dmseay

It’s early.

Couldn’t sleep.

Something on your mind?

Yes. Always, she said. I’m always thinking of her. That woman.

You have to let things go, he told her.

Not this.

Been a long time ago. Years.

Right.

Maybe you should go back on that medicine.

I don’t need any medicine.

What do you need?

Not sure. She walked over to the counter and shoveled coffee into the percolator.

It wasn’t all my fault, you know.

Mine too, I guess.

Damn right.

These things happen.

Yeah.

Nothing good comes from it. Nothing. Just three hurt people. Least, that’s what I think. She got out the cream and sugar.

Yes. I was hurt. Everybody’s at fault here, he said. No getting around it.

You never said you were sorry.

I’ve said it a thousand times.

Say it now.

I’m sorry. Are you sorry?

For not being much of a wife? Whatever that means? Yeah. Sure. She got down cups and poured coffee into each one. They sat and looked at each other. The two quietly drank their coffee.

I never finished, he said. Came close. Thought I would. But no. Never done. He lit a cigarette. It’s not easy, he told him. At first, you think it’ll be easy, then midway through it gets tougher, harder to make a move. You’re stuck. He sucked on a beer.

What do you mean? his friend asked.  How difficult could it be, Dwayne? Either you hold the ropes, or she does. Or both of you hold them. Dwayne started laughing.

You don’t know anything about women. Do you, Ricky? You talk in fantasy terms. Something you’d hear on television. A talk show. Maybe a sitcom.  They want it two ways. Either you’re in charge, or they are. And if you’re not in charge, then it’s hell.

Yeah. I could see that. Ricky adjusted his hat and ordered two more shots and beers. Maybe this ain’t for me to say, but then again.

Well. Come on with it.

Maybe you should have held on a little longer. Tried to work things out. Is it too late?

It’s always too late. Dwayne took a long drink of beer and followed it with his shot. One of these days, you’ll be in the cage. Fighting to get out. Or sitting in a corner. Suffering. 

Nah. Not me. I see the effects it has on men.

Don’t you get lonely? Ricky shook his head slowly. I know I do.

Dark room. Water heater rumbles. Cats crawl over his hands.

Sleeping on an old couch, worn in over time, foam coming through holes. His head sweats. Brown locks of hair soaking wet. He is naked. 

Newspapers on the tile floor covering cat vomit. Hairballs and too much water. The litter box is overfilled. Orange and black cats asleep on his belly. Claw marks on his chest next to a tattoo of a Polynesian girl outlined in green. His toenails are long and yellow.

A half empty bottle of vodka sits beside the couch. The lid is off. There’s a receipt on the coffee table. Eggs, $4.29. Bologna, $3.50. Honey Wheat bread, $0.99. Skol Vodka, $8.99. A chewed piece of gum is wadded up in a silver wrapper. The cats meow.

What do you want? he asks. Are you hungry? The cats circle his bare feet. He opens a can of tuna and dumps it in a metal bowl. There you go, he tells them. Both wait their turn to eat. No fighting.

He scratches himself and looks at his naked body in the mirror. So this is what it’s come to. He laughs. And goes back to sleep. 

Why is he looking at me? Staring at me. Undressing me with every sip that he takes. Is he thinking that I’m not noticing?

He’s like a hawk. Flying above me. Ready to scoop me up like a field mouse. He’s swirling around the room. Wings expanded. Mouth open. His fingers are claws. Grinning. Laughing. He’s ready to pounce.

Should I make my run? Leave him behind? He’ll only come after me. Chasing me all around town until I can’t move. That’s what he wants.

On the count of three. One, take a step towards the door. Two, get your pepper spray ready. Three, walk swiftly to the car.

I know his type. We’ve played this game before.

Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Empty cans of beer on a table. Dirty dishes piled high. An overflowing trashcan sits in the corner. Small black and white TV plugged into a loose socket. Lines run across the screen in silence.

He’d lay in bed, hummed a Bob Seger song about two teens in a cornfield, looked at pictures on walls, Polaroids he’d pinned up with names and dates on the back of them. He stopped and took one down, held it in his hand.

Pretty, he said. Real pretty.

She was a blonde dancer who worked at a strip club out by the truckstops. On paydays, he spent all his cash on her, tipped her fives and tens. She sat on his lap and played with his hair. He lapped it up like a dog getting a bone. Like a kid with an ice cream cone. He sat there for hours till closing time. You could say he was a fixture.

Her name was Irene. She had dreams of being a model. The girl wanted to go out West to California. Every night, she asked truckers what direction they were going. Most were heading to Chicago or Detroit. Some to Cleveland and St. Louis. But no straight shots to Los Angeles. She knew what she had to do; dance her way across America. Stopping in towns and cities on the western route till she got there.

Hotels and motels. Strip bars and adult bookstores. Talked to men behind glass about their fantasies and wearing different colored wigs. She had a dream. Dreams can’t be stopped till a noise wakes you up. She never woke up.

He stopped going to the strip club. He just came home after working at the car- wash. Dreamt about her at night. Fell asleep while staring at her picture. He never woke up, either.

The two of them would lie in bed a thousand miles away from each other just dreaming. Dreaming.

I’m not waiting, he said. Sitting around till you’re ready to go. Always taking your time, he yelled down the hall.

Give me a few, will you. I want to look real pretty for you, she patted her face with powder.

Well, alright. When you come out, I want you to look like Dawn Wells, he said. 

Who? 

Mary Ann. The woman on Gilligan’s Island.

Oh. I see. Mary Ann. Every man wants Mary Ann.

Right.

That’s cause they’re scared of Ginger. Too sexual for them.

Have you been taking gender studies at the junior college again?

Just something I’ve noticed over the years. And besides. Am I not good enough for you?

I didn’t say that.

You did. In a way.

Right.

Where you taking me to?

Applebee’s.  Get one of those fancy drinks and a plate of ribs if you want. Payday, you know.

Yeah. She walked out of the bedroom to the living room and twirled her white cotton dress. You like? she asked.

He smiled. Just like Mary Ann.

This world, he said. Keeps spinning and spinning around. A round ball out there in space, among other round balls, he lit a cigarette. And they say all this was created by a god, a deity. They say we were created by a higher power. Created, we live, and then we die. Right? Randy nodded his head. Orange sparks flew above them. The wood crackled. He stirred the embers with a long hickory stick.

Look at you, Randy said. Getting all philosophical.  Talk of God and creation, he opened a beer. Tomorrow we fish.

We’ll have five loaves and two fishes, both men laughed.

Yeah. Something like that, Pete drank from a canteen. And we’ll turn this water into wine.

Right.

The fire started to die down. Lanterns lit the campsite. A shooting star was seen.

Should we follow?

What? Randy asked.

The star. Maybe take us to the newborn messiah.

Nope. We’ll just end up on the other side of the Ouachita.

Their bedrolls were spread out in the tent. Lanterns were turned down.

The sun will be up soon, Pete told him. We’ll fish at day break.

A coyote howled. 

Cats cry in the alley. An old drunk stumbles home. Trashcans overflow. Neon lights in widows blink. Meters expired.

I sit in my window frame, watching night pass into morn. Slowly, streetlights fade as the sun comes over dark clouds; purple and orange skies like rainbow sherbet begin to melt.

An ambulance runs down Clark Street; firetruck follows. Sirens sing out. Jimmy Smith plays the Hammond B3 on the radio.

My day begins.

There’s a good chance you might be right, he said. This might be your lucky day. You feel like lucky? he asked.

She looked at him. A cold draft blew through the trailer. They both sat on the couch wrapped in blankets. Coffee cups on the table.

What is luck? Something we conjure up? He laughed. Are we born with it? Where’s mine? she asked. Sitting here in a metal shack with you. Not knowing what’s going  to happen from one day to the next. Might not ever wake up. Just fall into a deep sleep known as death. So. I’ll ask again. What is luck?

It’s a gift, he said. A gift from God. He said that no matter how hard it gets, I’ll never put you through nothing you can’t handle. He said that. You can look it up.

What’re we going to do? she asked him. No money. No job. No car. It’s  three degrees outside. We can’t make a move.

Right.

And you’re asking if I feel lucky. No. No, I do not, she told him. We don’t even have a TV that works. Stupid radio. A radio. That’s as high tech as we get, she stood up and towered over him. When was the last time you paid a bill?

I’m protecting you as best as I can.

From what?

The devil.

Sure are doing a great job.

God said the meek shall inherit the earth. He said that. You can look it up.

I’ve inherited nothing, she yelled.

OK. Calm down. This screaming ain’t going to make it any warmer.

The devil. God. These are made-up stories.

You don’t believe?

No. I do not believe.

Got to have faith.

No. I got to have a cup of coffee.

He’s winning.

Who?

Lucifer. You’re letting him win. He stood up and placed his arms around her in a tight squeeze. Are you going to let him win? He held tighter.

I can’t breathe.

Are you going to let him win? He wrestled her to the ground, both hands on her neck. Are you? Are you?

Her body fell limp. He laid her down on the dirty carpeted floor and poured himself a cup of coffee. Nothing but grounds from three days ago.

He wrapped the blanket around him and sat back down on the couch. A cold draft blew through the trailer.

You shot him?

I shot him.

You saw him go down?

Yeah.

Felt his pulse?

He’s dead. Trust me.

Where’s the body?

Out in the woods.

You just left it there?

He’s in a hole covered with dirt and leaves. I packed it down.

How far did you dig?

Five. Six yards.

How long did it take you?

Awhile. I didn’t time myself. As fast as I could. The job is done.

Right.

The two men looked at each other. They could see their breath. Heard dogs barking.

He had it coming.

Yes. I told him. No doubt about it.

I didn’t even give him time to pray. Shot him in the back of the head. He never saw it coming.  Probably didn’t feel it. Just dropped to the ground.

He knew. Knew it was going to happen.  Men sense these things. He knew it from the beginning. Back when he was a kid, he dreamt about it. He knew.

Did you know?

Not till God told me.

Yeah.

God said to Abraham, Kill me a son. Abe said, God, I’ve only got one. God told him, Just get the job done. Bury him out on Highway 61.

The two men drove through town in silence. Johnny Cash was on the radio singing a gospel song. It was Sunday morning.

(Inspired by Bob Dylan’s Highway 61.)