dmseay

It’s like trying to get somewhere, but I can’t.

What do you mean?

I can’t make a move. I’m stuck.

How so?

It’s America. We’re all stuck. Even you. You’re stuck. You just don’t realize it yet. One day, you will. You’ll wake up, and it’ll be too late. You’ll be in the same scenario that I’m in; broken and unable to fix. Put back together again. One piece. See what I’m saying?

You make no sense. 

I got pieces of me spread all across this country; California, Iowa, Vermont, New York, Chicago, Dallas. And now I sit here completely disassembled. I’m just telling you.

Ain’t told me shit.

You got something you better hold on to it. No matter how tough it gets, you better hold on. These days will kill you. They’re killing me. You’ll see. Just hold on to what you got. A little bit of sanity goes a long way.

Snow thunder, Tom said. Never experienced that, but I’ve heard of it. A guy told me once that he was driving through West Texas, and it was snowing real hard, and you could hear thunder. Strange. He said it scared him. Said he thought the end of the world was happening. That’s what he said.

I’ve never heard of it, Johnny said. But I know things get strange out in West Texas just before you hit New Mexico. All that red clay.  It’s like a painting. Just red clay under a blue sky.

Snowing. Gray. Real gray. That’s what he told me, said Tom.

That’s your story. Mine is blue skies. Pretty as it can be, Johnny told him.

He had to use chains on his tires. Tom swallowed more coffee. He looked at the menu. They have biscuits and gravy. Half order or full?

Full. Don’t do anything halfway, Johnny said. Halfway gets you nowhere. That’s why I have a cross hanging on my mirror. You either accept him as your lord and savior, or you don’t.

What the hell has that got to do with anything? Certainly has nothing to do with biscuits and gravy. Some kind of crap you’re telling me.

No. I just have a full-on faith, Johnny proclaimed.

Yeah. You’re full-on, alright. Full-on crazy.

That red clay. God made that. Same as snow thunder. He made that too. Johnny called over the waitress. Told her he would have a half order.

That means just one biscuit, the waitress told him.

I know. Gotta watch it these days. He thumped his fat belly. Yeah, just a half.

You sir, she asked, Tom.

Just coffee. Could I get some more half and half?

Snow thunder? John said.

Yeah. That’s was his story.

Sure.

Blackbirds have come to eat their stale bread. Five or six of them swoop down and feast on old wheat, corn chips, and outdated pita. Feral cats come, and the birds fly away, leaving bits and pieces I tore up days ago. Old food on top of snow. Half eaten. They’ll be back.

She’s inside asleep. Sun has just come up. We were up late arguing. I think this time it was about the TV remote. But it wasn’t really about that. It was about control. Everything is about control.

I make my way inside and pour a cup of coffee. There’s a quarter pot left from last night. I wanted to throw it out and make a fresh batch this morning, but she said to let it be. Said coffee was expensive these days. And even if it wasn’t, it’d be wastful. She’s right. She reminds me she’s always right.

Watching her sleep, I make my way to the closet and rummage around in the dark, looking for a book bag. All I need is a small bag for underwear and toiletries. A copy of On The Road will be packed as well. A pair of jeans rolled up, and a couple of black tee-shirts. Always pack lite.

She rolls over on her other side, snoring and farting. I zip my bag and leave.

Where you gone off to now? she asked. Always going places. Never touching ground. Never landing, she said. Like some bird. Flying south in the winter and north in the spring. Living off of bits and pieces of stale bread thrown out in backyards. She placed the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she lit a cigarette. When was the last time you had a homemade breakfast or a decent cup of coffee? Donuts and black water. That’s what you live off of.

Yeah, her son said from a payphone in Phoenix. 

That bus can’t be comfortable, mom said. All them Mexicans on it . And blacks. Bet you’re the only white person on the thing.

I haven’t taken count.

Don’t get smart with me, boy. I’ll hang this phone up right now, she told him.

Alright. Alright.

Why you calling?

Just wanted to.

You need money?

This will be the last time.

You said that five times ago, she laughed. I can wire you fifty bucks. But, that’s it for now.

Yes, ma’am.

Don’t be so formal. I’ll go to the gas station and send this out to you.

Thanks.

Phoenix?

Yeah.

Spend it wisely.

I love you.

I love you too.

Cacti are watered. Pink and white blossoms dotted on the plants. They sit in the sunlight.

Chamber music plays on the radio. He listens while sitting on his bed, which has peaks and valleys. A folded jacket is used for a pillow.

He lights a cigarette and stirs instant coffee in his cup, which reads, BEST DAD EVER. His ex-wife gave it to him when they were expecting years ago; never count your chickens before they hatch.

The music on the public radio station has switched now to jazz. Bop jazz, to be precise. The old man looks out his window down onto the streets where traffic is starting to flow on 24th Street. Cars and cabs turning the corner at 8th Avenue. He stands there just looking up at the sun, which has winked at him. He tells the cacti to soak it in.

Take it whenever you can get it, he says. The forecast for the day is cloudy with precipitation, he tells his two children in clay pots. Take it when you can get it.

The house is quiet. Curtains pulled back, revealing darkness and shimmering snow under streetlights. Floodlights glow on a stretched American flag. A truck starts down the street.

I sit here and look on through glass sliding doors. Soon, it’ll be morning, and blackbirds will come looking for food. Stale wheat bread and expired hamburger buns hidden under the white blanket. A snowman stands in my neighbor’s yard. A carrot for a nose.

The flag now waves. Wind comes and goes. Two men get in a truck with guns in their hands. Where are they going? What are they doing? A Trump sign stands in the front yard.

People think you’re crazy, she said. They think you lost it. A friend told me you were slipping. I stuck up for you. Told her you’ve never been sharper.

I don’t know, he spoke into the phone. Been thinking lately that none of this matters, he said. Life’s just kind of a dream. You’re going along, and one day, you wake up. That’s when you start realizing that none of this is real. Painted pictures. All life is painted pictures.

You’re talking metaphorically, she said, lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke. Anytime a person talks metaphorically, they’re talking crazy. This is what folks are saying. Telling me you’re speaking in riddles. She started pacing the kitchen.

I talk the way I talk, he yelled.

Hey. Don’t get angry with me. I’m not the one. Trying to help you. Trying to make sense of it all.  You want help? I’ll help you. You don’t? I won’t. 

I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m fine. He slammed the phone down.  He sat in the recliner and stared at the ceiling. Looked at a wooden beam and wondered if it was strong enough.

The phone rang and rang. It wouldn’t stop ringing. He laid the receiver on the end table.

Hello. Hello. Hello.

A truck door slams. Tree limbs with beads of ice on them. Nothing’s in bloom. It’s all dead still. Brown grass, withered rose bushes, no life in the garden. He sits inside his trailer home and hears a knock on the door.

Open up Levi, the man says. Come on now. Open up. It’s freezing out here, his voice raised.

I’m coming. Hold your horses. Levi puts out his cigarette in a Folgers coffee can with brown water in the bottom of it; floating butts.

What took you so long? the man asks.

Oh. It’s you.

Gonna invite me in?

I suppose.

The man enters the trailer. Various pictures of naked women are up on the wall. A stack of Hustlers in the corner. A couch that’s seen better days.

Can I have a seat?

Make yourself at home. You will, anyway, Levi says.

It’s about Joan.

What about her?

She wants to see you. The man folds his arms to keep warm.

She sent you to tell me that?

Yeah. Strange, ain’t it? My wife. Your ex-wife. Just kind of weird, I guess, says the man.

I don’t have much use for her, Levi  tells him. Our thing was done years ago. She hated me. I hated her. Marriage. You know the deal.

The man laughs. He pulls out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offers one to Levi. Levi takes it.

I figured you were getting low, the man says. You can keep the pack if you want.

Not my brand. But beggars can’t be choosers. Levi places the pack in his coat pocket.

Don’t you have any heat?

Didn’t pay the bill. Besides. It’s spring. 

Right, he smiles. She’s dying, Levi. 

That so?

Yeah. She is. She wants to talk to you. 

No can do, sir. My hands are clean.

You owe it to her, the man says.

I don’t owe her nothing.

All those times you cheated on her. She wants to get the air clear before she passes on.

I cheated one time. She thought I did a hundred times. No. I will not do it. I told her I was sorry years ago when it happened. Tell her I wish her good luck.

Alright. I will. I’ll tell her. I’m gonna leave now, Levi. You take care of yourself. Hear?

Sure. Let me ask you something?

Yeah?

Do you love her? I mean, really love her?

Does anybody really love anyone?

What is wrong with you? Ronnie asked. What are you waiting for? You gotta get in the ballgame. The clock is ticking. Soon, nothing will be left. Everything gone. No more opportunities. And then what? Eating at a shelter? Sleeping on the floor? This is not what I want to see happen to you, he said.

Leave me alone, Bobby told him. I’m staying right here.

I can’t fault you for that, Ronnie placed his hand on Bob’s shoulder. You can sit in the bar as much as you like. But soon your money is going to run out. Hear me? And you’ll be drunk, hungry, and tired. You’ll piss your pants cause you can’t find a public toilet. You’ll shit yourself.

Leave me alone, Ronnie. I’m warning you.

Ronnie reached into his pocket and fetched a ten spot. He placed the bill on the bar in front of Bobby.

Bobby held the money and looked at it. He clutched it in his fist and put it in his wallet. He smiled.

Today’s my lucky day.  

I’m done.

You’re done?

Yeah.

How do you know?

I feel it. This life is coming to an end.

Sure of that?

Yes. I believe so.

OK. What do you want?

Bottle of whiskey. A pack of smokes. 

Then no more? 

Nope. I’m done. 

I get it.

Tired. Sick of watching the news. It’s all moving so fast. One day, you’re twenty-five, and next, you’re approaching sixty. I never had time.

For what?

To catch up. Always lagged behind. 

I see.

My bones hurt. I’m weak. Can’t  breathe. Where’s my Marlboros?

Here.

Light one for me.

He lit his friend’s cigarette. Stood over him. Looked outside. A blackbird sat on the window frame, staring in. He then flapped his wings and flew away.