dmseay

They sat on the couch. Rusty springs came through cushions with yellow foam exposed. Torn holes in arm rests. A shredded blanket on back.

A small black and white television with an antennae sat on the floor. No sound came from it. It was drawn on with black marker. Stick figures holding hands. His initials on the side; B.J. He was quite proud of it. Every day, he’d turn the dial until it clicked. But nothing was ever clear. The picture always had wavy lines through it. They learned to watch Andy Griffith sideways.

Outside was parked a rusty old Ford truck with the doors off of it. A pair of rain-soaked fuzzy dice hung from the rear view mirror. Tires were flat.

One day, I’m going to fix that beast up, Bobby Joe said to Carol. You’ll see. We’ll drive around town in style.

With what? Carol laughed. How are you going to do that? We barely eat, and you’re talking about fixing up a truck. Well, I’ll be, she declared. I’ll be.

I fed you last night, didn’t I?

Bones, she said. Old bones without  much meat on them. How are we supposed to survive?

Things are tough all over, Bobby Joe said. Hard. I didn’t see this coming. Nobody did.

There’s people living fine, Carol lit a hand-rolled cigarette. They got decent homes and cars. They work for those things. They don’t just sit around and do nothing all day.

I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. I can’t work. Doctors said I was crazy. Some kind of bipolar deal. Can’t remember if it’s bipolar 1 or bipolar 2? But I’m crazier than ten whores on crack, he said.

Yeah. You’re crazy alright.  And I’m crazier for living with you.

Don’t you think about leaving me. Don’t even think about it. I’ll find you. Yeah. I’ll find you.

Where are you going to look?

Everywhere.  All over. I’ll fix that truck and come for you. I swear.

Carol laughed. They both laughed.  Wheel Of Fortune was coming on. The two watched as Pat spun the wheel. They never solved the puzzle.

Grass is cut. Morning dew makes it shimmer. Soon, leaves will fall.

It is August, and daylight fades earlier. Kids play tag under streetlights. Moms call them home.

In backyards throughout suburbia,  fire-pits burn an orange flame, and beers are handed out to neighbors. An overflowing ashtray sits on the deck next to a cactus that can not breathe. Mom lights another Virginia Slim. You’ve come a long way, baby.

And I look on from my bedroom window at the stars, wishing I could ride one far, far away. Never to return.

It’s hard. Never did I expect this, he told her. So different than how I planned it. You were supposed to fall in love with me. Be by my side. All that stuff you see in movies. Two people who can’t live without each other, he poured a drink. Want one? she shook her head. Whispered no. I’ve always adored you, he said. Always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world. I still do.

Do you?

Yes. You don’t believe me? I’d like to prove it to you, he ran his fingers through her blonde hair. I’d like to show you.

Please don’t. That’s not what I want. 

You sit there. All tied up. And you have the audacity to tell me what you do and do not want.

How am I tied up? she asked.

Me or him. Right? I mean, that’s what it gets down to. The choice has you all tied up. You feel restricted.  Yes?

No. I do not. I made my decision a long time ago. I was just waiting for things to be in order.

Order?

Yes. Order.

Are things in order?

They are.

Where are you sleeping tonight?

Not here.

I see, he took another swig. Is it hard for you?

What?

This decision. 

It’s never been easier.

It’s never easy. Always a risk. At any moment, you could be caught. Maybe you want to be caught. Someone catch you in the act. No more worries, Paul said. It would be over. Done. And just like that, you could sleep at night.

Sleep? Bill asked. To do that, you need a clear mind.

Confess these sins, Bill. Both men laughed. Have communion and confess, he told him. They both downed a shot of whiskey. Ate shelled peanuts on the bar.

I have nothing to confess. Life has been rather dull, he said. I sleep, eat, and read.

Never stole?

No.

Have strange addictions?

Nope.

Raped? Pillaged? the two men laughed again. Bill shook his head.  Murder? Paul asked.

What?

Did you ever kill anybody?

I don’t recall.

Oh, you’d remember. You’d recall.

Might have blocked it out. 

No. That sort of thing sticks with you.

I suppose it would.

Where all have you been? Paul asked.

All over. 

I’ll bet.

Chicago, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Boston, Montreal, Montpelier, Vermont, New York, lots of places.

Your back was never against the wall?

Keep to myself.

That’s hard to do, Paul said. He motioned for two more; Johnny Red.

Yeah.

I mean, everyone is in your business. There’s no privacy. You shower together, you shit together.  No time alone.

Right.

So. Did you ever kill anyone?

Some things are best left unsaid.

Hello.

Hello.

Why are you calling me? she asked.

Out of habit, I guess. Just used to calling you, he said.

Well, break it.

The habit?

No. Your nose. What do you think? she exhaled. Stop calling me.

I can’t. Don’t know how.

Do I have to change my  number?

That would help.

Well, I’m all about helping you, she told him.

Always have been.

Not anymore. I’m done helping you.

Listen. I’ll change. I can put a stop to my ways.

Where you at?

Sitting on a park bench. In Washington Square.  Where are you?

Home, she lit a cigarette. Just sitting at home on a Friday night.

Miss me?

I’m trying to shake you. Stop calling me.

Not just a little?

Not even a little. Now let me go.

Hello. Hello. Hello.

Do you ever think? Just put yourself in my shoes, Robert Paul said. I’m the one under pressure here. It ain’t easy.

Always bitchin. You’re always complaining about how hard life is. Your life, Johnny said. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

But I’m the one on the bottom. I’m trying to get to the top, but it’s like climbing through molasses.

Robert Paul. Stop right there, he swiveled on his barstool. Who’s fault is it? The man’s keeping you down? Society won’t accept your kind? You think you’re any different than anyone else? We’re all in the shit, Robert Paul. All of us are trying to make a buck, Johnny motioned to the bartender.  Told him to pour another round.

All I’m saying is it’s tough out there. I’ve moved from place to place, and I always end up back here in Dallas. Drinking in bars on Henry Hines boulevard.

You’ll  never settle, Robert Paul. Never. And, you’ll complain wherever you go. Whether that’s here or someplace else.

Guess so.

Guess so? I know so. I’ve known you all my life. You ain’t gonna change, sir. No, you won’t. Johnny told him. Me? I’m just waiting on the apocalypse.

I drove by her house the other day. They painted it yellow. Almost missed it. Shrubs were gone. Replaced with wooden buckets holding mums in all kinds of colors: rust, red, orange, white. And the TV antenna on top of the roof was gone too. Really something.

Strange thing, he continued. The swing on the front porch was gone. We used to sit there in autumn every night with cups of coffee and cigarettes while the kids jumped in the leaves. I used to rake them in piles. Kids jumping in dry leaves that come morning were wet with dew. Things change overnight.

Sometimes, late at night in October, I parked the car in front of the old house and just waited till almost every light had been turned off. I sat there with a cooler full of Old Style and just watched. Remembered how the lamp in the hallway didn’t get turned off till morning. Then I’d drive on. Park the car under a bridge and dream. Dream of how it used to be before demons took over. At one time, there was peace. 

I didn’t know she’d left. Nobody told me. When did this happen? the old man asked.

What do you mean?

When exactly? And where?

Dad, it was seven years ago. She died, the son responded. Heart attack. Middle of the night.

Nobody told me.

You were right there by her, dad. She died in your arms.

Oh. I forget these things.

Dad, what day is it?

Sunday. I know that because David Brinkley is on TV.

Yeah. That’s right.

Where is she buried?

She’s right here, dad. Right here in this box. 

Is that so. You burned her?

She wished to be cremated.

How’s she going to get into heaven?

What do you mean?

She’s got no body.

Her soul, dad. Her soul goes to heaven.

Sure of that?

I think so.

I see. Are you sure she’s dead?

Yeah.

Didn’t just run away with the postman?

No, dad.

You know they had a thing once. She told me.

Really?

I think it was her. Maybe it was the woman down the street. Not sure.

I see.

Let me see that box. The old man opened it. Looked inside at the ashes. Closed the lid. Shook his head. Ain’t that something, he said. Ain’t that something.

Chewing on chapped lips. Hair wet from sweat. Pillow soaked.  The bathroom light is on.

A ceiling fan turns slowly. Burned out light bulbs dangle from it. Water damage in the kitchen walls. Big brown spots. Rain begins to pour. 

He sits drinking coffee at four in the morning. Reading The Brothers Karamazov. He uses a small flashlight to see the words. The book lies on a table as he turns pages about an unworthy father and his four sons written by Dostoyevsky years ago when literature mattered. He strokes his chin and places a prayer card between the pages to mark his spot, closes the book, and breathes heavily.

Am I a fool? he asks himself. I can not let go. I just can’t stomach it, he says. One day, I will. One day. Or, will I continue being this way. A sad man. A clown. Who knows? All I can do is wait for the end, he continues. Wait for the end.

Rain seeps through the bottom of the door. For a while, he used to put towels down to mop up water. Now, it just gathers, warping the wooden floors, discoloring them. There is no sense in cleaning up, he says. It’s all falling apart. Too much for one man to handle. This house has become a shack, he cries.

He opens Dostoyevsky once again and shines the light on the words.  The Russians understood, he says. The Russians got it.

In hours when there is no light. Mice scurry on a kitchen floor, picking up crumbs. The cat watches. Ready to pounce. While voices down the hall reach high-pitched tones and squeak here, and there, like a saxophone played by Coleman. Notes are improvised.

I sit on a sofa staring into darkness. An old air-conditioner goes on and off throughout the night. It is cool, almost cold. A blanket is used. There is no sleep. Just sounds in the dark, keeping me awake.

Sunlight sneaks in. A window without curtains. Telling me to get up and embrace this day. The dark is gone too soon.