud. Muttering statements. Saying, come back here. Don’t leave. You’ll never find a better deal. The old man rolls over on his side and kicks off the blanket. His black and blue legs stretch out as he begins to wake up. He looks down at his boxers with yellow stains on them and says, damn. Not again. 

He sits up and rubs his eyes. Dogs are barking louder, and a truck starts up across the street.  Headlights come through the windows. The cicadas stop singing. There is no longer any music. Just noise. He curses the light.

Red and black markings on a wall. Stick figures drawn. Straight lines and circles. Two of the figures are holding hands. One is taller than the other. The shorter one holds a red balloon attached to a black string. A truck is drawn on the wall as well.  It is red and says Ford on the side in small black letters. Above it is a statement; Bobby was here.

A toilet flushes weakly. A running toilet sound will not stop. The old man shakes the handle and lifts the lid, looking at the mechanism. He holds a copper rod connected to a pump. The sound stops. He releases it, and the running toilet sound begins again. Just like most things in his life, he gives up on fixing it. This running toilet haunts him as he walks into the main room and sees drawings and sentences on the wall. 

Goddammit, he says. Can’t have anything nice. The old man stares at the stick figures and Bobby’s statement. Bobby was here, he says. Bobby was here. The moans from the toilet stop while the hum of the refrigerator gets loud, then soft. The old man places his hands over his ears.

Bobby was here, he says out loud. I know he was here. He didn’t have to tell me. Didn’t have to write it on the wall. Just like his mother. Always trying to make a statement. Trying to make folks think about them.

There are empty bottles of Fireball lying around. He kicks one across the floor like a soccer ball. Then, he kicks another and another. He lays down on the couch and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Picks up the remote and points it at the busted TV. Damn thing.

Light comes through a cracked window. Soft humming from the refrigerator. The old man sits on the beaten couch with a small bottle of Fireball in his hand. He stares straight ahead, fixated on nothing. He begins to hum a George Jones song, He Stopped Loving Her Today. There’s knocking on the door. It begins soft, then grows louder, turning into a drumbeat.

What? What do you want? he continues looking forward. The beating on the door is getting harder. The old man takes a drink from an empty bottle. There is nothing in it. Not even a swallow. The drumming is at full pace.

Leave me be, he says. Leave me be. The beating grows softer but still is heard. You’re  going to beat the door down. He pulls a blanket over his head and begins nodding back and forth, almost dancing to the rhythm of the drumming. Suddenly, it stops. There is silence.  Again, he picks up the TV remote and aims it at the busted television. He takes batteries out and examines them. He holds them up and turns the small devices. Spits on the ends and rubs them, places the small items back in the remote, and points at the TV once more. The beating on the door begins again.

I said, leave me be. A laugh is heard outside. At first, a chuckle. Barely noticeable. It grows louder.

What’s so funny? You like torturing me? Thelma? Is that you? Is that you? There is no reply. Just laughter. He walks over to the door. He is scared to open it. The hum of the refrigerator gets louder. Laughter gets louder. The beating on the door begins again. He screams out and walks in circles around the room.

I know that’s you, Thelma. I knew you’d come back. Go away. Just go away, he states. This ain’t fair. You’re some kind of ghost. Some kind of spirit.

The old man walks back to the door again. I’m going to open this damn thing on the count of three. You best be gone. Hear me? Thelma? One. Two. Three. He opens the door. Bobby stands there, laughing at him.

She’s not coming back, old man. Left you forever.

You think so? Huh?

Could you blame her? Bobby pulls out a small bottle of Fireball from his pocket. He holds it over the old man’s head, making him grasp for it. He holds it high and walks backward as the old man follows. Bobby tosses it like a bone to a dog.  The old man hunts around for it and finds the bottle. He drinks the whiskey down. Bobby begins laughing again. The light from the window grows dark.

An old refrigerator sits in the corner. Broken plates on the floor. Towels  soaking up rainwater. Walls stripped of paint.  A couch’s cushions ripped, exposing brown and yellow stains.  He lies there. Wrapped in a blanket that has small logos of NFL teams sewn on it. His head rests on the armrest. A TV remote in hand. The television has a busted screen from where he kicked it years ago. He points the remote and hits it with his other hand. Slapping it and cursing.

Damn thing, he says. Son of a bitch. It worked yesterday. Piece of shit.

What are you talking about? asks Bobby. That thing hasn’t worked in years. You destroyed it. Kicked it with your foot a long time ago. When I was a kid.

That so? Dad asks. Well, I’ll be. He continues pointing the remote at the small TV. I’m losing my mind.

Yeah, the son laughs. Have been. The kid pulls out a folding metal chair leaning against the wall. He turns it around and sits in it backward. This place is a dump, he says. A true dump. Looks like a wrecking ball came through here. 

Yes. Thanks for pointing out the obvious, the old man sits up, still pointing the remote at the television. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a ten dollar bill. Here, take this and go get me a bottle. Couple of shots of Fireball.

Takes more than that.

It’s all I got till the first. 

Right. The kid takes the money and stuffs it in his wallet.

Go on. Go get me something.

I will.

Now, while I’m young.

You were never young, says Bobby. You’ve always been this frustrated old man who breaks everything, he laughs. Refrigerator. Broken. Couch. Broken. Plates. Broken. Your marriage. Broken.

That’s not true.

Well. Where is she?

She went out to get eggs.

She’s been gone awhile, dad.

She’ll be back. He continues pointing the remote. Hitting it harder and harder. Mumbling and swearing. The boy pulls out the ten spot and examines it. He notices a tear.

Got any tape?

No. I don’t think so.

This is torn up too. You can’t have anything, can you? Without it in some kind of disrepair. 

They’ll take it.

Right. Whiskey. You want whiskey.  Some kind of magic potion.

Just go get it.

Bobby exits the room, and the outside light goes dark.  A voice is heard. The old man’s voice. Yelling at the TV. Son of a bitch. Everything is broken.

An old rusty mower sits in the yard among tall green weeds. Brown stains on a trailer, covering up its yellow color. Gutters filled with autumns of years gone by. Cats patrol the wood deck and piss on an old barbecue grill. Laundry out to dry. 

The fence is falling down. Gates are crooked, dragging on dirt dug into the ground; a small mud bowl where Jr plays after rainstorms. A Tonka bulldozer is moved side to side with tiny hands while the kid makes engine noises with his mouth. Grrrr, he moans. Grrrrr.

They sit inside the trailer watching television. Old reruns of  The Rifleman starring Chuck Connors. He pops open another beer. She lays on the couch, wondering what it would have been like if she’d made a different choice.

What’s for dinner? he asks.

Hamburger Helper, she says. I’m doing it with a can of tuna.

So it’s not Hamburger Helper?

I suppose not.

It’s Tuna Helper. Right? he lights a cigarette.

Yeah. Tuna Helper.

Well, get it straight. Make up your mind before you talk. Know what you’re going to say, he blows out smoke. Too many people just talk without thinking. They just blurt out stupid things. Misinformed statements. Understand? she nods her head.

I’m going to get started. She gets up and heads to the kitchen. Pots and pans are rattled around. She picks one and begins the process of making Tuna Helper. Cats circle the trashcan.

Is that spring water tuna? I only like spring water tuna.

I know, she says. I know what you like.

He gets up and walks behind, pushing his body into hers. He starts to kiss the back of her neck. She used to like that. Nowadays, she’s repulsed by it.

Come on now, he folds his arms around her.

I’m making Tuna Helper.

That can wait.

Stop, she says. Just stop.

He gives her a push. Steps back. And walks towards the door. I’m out of here, he tells her. Going someplace where I’m appreciated.

I’m making dinner, he slams the screen door. I’m making Tuna Helper. There won’t be any when you get back. You’ll have to eat leftovers, she yells.

Jr continues playing with his Tonka bulldozer. His father pats him on the head and tells him to take care of his mom.

Dying grass. Yards turned brown from summer’s green. Leaves of rust, yellow, brown, and red in piles along the street. A kid’s runny nose.

You lie there in disrepair. Complaining of the cold. Covered by blankets sewn together from a grandma up north. Smells of mothballs. A fire burns slowly till it dies out, leaving ash behind. Orange embers glow.

Ulysses sits on your nightstand under Moby Dick. Pages are stained from cups of coffee. Yellowing with brown circles. Call me Ishmael. 

And I watch as you close your eyes for a final time. No noise. Your chest does not rattle. A ruddy face turned gray. You are gone. 

See you in Chicago.