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Are you going into town? she asked.

Yep, her husband answered.

How long you gonna be?

Not sure. Why? You watching the clock?

Nope. Just curious.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Well, stay curious. Keep guessing, he put on his boots.

I wonder about you.

How so?

Where you go. What you do. Always taking off after dinner. Every night. 

I suppose so.

And you come home sober. Not a lick of alcohol on your breath. I mean, most husbands go out drinking. Where do you go?

I just go. I drive and clear my head. Get rid of junk inside of it, he lit a cigarette.

You go out to the cemetery?

Sometimes.

You gotta let go of her.

I know. I just go every once in a while. Just when I feel like talking to her.

You can talk to me, she grabbed him. We can talk.

Yeah. I know.

You’re never going to let go of her. He shook his head and walked out.

I saw you come in, and I said to myself, there’s a real man, the waitress said as she stretched her arms across the table, handing him a menu with a thousand choices on it. Coffee? he nodded his head. You know what you like or do you need a few minutes? the cowboy held up two fingers. I’ll be back, the brunette told him. He watched her walk away.

Steak and eggs. Western Omelet. Denver Omelet. Mexican Omelet with chorizo. Pancakes. Waffles. Pork chops and eggs. Bacon and eggs. Biscuits and gravy. Too many choices, he whispered. 

You decided? she placed her hand on his shoulder.

I’ll stick with coffee and some buttered toast.

That’s it? he nodded. White or wheat, honey?

Wheat.

We got Texas toast, too.

Just wheat, he handed her the menu.

Coming right up.

His wife used to make breakfast for him. She scrambled eggs and fried bacon with toast. He liked bacon burnt. She was the only woman who ever got it right.

He stared at the pictures on the walls; a Western motif. Paintings of Cowboys and horses on velvet throughout the diner. Hank Williams played on the radio.

Here you go, hon, she handed him the toast and a note saying, I get off when the sun comes up.

He looked at her. She winked at him. He considered his options.

I warned you, he said to his reflection.  Told you. This is not right, he leaned into the mirror. No. This is not right.

He heard the train coming down the tracks behind his mother’s house. He grew up with that sound; the loudness of the locomotive. Often at night, when he was a boy, he placed teaspoons on the tracks to be flattened by trains. He’d pick up the spoons and study the flat pieces of silver. His mother wondered where all her spoons went. The boy never said a word.

What do you want from me? he asked himself. Am I paying for my sins? he lifted his shirt, exposing a fat stomach. Gluttony.  Theft. Adultery. Lying. All these mistakes,  he said. Too many.

The train was passing. He went outside to listen in the dark. He heard a dinging sound coming closer. The train disappeared. A second train would come later, close to morning. He took out a Zippo and laid it on the tracks. Flatter than a pancake, he laughed. It’ll be flatter than a pancake.

Mirrors don’t lie. He looked closer at himself in the bedroom. Heard the next train approaching. It’s time, the man said. It’s time.

Standing on the tracks, he closed his eyes. How do people do it? he asked out loud as the train got closer. How do they do it? He felt autumn’s  breeze. Guilt will kill us all.

The pillow was soaked. Blankets kicked off the bed. A message from his ex-wife on his phone. Are you awake? I love you, she said. Another train rolled through.

Smell of cat pissed carpet. Pots and plates piled in the sink. Mice laughing at traps.

Windows broken. A cold breeze blows through the house. Men sitting in a circle passing a bottle of cough medicine around. Lips chapped, bloody. Scabs on their bodies. Seated on cardboard.

Don’t drink it all, Pete said to Mikey. Save some for the rest of us, he demanded, the two stared at each other. That’s it. You’re cut off, the old man said to him, grabbing for the bottle of suppressant. Give me that. The two began to wrestle. Punches thrown. Mikey drinks the final swig of medicine. He throws the bottle down, spiking it like a football. You’ve gone and done it now, Pete warned, pulling out a knife. I told you to share. That’s how we do it here. How we survive.

I’ll get more, Mikey said. I’ll steal it.

How? That’s prescription only. We were lucky to get it from the clinic. What kind of magic are you going to pull? Pete asked.

I’ll go there and tell them I’m sick. Real sick. I’ll get it. Just put the knife away.

Pete puts the switchblade back in his pocket. He warns him, be back by sundown. Mikey runs out into the street.

He’s not coming back, Thomas said. He’ll  never come back. What? You think he’s just going to stroll in here with a bottle of cough medicine? I doubt it.

Yeah. If he did get it, he’s somewhere drinking it right now, said John.

He’ll get it one of these days. He’ll run across his maker, Pete said. There are rules, the men nodded their heads in agreement. 

It’s getting dark, John told the group. Should we go find him?

And then what? Thomas asked.

Kill him, Pete said. He has to pay for these sins.

You sure?

As sure as I’ve ever been.

Have you ever killed anyone? John  asked.

People who have don’t talk about it. It’s the ones who brag about it that haven’t. 

Mice ran across the floor. A black bird flew in through the window. Night has come. A reckoning awaits.

You can’t see in the dark, he said. Have to turn on the light, the young man lit a cigarette. A lamp, overhead light, crystal chandelier, something.

Electricity’s been shut off, pop said. Been off for a while now. I guess about a month. Wandering around in darkness. Thanking God for the sun. And then at night, the devil takes over. Blank. Can’t see a thing. Like someone’s covering my eyes, he motioned to his son to hand him a cigarette.

Gotta flashlight?

Nope. Just this Bic, he held it up with a big flame, lighting his face, then shutting it off. Now you see me. Now you don’t, dad laughed.

You can’t go on living this way. Here. Take some money, the kid took out a twenty from his wallet.

That’s not enough.

How far are you behind?

Months. They let it slide for a couple. I’d send them a ten or fifteen dollars every once in a while. Then I just couldn’t send them anything.

Why’s that?

Drank it all.

All your social security check ?

Yeah. Not much anyway.

Are you behind on the trailer payments?

I owe for the lot.  They threaten me all the time. Tell me to clean up my property. Give them money. Live like a white person. They’re quite cruel.

I had no idea, dad. Why didn’t you tell me?

You got your own problems. Wife, kids, that retarded son of yours…

He’s challenged, pop.

Well, I don’t care what he is. He ain’t right.

I gotta go, dad. Take this. I’ll give you more tomorrow, and we’ll clear these bills up.

No. I just want to sit here. In the darkness.

You can’t watch TV or anything.

Right. I miss Wheel Of Fortune.

Sure.

I’ve landed on bankrupt.

Right. No, this place needs cleaned up, dad. You need to clean up.

I haven’t seen you in months and now you come here telling me this. No calls. Nothing.

Your phone’s dead, dad.

Oh. Well, you could’ve stopped by more often. 

I’m here now. Sitting with you in the dark. 

Yeah. Here in the dark. The devil makes his deals in the dark. Always has. 

Just take the money, dad. 

Right. How do I know you’re not the devil?

I’m your son. 

My son lives across town.

Dad?

Who are you? And why is it dark? Turn on some light. You hear me? I said, turn on some light, he yelled.

I’m leaving, dad.

Turn on the TV.

I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring you McDonald’s.  You like that?

I prefer Wendy’s.

Fine.

It’s dark in here.

Yes, dad. It’s dark.

Raindrops bounced off the window unit. Winds whirled and moaned. Trees bendt. Alley cats hid behind dumpsters.

He lay in bed, listening to opera on the radio, sung in Italian. Foreign words floating over his head. It soothed him. The soprano made him cry.

On his desk sat a bottle of Beaujolais and a dirty glass. He got up and washed it in the sink with his hands and hot water. The legs of wine before disappeared like sin after a baptism.

Fat man sat in a metal chair and poured himself a glass from the pretty bottle with flowers painted on it. A twelve dollar Beaujolais, he thought. Mmmm. Not bad.

The opera was hitting a critical point. The lover had just died in the man’s arms. He carried her through town. The fat man sensed that something tragic had taken place. A single flute told him.

A tear ran down fat man’s cheek.  He looked outside, and rain had turned to snow. The Bronx streets were white. Cars skid across lanes. Tires screeching. Another glass of wine poured.

The opera had ended. Now, it was  jazz throughout the night. He hummed along to all the songs, even the avant garde bop of Ornette Coleman. Those notes made him cry as well.

He crawled back into bed. Prayed as he lay there. Said, it’s good to be alive. It’s good to be alive.

It’s time, he said. Turn off the lights. The air-conditioner, turn that off too. I’m not a millionaire, the old man declared. Did you turn off the coffeemaker? she nodded. Put some food in the bowl for Norman. Just open the bag and let it out on the kitchen floor. He’ll have plenty. Fill his water, too.

OK, she whispered.

Why are you whispering?

Because you so loud. The neighbors will hear us. They already think we strange.

Is that what you do in the Philippines? Keep quiet? Worry what neighbors think?

OK. OK. Just let’s go.

A couple of duffel bags were placed in the back of the truck. Doors on the old Ford creaked. The engine had trouble starting. A streetlight shined down on them.

Look in the glovebox and get me that flashlight. Amongst papers, a title, some cash, and a bottle of Wild Turkey was a yellow flashlight. The young lady handed it to him. You keep the hood up for me while I look into this.

OK. OK, she could hear the dog barking.

Hold the hood with one hand and the flashlight with the other. Point it where I tell you to. The short woman stood on her tip toes to open the hood. Here, he said. Down here. Shine it on the blue and red wires. Come on now.

OK. OK.

See. This blue one is disconnected.  And the red one is nearly chewed through. The old man placed the blue wire on the battery. That should hold for a while. Get back, he slammed the hood down. Tried to start the truck again. It sputtered and spat. The old Ford would not start. Lights came on next door.

What we do now? she asked.

Why doesn’t anything work for me? Hand me that bottle in the glovebox.

You don’t drink, she said. It make you mad.

I’m already mad. Hand me the whiskey. 

She grabbed the bottle and handed it to him. She smiled. It be alright, she told him. It be OK.

Together, they sat there in the truck as the night became morning. There wasn’t any talking. Just silence. She leaned up against his shoulder. He tried the ignition one more time, and with a whine, it started.

The dog continued barking.

A cat tower. Television set. Brooms leaning on a white wall. A red dustpan. Birthday and Mother’s Day cards stand on end tables. Brown stained carpet.  A mirror by the front door. She looks at herself. Lego pieces stepped on.

In a room down the hall, a child cries. He whines and throws things. Says, I hate you. Then cries more. He kicks the walls and door.  Mom takes another look in the mirror. 

Be quiet, she yells. You’re only going to make yourself sick. Don’t make me come back there, she looks at her phone. The baby sitter called and said she’ll be late. Her date has been canceled. Said he had to work. There are bottles of booze on top of the refrigerator. She pulls down a bottle of Skol vodka. She drinks from it.

A soft knock on the door. The babysitter apologizes. She can smell the alcohol. Nothing is said. The boy continues crying.

Go back and check on him every once in a while, the young mother says. He should wear himself out and fall asleep. The babysitter nods and smiles. I’ll be home late. Call me if you need anything. But, only if you really need something.  OK? She takes one more look at herself and closes the door.

Maybe she’ll find what she’s looking for. She drives the Dodge past the downtown bars past the church. She has a full tank of gas. The entrance to I-69 shines in the night.

She thinks about leaving it all behind. Fumbles through the glovebox. A small bottle of Fireball is half empty. She drinks the rest of the whiskey and is on her way. Going south. She has no idea where she’ll wind up. She wants to start all over again. A clean slate? There is no such thing.

Blank stares between the two. He had seen her before. Some time ago. Years. The man could not stop looking at her. Time had done nothing. So What played on the jukebox.

She sat on the barstool with her legs crossed, wearing a red dress. The same dress he’d seen her in before. The one with the V-neck. She looked up at the silent TV. The Mets were on.

He wanted to walk over. Say something. But he didn’t have the courage; not enough whiskey yet. She looked back at him and pointed. Started to walk over past the pushers, pimps, fat men, gamblers, dope-heads, queens, and concubines. I know you, she said. Yes. I remember, she took a drink.

I know, he told her. I have a familiar face.

No. I know you. We’ve spent time together. You don’t remember?

He looked at her up and down. She grabbed his cheeks and kissed him. Left a red stain on his lips.

Oh yeah, he said. It’s coming back to me. The tall woman kissed him again. Joan? Is that you? she nodded and smiled. Forgive me, he said. It’s been a long time.

It has.

You still look great.

Thanks.

Haven’t changed a bit.

You didn’t recognize me, she said. Couldn’t make me out?

I thought it was you. You never know. How are the kids?

One’s in college. The other cuts hair. They’re doing good. They ask about you. That is, they used to. Things fade away. We let go.

Yes. Could I buy you a drink?

She shook her head. No thanks. Just wanted to say hello.

Hello.

What is real? he asked. We think we can tell the difference of real and unreal, but we can’t, he sat by the fire stirring the coals. I’ll tell you one thing. Love is not real. It’s a figment of our imaginations. Young men, mere boys, fall in love five or six times from grade school crushes to high school sweethearts. They think it’s love. But it’s not. Just fooling around until someone gets hurt, he said to his friend. Least, that’s my experience.

Did you love your wife?

Sure. Whatever that means, they both laughed and opened another beer.

How many times did you tell her you loved her?

Not many. I rarely felt it. I didn’t know if it was real or not. Was never sure, he lit a cigarette. 

Never felt it? Not even on your wedding day?

I was smashed on my wedding day.  Drunk as a skunk. Started with bloody Marys, and by noon, I was drinking gin and tonics. Maybe I was preparing for the worst. I don’t know, he smiled. Made up my own vows right there at the altar. She had hers all memorized. I pulled it off. That’s what people said. But, was it real? I couldn’t tell you.