dmseay

Watch where you walk, he said. The cats aren’t trained. They just go wherever they want; do whatever they want. One of them, I think it was the brown and white one, pissed on my pillow. He and I had some words, he told his guest.

Boxes were all over the old man’s trailer. Cardboard boxes containing Christmas lights, old 45’s, albums, Hustler magazines, pots, and pans. He’d never put things away since he moved into the trailer park some ten years ago. He just let things stack up. Piles of unpaid bills on the coffee table. A rusted coffee maker. Plastic cups with piss in them.

Maybe I should keep a tidier ship, he said while wiping his nose on his sleeve. I can’t be held responsible for what these cats have done, he said.

Folks from the church want to help you. Your boys said you needed some help. Do you? she asked.

My boys?

Yes. They go to our church. They said you needed help.

What kind of church?

Evangelical. Christian.

Evangelical? Those boys were raised Catholics. Evangelical?

Yes. Your boys have been born again.

Born again? What was wrong with the first time?

She laughed. I’ll send some men from the church over to help you clean the place. Make it better for you. Would you like that?

Born again?

Yes. They are Christians. And they are fine boys. Good men.

I never see them anymore. They never come by. Not since I moved in here. Used to come by the old place. When their mom was alive. That was a while ago. He sat in his easy chair. Born again? People do that, huh?

Everyday. Every day, they come to Christ.

I think I’ll stay home. You got a cigarette?

I don’t smoke.

I sure could use one. Take all this in. My boys are born again?

Yes sir. 

Well, I’ll be.

Is that the best you can come up with? he asked. This story about being in love and then out of love; unable to make up your mind. Your teen years have long passed you by, he told her. We’re of that age where we know. Right? We’re sure of these things.

I don’t know, she said. I feel for you, I really do. But I don’t know. My mind wanders. One day, all is good, next I’m thinking of hopping on a bus and getting out of here, she said.

Where to?

Don’t know.

You keep saying that.

What?

Don’t know. What do you know? The waitress brought over a pot of coffee. She filled both cups. Let’s look at some facts. You’re over fifty. At thirty, you can take on anything. Fifty? Different ball game. Number two. What’re you going to do for money? You can’t hustle anymore. I mean, you could, but who’d want you. You’re chasing a dream, dear. All your life you been chasing dreams. Time to stay put.

I hear this voice telling me to get on that bus. Saying, pick a place, and go.

Be careful. Those voices will kill you.

And you won’t?

The pimp laughed. He reached out for her hand. Stick with me. Stick with me. Haven’t I always taken care of you? She nodded her head. Damn right I have. He checked his watch. Drink up. We gotta get going. Jeopardy’s coming on.

Dog shit on the sidewalk. Hookers walking the streets. Dealers dealing. Thieves stealing. Mothers mugging. A cruiser passes by.

A kid stands on the corner smoking cigarettes and drinking a Yahoo. Summer was done hours ago. Maybe autumn will change our tune.

There used to be peace in the city come fall. With changing of  leaves, people’s attitudes changed as well.

A beauty was all over town. Suddenly, the guy who was going to kill you in August now wants to be your best friend in October. Count your blessings.

The kid crushes his smoke with his boot and throws the glass bottle to the concrete, breaking it into bits. He pulls out a bottle of cough syrup and downs it in one continuous gulp. Steady, boy. Steady.

Now it’s summer all the time in New York. The heat and the smell are too much to stand. Everyone is angry. It’s a high of 65 round Thanksgiving. Christmas will soon be here. Don’t look for any brotherly love or good tidings. Those days are gone.

The kid jumps the subway turnstile while a cop takes a nap. He examines a pocket knife his father gave him. Looks around the platform and sees an old lady who reminds him of his mother. The knife goes back into his pocket. 

Autumn will end soon.

She doesn’t know, he said. She thinks she does, but she doesn’t.

You keep secrets? Jimmy asked.

How do you mean?

Secrets. Not fully exposing yourself.  She sees only skin. Not the bone or muscle, just skin. Jimmy drank his whiskey shot down. He ordered two more. Drink, he said. Go on. You’re wasting good alcohol. Robert Paul looked at him.

You think she sees right through me?

They all do. It’s their job. Like a detective on a case, Jimmy drank down another shot.  I’m two ahead of you. Come on now.

So, she knows.

Yes. Them, she, they know everything.  You can only hide for so long.

And then? Robert Paul asked.

They make a choice. They decide. Your two cents ain’t worth much.

Robert Paul put his jacket on. Drank down a shot, then the other. Shook Jimmy’s hand and wished him goodnight.

Where you going?

Not sure. Scared to go home.

Cause of what I said?

Yeah.

Robert Paul. There are always exceptions.

A pickup starts across the street. Engine has trouble turning. Smoke coming out of the tailpipe.

He scrapes frost off the windshield and side windows. It makes a crackling sound. There are voices.

Just bring him out, the kid says to his partner. We’ll put him here in the back. You got him covered? The young man nods his head and goes back inside the trailer. Morning sunlight peeks through clouds. The kid places his hands inside pockets and waits.

Could you give me a hand? his partner says, struggling with the body over his shoulder. The kid starts to laugh.

He don’t weigh nothing but a buck and a quarter, the kid says. A line of blood appears from the door to the snow-covered gravel driveway. The kid kicks the snow and tries to make blood disappear. Black and white mixed with traces of red.

The two boys throw the old man’s body in the bed of the pickup. They cover the bed and body with a yellow plastic tarp. They jump in the front seat of the Ford. The kid shifts into drive, and back tires begin to spin.

Come on now, kid says. Damn it. Get a shovel and dig us out, he tells his partner. Go on now. We gotta get out of here.

Kid puts all he’s got to the pedal. The other boy digs around the wheel. Snow and mud kick up in his face.

The wheel now moves with traction. He throws the shovel to the side and jumps back in the truck; blowing on his raw red hands.

I close the curtains.

Ancient writings. Before the Bible. Words from prophets and kings. Teaching morals. Rules of the game.

I play an old Coltrane album, Love Supreme, while I read books on religion, philosophy, Winnie The Pooh. All about caring for your neighbor, your fellow man.

A voice sings in the background, A love supreme…A love supreme….A love supreme…while Jimmy Garrison’s fingers glide on the neck and stroke the belly of the bass I feel at ease. This should be my new morning ritual. Never have I felt so calm, so tranquil.

Maybe the Christians are right. Maybe you can be born again.

It’s four o’clock in the morning. Christmas lights shine on the trailer in July. A Ford up on concrete blocks.

The porchlight is on. A million mosquitoes fly around it. Cigarette butts soaking in a bucket of rain water. The grass is yellow.

He drinks his coffee in the dark. There are no lights on in the home. The black liquid, from the day before, is cold. He stirs it with his finger, then sucks the tip. The old man takes a sip. Bitter, he says. But it’ll do.

Cars and trucks go up and down Highway 10. Mostly semis coming and going to and from the truck stops up on 65. Names like Pilot, Love’s, and an adult shop called The Lions Den, dot the interstate. The old man listens to the soft noise and continues his morning routine of cold coffee and loneliness.

This hermit sits in his easy chair with cigarette burns in it. He lights a butt from the ashtray and begins to sing while picking up a piece of short rope on the dingy carpeted floor. The song he’s selected is Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.

Now everything is easy cause of you, he sings softly while making the rope into a noose.

I’ll light the fire, he continues singing and places the noose around his neck. While you place the flowers in the vase that you bought today….

There’s no such thing as peace anymore. Nothing is tranquil. I yell out for solace. But all I have are more grievances. Noise. I want to escape noise. Guns fired. Sirens screaming down below. Cars with no mufflers. A city bus applying brakes. Children crying. Drunks in the alley. Garbage trucks stopping every five minutes down my street, dumping trash; beer bottles, metal popcorn containers,  wooden tables crushed, bed frames busted, old toys kids have outgrown; how sad is that.

The worst is the screaming of lovers down the hall. Either yelling in ecstasy or voices raised to the level of murder. One moment fucking and the next pulling weapons. Threatening each other. Hitting one another. Bodies bouncing off walls.

And here I sit, wanting peace. Thinking to myself, you never had it so good.

I’m not going anywhere, he said.

Staying?

Yeah.

We fight too much, she said.

Right.

If you stay, we’re just going to argue more. Every night. Always. You say something. I say something.  It gets mean, she fumbled through her purse for a cigarette and lighter. I’m tired of it. I ain’t got no more fight left, she raised her hand and the waitress came over. You got any matches?

This is non smoking, the server said. You have to go outside.

No smoking in a bar? You got to be kidding me. Can’t smoke anywhere anymore. They’re taking away our rights. Right?

Sure, the redhead walked away.

I got a lighter. Let’s step outside, he said.

In the cold? Are you nuts?

Yes, and yes. Price you pay for sin. Bible says the body is a temple, he laughed.

Right. Have another drink. She shook her head. You know at Curly’s you can smoke.

Yeah. On the deck, you can.

I could’ve swore they let you smoke inside.

Nope. Only on the deck. Come on. Let’s go outside. I could use one myself. 

OK. Wait. We got to quit fighting.

Yes. Yes, we do.

I love you.

I love you too.

Children played in the front yard as I drove by; throwing snowballs at each other. Dad was shoveling the driveway. Mom looked on behind a fogged-up glass door. Candles were in the windows.

I lived there as a child. I remembered cold days like this. But the driveway was never cleared. Snowballs were never thrown. There was no glass front door. Just an old house in the middle of the street; shutters falling off.

My dad would be gone for weeks at a time. He drove a semi all across half of the country. Delivered cars from the Midwest to the East Coast. Used to tell stories about Boston and New York. Dreamt I would see those towns one day. Still haven’t. 

This town. It keeps you here. Locks folks in. People never leave. They’re just like me; drive around thinking of the past; high school football games, first job they ever had at the Kroger store , going off to college only to come right back; pulled in like a rope was around them. 

Some day I’ll leave this town. Some day.