dmseay

Did you know him?

No. Not really. Read about him this morning. He seemed like a nice man; wife and kids. Liked to build things with his hands. That’s what the paper said.

Yes. He was a craftsman. Made grandfather clocks and cedar chests. I have a clock he gave me for Christmas one year. My wife. She hates it. Chimes throughout the night. Hangs on our wall in the  living room. Now it will be a memory of him.

I see.

Why are you here?

The food mainly. Always a lovely spread at these events. Casseroles,  salads, jello molds of different colors with fruit in them; the little oranges, bits of apple. Yes. Quite lovely indeed.

This is a practice of yours?

Every day, I read the obituaries. Curious about lives lived. Survived by such and such. Wife of whoever for fifty years. Died suddenly. Try to avoid those. Too sad of a crowd. Or kids killed by drunk drivers. Never know what to expect there. But usually no alcohol.

How often do you do this?

I don’t know. Three or four times a week. Whenever I get hungry. I give the loved ones my condolences. Then, make my way in line for my plate. I prefer China over paper.

I see. Has anyone ever kicked you out?

Not yet. I’m very quick. Get in and get out, I always say. Like a bank job. Take the money and run.

Nice chatting with you.

Yes. Let’s do it again sometime. 

He kept her in a wooden box up above the fireplace. She wanted to be let go. Wanted to be tossed out into Lake Michigan at sundown on Olive Beach, where they used to go to after dinner on cool autumn nights. But he couldn’t let go.

Often, he would open the pine box and run his fingers through the ashes. Folding dust into his hand and then releasing it back into the box. Saying a prayer each time he did this. Asking God, why did you take her from me?

They all leave, he thought. We leave each other, sifting ashes through his wrinkled fingers. We die or run away. Divorce or stay together, drifting farther and farther apart, he whispered.

But we get used to having the other, our partner, around. And when they leave, we long for them. We can not let go. I can’t let go, he said.

The old man took the box of ashes down from the mantle and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a cup of coffee. Buttered a piece of toast and spent the day staring at the box; talking to it, speaking to her.

You remember our  walks to Olive Beach? he asked the box. We walked up the trail from North Avenue, getting coffee on the way. Every night was a first date, he laughed. And now you want to say goodbye. I do not want to say goodbye. But it’s time. It is time.

The widower carried her to Olive Beach at sundown. Said so long and tossed her into the water. Swim, honey. Swim, he said. I’ll see you soon.

He watched from the shore. Waves came in. Sand between his toes. The skyline of Chicago behind him. The Drake Hotel, townhouses on Dearborn, Water Tower, cars moving slowly on Lakeshore Drive. Early morning. Birds flew above.

North Beach was empty. A few runners on the track, but quiet. He had not seen Lake Michigan like this in a long time. He and his wife came here throughout their lives together. Mornings and evenings spent at the beach. Drank coffee with Bailey’s in it. Sometimes, they passed a joint back and forth that they’d stole from their son. That was years ago. Walked with a boom box playing Chet Baker and Bill Evans. A mixtape he’d made for her. The couple held hands. Spoon rings on fingers, made of metal, they became loose throughout the years, until one day they fell off; lost in the sand. Never to be found.

After her death, the old man continued looking for those rings. He bought a metal detector and traced up and down the shoreline. Nothing was ever discovered. They were gone. She was gone.

It’s funny how life takes us on a journey. Through loves, heartbreak, a belly full, a stomach starved, always wondering what is next. Always.

He looked out at the water. Walked into the waves. Stood there. He thought of her. He was happy.

I never wanted you, she said. It was forced. You forced yourself on me. Had no choice.

We all have choices, he said.  There’s door number one and door number two.

And you were three. So odd. I had. I had others to choose from. Suitors, lovers, men who would have given me anything. One owned a ranch in Texas. Another was a producer. Then there were countless truck drivers coming through here. Interesting offers. Romantic adventures.

There wasn’t any movie producer. No ranch owner. Lucky I found you. I was your last chance. Last hope.

There were many men before you. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Some kind of cowboy to sweep me off my feet.

Well…

You were supposed to be a one night fling. A roll in the hay.

Yeah, well. Twenty-five years later.

Right.

He nodded his head. Took a swig of coffee. Watched as Peterbilts and Kenworths rolled onto the highway.

Don’t you get no ideas, she whispered. Like I said. You forced yourself on me. Like glue. Now you’re stuck, she put her arm around him. You want some pie?

Sure.

He placed his frail hands on the Bible; King James. The right hand trembled, fingers tapped on red leather.

Grasping the holy book, he held it to the sky. Did you write this? he asked God. Are these your words? nobody answered. 

I didn’t think so, he told the almighty. These stories, tales, are written by man. And was Jesus your son? again, no answer.

This book has been read by millions. Maybe billions. Some believe in it while others are skeptics, he said in a hushed tone. 

And what are you? a voice inside asked the old man. What are you?

Not sure. I’ve never been sure. Even when I was baptized, I wasn’t sure. Moby Dick? I believe in Melville. Ulysses? I believe in Joyce. But this? he threw the book down on the ground. This I do not know. It’s as if it were a secret. Some are in on it while others just live their lives in mystery.  Why don’t you tell me.

That’s up to you, the voice said.

Yes. Yes, it is. We all have a choice. A free will. To live in the dark or to let in light, he shook his head. I choose the gray.

He was pulling garbage out of the trashcan; eating chicken bones with flies on them; cursing his life. The bearded man shook his fist at God. Yelled out at him as people walked by. No one stopped.

Mickey Mouse was above on a wide screen. Telling all about the wonderful world of Disney. Double decker busses drove by carrying Japanese tourists snapping photographs. Elmo waved.

Around the corner on 42nd Street, locals fell out of bars; stumbling home in the morning hours. Old men remembered how it used to be. The Circus Cinema sign still lit up, but dimming. Soon, it will be gone. No more places for lecherous old men and young boys to go when feeling lonely. 

The old man ate chicken bones and cursed God. His coat stained from city filth. He came here years ago with good intentions and got lost along the way. Didn’t we all.

I never got around to it, he said. There was always something preventing me from telling my side of the story. The way things really happened, he lit a cigarette. 

Somehow, I think it’s better that way. Let people think what they want. And if that means I’m the bad guy, so be it, he continued talking to his son.

But that was a long time ago, the father said. He took a drink of whiskey and offered some to the kid. The kid said no thanks. He had given up the bottle years ago; saw what it did to the old man.

You can believe what you want to believe, Pop said. Who you want to believe. But that don’t make it right. Now, does it? the son looked at his father square in the eyes. Dark eyes. Lines underneath.

Mom said you had a woman in every county, the young man said. Said you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Also said you left us with nothing.

She left me.

Why? Why did she leave you?

Some men aren’t made to be married. And they don’t find out till it’s too late. That’s what happened. As for the money. I didn’t have any to give. Still don’t. 

You drank it all? he reached for the bottle.

Give me that.

The son started pouring Wild Turkey down the drain. Pop fell to his knees and cried. Moaned till it was all gone. The glass bottle was thrown against the wall, breaking into a thousand little shards.

Welcome home, dad.

There’s a few of us he watches, he said. Up there, the old man pointed. Up there, the kid looked up in the sky. He sees it all. The goodness, greatness, horrible things we do to each other. Dark clouds moved in. A floodlight shined down.

He knows, the old prisoner said. Your thoughts, the next move you’ll make, he knows. He knows all the days we count down to freedom. The markings on our walls. There are no secrets, he lit two cigarettes and handed one to the kid.

You say you’re innocent? We all do, he stated. We try to forget our sins. But he knows. See that barbed wire? That’s a reminder. Telling us there is no escape. Some  have tried, he blew smoke into the air. But there’s only so far you can get. He’ll strike you down.

And all the men we’ve murdered, stole from, women we’ve raped, our time is coming. Judgment. He knows. He knows.

Guns cocked. Men walking in circles. A voice over a loud speaker. Saying, line up. Blindfolds are tied. Guards take aim. The man in the sky looks on. He knows.

When I was a kid, I used to smell cut grass in the summertime.  The taste of it filled the air of Southern suburbs where charcoal grills blazed into evening.

A radio played the sounds of the season out in the garage where dad parked his ’78 Chevrolet Cowboys Classic station wagon. He was so proud. A car with the colors of the Dallas Cowboys uniforms; blue and silver with white doors. It was hideous. But he washed it once a week, changed the oil every three thousand miles, and made the tires shine like new. He loved three things: God, family, and the Cowboys. He tried to pass those values down to me, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to smell cut grass and drink Pepsi. The love of soda, I did get that from the old man. Dad would go through a six-pack a day. Some fathers drink alcohol. Dad drank sugar and caffeine. That’s what the radio in the garage told us to do; Join the Pepsi people. Feeling free. Feeling free. All across the nation. It’s a Pepsi generation. Here today. Here to stay. Feeling free. We did as we were told.

Summers in the South. Hot, humid, sticky summers in the South. Even the nighttime was hot. Windows open, and a warm breeze blew throughout the house.  Who needs air-conditioning, my dad said. This climate is good for you, he told me. It’ll make a man out of you. Teach you to endure, he’d laugh. Eventually, he went high-tech and bought fans for the bedrooms. He had this crazy idea about placing ice bags in front of the fans to cool us off. It was then that I realized my father was insane. I would wind up putting the ice on my forehead and waking up to a wet pillow. Fond memories. 

But, it was the cut grass that saved my soul. I could always count on that smell. You remember bits of childhood, and as one gets older, there are memories you want to forget. It is the beginning of spring. Soon, I will be a child again. 

This is what it comes to, he said. Black coffee. Unable to afford cream, poured a cup. Used to get the fancy stuff; Irish cream, cinnamon, and French vanilla. Now, it’s just black coffee. And, it’s cheap coffee. Bought it on special at the dollar store, the man said to his overnight guest. She smiled.

It’s OK, she told him. I like my coffee black. Like it strong, she ran her fingers through her gray hair.

I’m learning to adjust, he laughed.

So, you’re a writer. What kind of stories do you write?

Short fiction. I’m actually nothing.  Just a guy who has to get things off his chest. I write because I have to, he slurped his coffee. Besides, it’s no longer about writing in America anymore. It’s about self-promotion.  Feeding the ego. Nobody really has anything to say except, look at me.

That’s rather cynical.

Stick around, kid. It gets worse. I write short pieces every day. Have been for the last nine years. It keeps me sane. Put out a few books. Some money, not much. This is not a get rich business.  You wanna make money? Sell insurance, they laughed.

I see. I have a romantic poet on my hands. Beats salesmen. Talk about self-absorbed.  And they always have gold bracelets on their wrist. Gawdy necklaces. Class rings, she smirked.

I get that. Always trying to impress; very American.  Selling yourself.  Whatever that means. Fucking Dale Carnegie.

They looked at one another. Drank their coffee. Put on some Miles Davis. And went back to bed.