dmseay

The television was off. He looked at a blank screen. Black. No pictures. No sound. The old man just looked at it. Waiting. Wanting to see something. Anything.

He sat on the couch, wondering where the TV remote was. Where did I put that thing? he asked himself.  Can’t find anything anymore. It’s all disappeared. Gone.

Trash and boxes covered the floors and countertops of the trailer with black ink, saying what was inside.

Jewelry. Pots and pans. Dishes. Pictures. Winter clothes. Blankets. Craftsman tools. Old worn-out shoes. He was too lazy to look inside the boxes. He sat talking to himself. Talking about Barbra Eden. Saying she was a fine looking woman. Saying he’d do anything to have her. A real-life genie granting him wishes. He took a drink of cold coffee.

Dad? You in there? Open the door, his son said as he knocked. Come on, dad. It’s moving day.

He continued looking at the blank screen, disregarding the pounding on the door.

Dad. I’m going to kick this door in if you don’t open it.

Where are we going?

You’re moving to your new place.

I want to stay here. Go away.

Can’t let you do that.

Have you seen the remote? he yelled.

What?

The TV remote.

It’s by your ashtray where it always is.

The old man looked at the coffee table. Looked at the ashtray. Ahh. There it is. He hit the red button, but the television did not come on. Does anything work anymore?

Dad. Dad. Open this door.

What’re you going to huff and puff and blow my house down?

Just open the Goddamn door, dad.

Staring at a blank screen. The old man continued staring at the blank screen.

Dad. Dad.

Empty fireplace. Cobwebs in corners. A half empty coffee pot with mold floating. You can see your breath.White sheets over furniture. Hardwood floors no longer shine.

They’re buried out back. Two rocks with initials on them in red. Stick crosses tied with rubber bands mark the spot as well. The grass is brown and yellow.

Broken glass. Holes in windows. Kids look inside on Halloween. Nothing but darkness.

Used to visit here when I was a child in summertime. A swingset and slide in the backyard. Shiny metal and iron are now rusted.

I look at this place and remember my grandparents. Grandma who suffered from depression and Grandad always drank from the bottle. A constant pack of cigarettes by his easy chair as well. He was the first to go. Didn’t believe in a heaven or hell. No god or devil. Just Johnny Walker Red was used to guide him through a life that ended on a winter’s day.

My father and I dug the holes in the backyard. We placed his fragile body down in the earth. I asked my dad why we were digging two holes at the same time?

We might as well do it now while we got the will, he said. Sides, she’ll pass on pretty soon.

And she did, January, 1st, 1982. We didn’t even have to place her in the hole. She was found there with a gun in her hand and a hole in her soul.

What’re you having?

I’ll take the ranchers special.

How do you want your eggs?

Sunny side.

Toast?

Wheat. Buttered.

You got it.

He watched her walk away. Opened up a packet of marmalade and spooned it into his mouth. Quickly, there were four empty packets of marmalade on the table. The truck driver started in on the wild berry jelly just before the waitress brought over more coffee.

Sure do like sweets, don’t you? she winked at him.

Yeah. Always have. Shows, don’t it? he rubbed his fat belly.

Not too much. Not too much, she laughed. I’ll be back with your breakfast. He smiled at her.

A Charlie Rich song came on the speakers. Behind Closed Doors softly played throughout the diner. The old trucker smiled and whispered the words. Cuz no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, he sang; rubbed his eyes.

Here you go, honey, she placed the plate in front of him. Need anything else?

You, he said. She turned red in the face. You’re blushing. She looked away and laughed. You must be new. Any other waitress would have slapped me for saying that.

Let’s just say I’m not jaded yet.

I see. So I got a chance?

Need more coffee?

No. Sorry about that.

It’s OK.  I’m flattered. Also married, she held up her wedding ring.

Lucky man.

I guess so.

No, he is. You’re pretty and nice.

And smart, she laughed.

Yeah. And smart.

I’m going to check on my other tables. I’ll be back, she told him, doing her best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. He nodded his gray head and opened another packet of jelly.

I’m waiting, he said. You take forever. What are you wearing anyway? A black dress? You always wear that black dress. This isn’t a funeral. He laughed. I’m going to fix a drink. You want something? Scotch? Maybe a cranberry and vodka? You hear me?

It’s too quiet in here, he said. The husband walked over to his album collection and picked out Dexter Gordon. This will get you moving. Still didn’t tell me what you want to drink. How about a gin and tonic? It’s getting close to summer. Remember? We used to drink those on summer evenings when the kids were out. Or in. He placed ice in a highball glass. I’m guessing you want a double. Coming up.

As he made drinks, wind began to blow the swings. The iron chains and wood made a creaking sound. Sounds like us, he softly said out loud. We’re getting older.

He heard their bedroom door shut. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floors. She stopped by a mirror in the living room and looked into it. Not bad, she said. Not bad at all.

How do I look? she asked, flattening out a wrinkle on her cocktail dress. You like it?

Yes, he said. Yes. Very much.

A lava lamp. Candles of different scents. Blankets on the floor. Books about kama sutra. Cosmopolitan magazines.

She walks across wood planks naked with two martinis in her hands. She has a green olive between her lips. We kiss and I take it from her.

Lying on the floor, listening to Miles Davis. Holding hands, intertwined, looking at each other like we did forty-seven years ago when our bodies didn’t fail us. The ceiling fan twirls above.

And I say to her, I still love you. She kisses me. Runs her fingers through my hair, looks me in the eyes, and says, Happy Anniversary.

The cacti are dying. Some say they can live forever without any water. That’s not true. Depends on the type.

A Christmas cactus needs water every four to six weeks.  Touch the soil. If it’s dry, water it. Use the tips of your fingers and place them in the dirt. Does the soil stick? If yes, then let it go a while longer without water. Do you hear me? he asked.

Yes. I’m listening, she said.

Go on. Touch the black soil.

I don’t want to. You do it.

Why won’t you?

Because. I’m tired of being told what to do. Tired of completing your tasks, she lit a cigarette.

That’s not good for the cacti.

It’s not good for me either. She blew out smoke. You care more about them than you do me. You got me coming and going.

Don’t argue around the plants. They don’t like that. They like classical music. Bach. Mozart.  Music from a different time.

They don’t like country western?

You’re stereotyping. Gabe and Grace like classical. I raised them on it.

She laughed and picked up Gabe and threw him against the wall. There. I killed him. I killed one of your cacti. Watch this. She picked up Grace, opened the door, and tossed her outside in the cold snow.

She’ll die out there. Murderer. I’m calling the police.

Why? Cuz I killed your plants.

They’ll come back. They’ll come back and haunt you the rest of your days.

Right.

He put on his coat. Picked up Gabe and walked out the door.

Where you going?

To bury them.

Bury?

They were living creatures. Never harmed anyone. And you killed them.

You’re fucking crazy.

Yes. That has been established.  But in the spring, they’ll return. You watch. It’ll be curtains for you.

You’re nuts.

Spring time. Spring time.

Are you scared? Afraid? she asked. I look at you, and I see fear. Maybe it’s an anxiety you got. It’s like you don’t want to be here. You want to be somewhere else. A thousand miles away. Maybe Texas or Pennsylvania. You’re just not here, Paula looked at Mike, his head down, looking at the metal table. She pushed a coffee cup towards him. He pushed it back. You don’t want any? he shook his head; gray hair tossed. I don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know what to do. She buttoned her morning coat. Limped over to the counter and poured another cup of coffee. Sure you don’t want any?

No.

Go get some sleep.

Can’t.

Why?

Not tired.

Paula took a sip and added cream.  The paper should be here. That boy comes later and later, it seems.

I like to read the obituaries, Mike said. See whose ahead of me. Or, maybe I’m ahead of them. They both laughed. I’ll take that coffee now.

I don’t think we go anywhere, he said. Heaven. Hell. These places don’t exist. They were made up by people in order to keep them on their best behavior. But apparently, that hasn’t worked, the drunk said to the young man beside him. Everybody is out to get you. Catch you in the act.  Lying, cheating, killing, fornicating, these are all human acts. By and large, we’re a terrible species.

So you have no faith? he asked, swiveling on the leather barstool.

Sure, I do.

In what? Not God. That is obvious.

I have faith in my cat. His name is Ted. He comforts me on this long walk through life.

One day, he will die.

The old drunk took a sip of his beer. He rolled a cigarette on the wooden bar top with initials carved into it. Hearts with arrows in them. And the name, Ted. The drunk pointed to it. The young buck laughed.

See, he said. Ted will live forever. Like the David or Mona Lisa. He’ll always be there for me. He’s there for all of us.

Waking up to Charlie Parker on WKCR. Heating up cold coffee in a microwave. Marmalade spread on a stale piece of bread.

Above is a shelf of books; Ulysses,  Moby Dick, On The Road, Tropic of Cancer and Capricorn, The Air-conditioned Nightmare, with some Joan Didion leaning on her side. I’ve read all of these twenty times and then some. Torn pages, yellowing covers, bent and shuffled like a deck of cards, too far gone for a used book store to take. Wishing I had some money, honey.

There is quiet in the morning. The screaming and yelling from last night has stopped. There is no change on the nightstand. Rent’s been paid. Let’s see what Ishmael is up to. Moby Dick; it’s not about a fish.

I read under lamplight. Morning sun rises over the Bronx. My stomach growls. Coffee tastes like diseased piss and mold discovered on my bread. How desperate am I? Throw the piece of wheat out the window for the pigeons down below.

Now Joe Henderson is blowing magic. I keep it turned down, wondering what Ishmael’s tattoos look like. The hunger presses on.

Nothing under the bed. Not a dollar nor a penny. Empty bottles from weeks ago lie there with caps off.

A pen and paper sit on the desk next to a wax candle, rosary beads, pull tabs from beer cans, and a five dollar bill hiding underneath Mamet. My day can begin with an egg sandwich.

I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Tomorrow begins winter. Leaves are gone. Bare tree limbs crackle in cold winds, snap off, and kids use them for swords to defeat dragons.

I watch passers-by. Old and young couples holding gloved hands. Some are smiling. Others march forward into snow; wishing they were in Florida.

Birds eat stale bread lying on brown grass. Outdated hamburger buns and pieces of pita with mold on them are swallowed bit by bit. They fly off in a flutter.

Winter comes tomorrow. It’s time for a long nap.