dmseay

I don’t recall, he said. Funny. Used to remember such things; birthdays, always sent out Christmas cards, knew addresses off the top of my head, he told the doctor. Now, I don’t know.

Can you tell me who the president is?

The current one?

Yes.

He hesitated. Looked at the tile floor. The doctor sat patiently, waiting for an answer. There were pictures on the office wall. A wife, kids, diploma from Indiana University, a medical license. The old man looked up at the pictures and accomplishments. He nodded his head and laughed.

I can’t.

What?

Couldn’t tell you who the president is. Besides, I stopped voting a long time ago.

Who was the last person you voted for?

The old man looked back at the tile. He felt the pictures on the wall looking at him. He felt embarrassed, naked of knowledge.

I couldn’t tell you that either, he said. I just don’t know.

Do you remember your wife?

I was married?

Yes. You have five children.  One of them drove you here.

Who did?

Your son. One of your sons. I believe his name is Michael. 

That so?

Yes.

Did I tell you about the time I flew to Mars?

No.

It was amazing. Truly something. 

Sure. I’ll bet.

Now that’s the sort of thing a fellow remembers, he smiled.

Yes. Yes, he would. What was Mars like?

Hot and dusty during daylight. Cold at night. Like the desert. Just red clay everywhere. I was sent there on a special mission. Very hush hush. Now that I’m dying, I don’t care anymore. I’m telling everybody.  Funny thing. No one believes me. Do you believe me?

Sure.

Why?

Why not?

In blue spray paint, words were written on the west wall of the old house. Simple sentences expressing thoughts. A fire in the fireplace roared.

These statements, some questions,  glowed in the dark. Shadows were cast on them. A boy made animals with his fingers, jumping over words and exclamation points while his father whittled wood with a long knife. A kettle of hot water whistled.

Want some tea? the father asked. I got cinnamon, chai, orange blossom, and mint. The boy shook his head and continued casting shadows. Alright then, he said. Don’t get sick on me. I’m gonna have this chai, he tore open the small packet and read out loud, From the far away land of India, he said, comes a delicious tea that will warm your soul. The old man placed the bag in the Styrofoam cup and waited as if meditating. He hummed an old song from his youth; Main Street by Bob Seger. The boy came over and curled up in his arms. Everything will be fine in a few days, the father said. We got each other, he held the boy tighter.

The fire crackled as alarms throughout the city sounded. The son covered his ears. Planes flew over. Soldiers shot guns in the streets. Women cried. Men yelled.

I wish I could make it all go away, dad said. Just stop, he whispered. The boy began casting shadows on the wall again. What are those? he asked the boy.

Sheep, he said. Sheep in green meadows. Peaceful. Peaceful.

Yes. Peaceful. 

You’re not listening. This is not some game. Not a trick. It’s staring you in the face, he said. Looking down your soul to the very pit. That’s what life does, boy. Takes you for a ride. A wild trip. Trip? Is that what your generation says? Trip? the boy nodded and smiled, began to laugh. Look at this mess, the father said. Some kind of metaphor. Messy room,untidy bath, your toilet is unclean. Stains in it from God knows when. And you come home at all hours. Leaving beer cans in the front room for your mom to pick up; always picking up after you. TV dinner trays. KFC boxes with chicken bones in them. And no job. Where do you get money from? the kid looked at him, then looked down at the dirty carpet. He began laughing hysterically. The father took off his black leather belt with a silver buckle on it. The old man swung it in the air wildly while the son just sat there with no fear. Laughing the whole time. Taking the remote and turning on the television. Old reruns of Good Times were on. He flipped the station. The strap came towards him. The boy caught it in mid-air. The two looked at each other as the kid pulled the belt away. The old man sat in the torn recliner. They just sat there in silence, the young man snapping the belt in front of the father. His hands in the air. The belt made a popping sound as leather hit leather.

Next time, get a gun, the son said. This, he began hitting the floor with the object, doesn’t quite cut it, he smiled. You have to mean what you say, old man. Gotta have a purpose. You want to kill me? Do it right. Shoot me through the heart. But, you got to get in close, he said. You’re not that good a shot, he held the folded belt across his chest. The old man didn’t make a move. Both of them in the dark with the light from the TV glowing and the National Anthem playing in the background. They stood up and placed their hands on their chests; kind of a truce. A cease fire. The song ended, and the television was turned off by the kid. Goodnight, dad.

Goodnight.

There’s always a twist. Information left out. On purpose? Maybe, he said. Most likely. We’re scared of truth. Facts. Especially when they harm us. Many times, people say they have something on us, but they don’t. It’s made up. Make us look like fools. Right? his friend nodded. This is the case. Money. It’s always about money and sex. The two things people crave, driven by, desperately want. And people lie to get these two things. Capiche?

What about morals?

Morals? Those were thrown out the window a long time ago. Morals? Values? Doesn’t exist. Never did. Where do you live? Another planet? Some other place?

Just saying.

What? What are you saying?

There has to be a code of which we live by.

And there is. That code is screw you before you screw me. Competition does that. It doesn’t bring out the best in people. That’s an old twist in the story of America. Of commerce.

Treat people right. The way you want to be treated.

That’s a good one.

By some strange chance, maybe I’ll run into you someday. Could be our paths will cross, he said to her. What would you do if you saw me? he softly spoke through the phone. There was silence. Neither said anything. They could hear each other breathing.

I don’t know what I’d do, she said. Maybe I would jump in your arms. Maybe run away from you, she said. You never know. Never tell how these things work out.

We were together a long time. That’s gotta count for something.

We screwed it all up, she said. Me, lying all the time. You, always drunk. It’s hard to say. Part of me misses you. And then part of me is glad it’s over, she said.

It’s been a long time. Haven’t seen you in twenty years. I’ll bet you’ve changed, he told her. We all do. Lose some hair. A belly. Sore hips when we walk. People change over time. You and I are no different.

I’m still thin, she said. Too thin, maybe. My hair is turning gray. Still long. You? How have you changed?

Fat and bald, he laughed. I wear a hat to cover my head. I stopped drinking.

That’s great. Can you tell a difference?

I’ve been sober now for nine years….I’m miserable.

Really?

Yeah.

Sorry.

I’m homesick.

Did you think this would work?

Wasn’t sure. Nobody ever is. We take chances. That’s what people do. There’s always a risk involved, he told him. Can’t fault a guy for trying. I mean, we all fall short the first time. And the second and the third. We take these chances. If you’re smart. You’ll see it through. Dumb. Weak. You’ll give up. No confidence in yourself, he smiled.

This is true. These things you’re saying are true. Makes me wonder who the brave ones are? The smart ones, as you say. You can only bang your head against a wall so many times, he lit a cigarette. And then you give up.

Not me. I’ll try a million times and never give up. That’s just what I do, he laughed. I fall off the ledge too many times. I never learn.

Was life ever normal?

What do you call normal?

Wife. Kids. A car. A home. Mom and dad. These normal things. Things people take for granted. Did you ever have that? The good life?

I’m living it now, he took a book out of his backpack. It was Moby Dick. He tossed Melville to his young friend.

What’s this?

Here’s to never giving up.

Would you be quiet?

But I…

Shhhh. Don’t talk. It’s enough that I have to be here with you in this. This room. This trap.

You could be quiet as well. No one wants to hear you talk, he looked at his cell mate. We used to discuss. Talked all the time. Now you want quiet?

Yes.

I’ll give you quiet, he sat on his bed. Sheets were tight. Blanket tucked. Both were silent for a while. No sound. Nothing could be heard. No screams. No cries. Just silence. And dark. Very little light.

He started to stretch. Then did push-ups. Sit-ups. A whole calisthenic routine. Touched his toes. Bent side to side. The fat one still laid in his bed. Mumbling to himself. Bodhisattva, agape, lord lead me home. A prayer for peace. Bodhisattva, agape.

Who are you talking to?

Shhhh.

Don’t shhhh me. I said, who are you talking to?

When I quit my habits, I used to meditate. Prayer.

Who are you? Allen Ginsberg? Kerouac? Some beat poet imprisoned? You’re a con like the rest of us. Even your prayer is fake. Bodhisattva? Agape? Just pray to Jesus like the rest of us you fuck.

Shhhh. I’m focused.

You’re a scam.

Bodhisattva….agape….hear my words….cleanse my soul…

You stupid man. You stupid fat man.

Bodhisattva….agape….

The lights came up. Night was over. Soon, they’d both be in the sun, the light. Darkness would cease.

What’s that noise?

Kids.

Sounds like guns.

Kids. Out past curfew. Are there curfews anymore? We used to have them, he sat up, lit a cigarette. Remember? she rolled over and looked out the window. No stars out. Just black. Booming noises sounded again.

What is that?

Bottle rockets. A dad’s shotgun. I don’t know.

Those two don’t sound the same, she said. I’m guessing they’re guns.

Probably.

Then why did you say fireworks?

I don’t know. It’ll be over soon, he put out his smoke and walked to the kitchen. Turned the lights on. Clock said 2:40. He poured himself a whiskey. Sat at the table. Reflecting. She walked in.

It’ll help me, he said.

Sleep?

Yeah, more shots were heard.

That sounds close.

Could be down the street. In someone’s backyard, she peeked out the kitchen window. You’re never up this late, he said. Usually asleep. I come out here and drink alone. Want a shot? she shook her head. Placed her finger on her lips. Made the shhh sound.

I’m telling you, it’s kids playing with a gun.

That doesn’t scare you?

Nothing scares me, he laughed. Except you. You frighten me.

How so?

All these years. Still scared you’re going to leave me.

She wrapped her arms around him. I’m never going to do that, she told him. Never.

Guns shot off again.

I didn’t tell him about it.

Why?

Thought you would.

No.

You’re the one with the big mouth. Always telling secrets. Always revealing information you got on this guy or that girl. Men and women are scared to talk to you. You just blab all the time, he said. Tell you what. He ain’t gonna be happy. Whether you tell him or me, it doesn’t matter. He’s gonna be madder than a hornets nest, he took a shot of whiskey.

Suppose so, she rolled her eyes. What’s all this talk of people being scared to speak around me?

You got a big mouth.

Well. I ain’t saying nothing. Nothing to be said. It’s her business. I just know that if someone was leaving me, I’d want to know about it, she took her shot.

This is all talk. Ain’t no one gonna say a word. He’s just gonna wake up to an empty bed one morning. That’s the way she’d want it.

I know.

She doesn’t want to stick around for sympathy or have folks feeling sorry for her. She just wants to be alone with it. Die by herself.

How sad.

What she wants.

Pop is gonna be mad if he found out we knew.

He’ll get over it. Till death do we part was over a long time ago. That vow was never taken seriously by either one of them, he ordered two more shots of Wild Turkey. Two more beers on tap. I don’t think he’ll care, to be honest with you. No more alimony, they both laughed.

Promise me you’ll never leave me.

I promise.

That’s the point, he said. You can’t go around here telling lies. They catch up with you. Not in the beginning. But eventually. Someone discovers the truth, he threw coffee out into the grass. A permanent brown spot in the yard. And you tell one lie, it’s followed by another. And then another, he laughed. Till it gets to the point that no one believes you. Your word is no longer any good. That’s what happened to your granddad. He was a storyteller. He lied to everybody. Mostly, he lied to your grandma. She took the brunt of his tales.

How so? he eased back and forth on the front porch swing.

How’s that?

I said, how so?

He made up these ficticious stories. He’d tell her he was going out for a pack of smokes and then not return for a while. Usually on payday.

Oh.

He’d cash the check at the local bar. Never had a bank account. Kept money under the mattress in a shoe box. Grandma never knew she was sleeping on top of money. Not till he died, and she was moving things around. He didn’t leave her much; a few hundred bucks.

Really?

Yeah. She never changed sheets. Had a bad back. Couldn’t get the corners. Anyway. He’d be gone for a few days. He wound up in places far away. New Orleans, Dallas. Spent a while in San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. He came home with just enough money for the bus ticket. Worked a while and then was gone again at the beginning of the month.

What was he doing in those towns?

Chasing women. Drinking. Pool hustling. One time, he stole a car in Los Angeles and drove it all the way to New York City. He used to tell that story in the bars.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. But, they were all lies. He never left the county. He’d get drunk and stay at this woman’s place out in New Haven. She was his mistress. That’s what he said on his death bed. Not sure if that was a lie or if that was the truth. Not sure about any of it. Some said he just slept under a bridge till he sobered up.

Which story do you believe?

I don’t.