dmseay

Do you want to be alone? he asked. By yourself for a while? she kept looking out the kitchen window. I can let you be. Leave you here, he tried to embrace her from the back; holding on around the waist. I’m going. You shouldn’t be driving in this condition, he let go.

She watched him climb into the Ford. Saw him back out of the driveway onto the two lane road. She looked down; looked again, and he was gone. Still, she stood there. Looked outside at the changing trees, birds flying, squirrels running around, cars going up and down Highway 10. In her mind, she counted the colors. One red car. Three black. One green. One real pretty Bronco that looks avocado. The young woman kept looking. She poured herself a cup of coffee and watched the world go by. Wondering where he’d taken off to.

Maybe he left town, she said out loud. Could’ve gone to the store. Probably went back to her, she cried. Probably went back to her.

They never stay, she whispered.  Always leave. Go back to their safe lives. Women they call dear. Children bounced on their laps. Mowing lawns on Saturday. Church on Sunday. It was fun while it lasted. 

She got dressed in her tightest jeans. Put on a white tee-shirt and a pair of cowboy boots. She was tired of waiting. It’s time to find the next one.

Hollow sounds. Nothing. You think there’s something, but there is not; just a long night of silence. The kind of silence that makes you worry. Scares people, desparately wanting to hear anything; a dog barking, a cat fight in the alley, cars without mufflers, something to let you know there is life. But, there is not.

I watched him lie in bed. Tubes ran over and into his body. Folks gathered around; mom and dad, friends old and new. Prayers said, stories told. A bottle of wine passed from one hand to the next; a sort of last supper, a final communion.

The hospice nurse came to check on him. Brought him Italian lemon ice to suck on. His tongue turned yellow. He stuck it out for us all to see. His pillow was fluffed, sheets adjusted, a blanket over his feet. He thanked her. Even in pain, he was thankful.

I wanted to say goodbye but didn’t know how. I wanted to bring him one last great meal. But I knew he couldn’t digest it.

We talked about the great dinners he’d had with us. Traveling around the world using it as a smorgasbord. Greek food in Chicago, along with Jim’s Maxwell Street Polish. Chinese noodles as long as a leg in Manhattan. Street tacos in Mexico City. Pate in Paris. Indian food in Amsterdam. A simple bowl of chili in Cincinnati. Picking up the bill at the newspaper’s expense. Laughing as food and drink filled us.

His eyes opened, and closed. Falling in and out of it. I waved goodbye. I knew he was gone.

Did you mean to kill him? he asked. When you shot him, did you mean to kill him? he lit a cigarette and handed it to his son.

I never mean to do anything. Like the time I got on a bus in Pittsburgh and wound up in Los Angeles. You remember? the father nodded. Had no money. Nothing. Just got on a bus one night and left. I’ve always done that. Leave. New Orleans, Dallas, Iowa City,  Denver, New York, Vermont, all this coming and going. Always running from something. Like a crazy person.

What did he do to you? dad asked.

He tried to steal from me.

Under the bridge?

Yeah. I was asleep, and I heard him going through my stuff, so I shot him.

I see.

I just meant to scare him off, I guess. Maybe I did try to kill him. Wouldn’t surprise me.

You have to turn yourself in, the father said.

Huh. Now, who is the crazy one?

Men wearing neon colored vests sat on the side of the highway. Fresh patches of tar covered holes.  Orange cones lead drivers to the left lane. Slow down signs and dump trucks. They traveled north. 

What are you gonna do when we get to Chicago? she asked between sips of a 32 oz soda. I know where I’m going.

Yeah? Where?

Rock and Roll McDonald’s downtown.

Oh yeah? He kept driving. Smiled at her, this girl he picked up in Terre Haute. 

My daddy used to take me there when I was a little kid. He bought me chocolate shakes, and we listened to cool music from the 50’s.

Sounds like fun, the gray-haired man said. I like Buddy Holly. 

Who?

Buddy Holly. Singer from back then. You know. Peggy Sue…Peggy Sue…pretty pretty pretty Peggy Sue, he sang, struggled to hit notes. He stretched his arm out on the seat. Pulled in the seventeen year-old real tight. You’re going to be alright, he told her. You’ll be fine.

She continued slurping on her drink and looked out the window of the truck. She saw leaves dying, turned brown. She counted license plates from different states. Other diesels passed them by.

You never answered my question, said the blonde. What are you going to do in Chicago? she tucked her face into his ribs.

Just park the beast at a truck stop outside of town and get some sleep. I gotta be in Minneapolis by tomorrow.

I’ve never been there. I heard it’s nice though, she said. But I think I’ll hang out in Chicago.

How are you going to survive?

I’ll find a way. I’m smart. I’ll go to beauty school and learn how to style hair, she told him, placed her hand on his thigh, which he removed. You think I’m pretty? he nodded. You want me? he shook his head. I won’t tell anybody. A hundred bucks, and I’ll take care of you, the driver grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

Don’t say that. You remind me of my daughter back in St. Louis. She’s really pretty like you. But, no. I don’t want you like that. Just want to get you to Chicago. 

The Rock and Roll McDonald’s.

Sure.

Kids slid on the morning grass wet from dew. White sneakers turned green. A line would form. Girls and boys with book bags stood in autumn’s dawn as the yellow, long bus arrived.

One by one, they climbed stairs and wished the driver good morning. She would tell them to watch their step in between gulps of coffee. A kid tripped. It never failed.

The ride to school would start off being a quiet journey. Keep it down, the driver said. Keep it down. However, inevitably, the silence didn’t last long.

Did you watch the Bears yesterday? a boy asked his friend, nodding his head. Sons of bitches looked terrible. That’s what my dad said, they both laughed. He yelled at the TV all afternoon. Run nigger, run, the kid said. All afternoon.

My old man says the same thing, his friend said. Every Sunday, he’s screaming at everybody when the Bears lose. Mom, my sister, me, the dog, the whole house while pops opens another beer. The neighbors complain. Mr. Beasley knocks on our door and tells him to turn it down and shut up. Then dad just gets louder. He yells and calls them all a bunch of niggers too, the boys laughed harder.

Keep it quiet back there, the driver yelled again. And quit using the N word. I can hear you all the way up here.

The boy with his buzzed haircut whispered to the other. What the hell? he said. Dad says it all the time. 

Mine, too.

Everybody in Bridgeport says it. It’s not like we live on the Northside. 

Right. Northside pussies.

The bus pulled up in front of the middle school. Watch your step, the driver reminded them. Watch your step.

 

Magic is gone. It has left the soul. Went God knows where. Hiding in closets, under beds, pantries; no more. Disappeared. Maybe magic jumped off a building in Midtown Manhattan. Perhaps drowned in the Hudson. I wish it would come back.

An empty, wadded up McDonald’s bag in a trashcan. A few fries in it. Opened packets of ketchup. I haven’t eaten in days. Considered the possibilities.

Cigarette butts burned in ashtrays. It has come to this, I say out loud. A thousand circus clowns pass by on their way to the big top. They cram into a small car and wave goodbye; honking and smiling. Honking and smiling.

These days are best spent under a tree in  Central Park, sleeping, and dreaming. Or at St. Patrick’s praying for a shift in life. A new beginning. Funny, the Protestants believe in being born again; I’ve never felt more dead. 

Autumn will be here soon.

Just write one sentence. Put the words together in some kind of cohesive form. A statement, question, poetry, or prose, something down on paper. Something to get the ball rolling.

I sit here in the dark with nothing to say. The keyboard is in front of me waiting to be touched. If I go a day without writing, it feels like a year; I’m trying to pick up where I left off. A story about this man, or that woman, maybe a child left behind. Write about what I see, images in my head, a life that has passed me by, people met along the way, homeless shelters, psych wards, on the streets in New York, Joplin, St. Louis, Montpelier,  Montreal, Iowa City,  sleeping in parking lots, being awakened by cops and shining flashlights, driving drunk up and down I-95,  consumed by madness, leaving lovers behind. Each day writing. Recording my actions. It is art, craft, discipline, insanity. Why would one sacrifice it all for a life of writing? poverty, ruined relationships, the search for peace. Because I have to.

But tonight, there is nothing to write. I am silent. The page is blank.

Pictures on a mantle. She looks at them. Old black and whites of parents and grandparents. Of children and ladies in their youth, handsome men wearing suits. A baby picture of dad.

So long ago, she whispers. Now they’re all gone. Disease, heartache, heart attacks, and old age, we’re all doomed, I guess, she laughs. No getting out of it.

The gray-haired lady takes a seat. Rocks back and forth. I wonder when I’ll join them, she smiles. I wonder.

We all wonder. We all look at pictures on a mantle, a shelf, book cases, or tucked away in cedar chests.

My father died in my arms, she remembers. He said he felt dizzy and then collapsed in my arms. We never said goodbye.

Saltine crackers and a quarter jar of peanut butter. A container of half and half. Dirty glasses on top of the counters. The constant drip of the water faucet. Semis streak down Highway 41.

He stands in the kitchen, looking through drawers. Coffee is stirred with a butter knife. The old man sticks it in his mouth and wipes the blade clean. The hot drink is slurped.

Walter begins talking to himself as he goes over to the couch. At first, it’s mumbling, then a full-on conversation with himself. He lights a cigarette. Hands are shaking. The old man blows out gray smoke along with white air. He covers his shoulders and body in a blanket while talking to an invisible Thelma.

Where are you? Are you here? I don’t see you. Must’ve been some kind of delusion the other night. Thought I heard you. Thought I saw you. I’ve been wrong before, he inhales. Walter looks at the pictures on the wall of stick figures holding hands. He realizes it’s a drawing of Bobby and Thelma. He’s nowhere in the picture.

You loved him. Didn’t you? Walter asks the air. He told me you used to hold him at night when I was away. Did you hold onto him for too long? He takes a drink of coffee. Did you love him more than me? he waits for an answer. I remember calling you from Pittsburgh one night. Was on one of my crazy drives. The phone rang and rang and rang. Nobody answered. It was late. Round midnight. And I wondered if you two were asleep. Wondered if he was tucked away in his bed or ours. Well. Which was it? Silence.  That’s what I thought. Exactly what I thought.

In walks Bobby with a duffel bag of pot bricks. He plops the bag down by the couch and starts unloading the contents on the table. The old man is still quiet.

What’re you looking at? Bobby asks. Hey, he snaps his fingers in front of Walter’s face. Come on now. Stop staring staring into space. He pulls out a bottle of Fireball. Here. Drink up. Bobby tosses the bottle to him, and he fumbles it. The old man picks it up and begins to drink. That coffee will only get you so far. Need some gas is what you need. A little fuel. A motorcycle speeds throughout the trailer park.

I need answers, Walter says. But I’m scared to ask. I’ve never been so afraid, he takes another drink. Did you and Thelma love each other? Bobby stops unloading the bag.

What’re you getting at?

All those times I wasn’t here. Did you…

Have another drink, dad. Maybe it’ll clear your head.

Or make it foggy. I know about you two boy. I’m onto you. Bobby smacks the old man in the face. Hits him hard with the back of his hand. He reaches into his pocket and grabs a wadded up twenty, and throws it at him. He begins to leave.

You should’ve been here, dad. Should’ve been here.

The End

The table is bare. No beer cans, nor bricks of pot on it. Walter sits on the couch with his feet firmly on a floor that’s never been swept. He points the remote at the television as he does every day.  The hum of the refrigerator is getting louder, and so is the chained dog across the street. The old man sits quietly.

Light comes through the window. It is the start of a new day. Walter pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He walks into the kitchen and looks for coffee as if he’s never been in his own house. The old man slams cabinet doors above and below the cheap linoleum counters. He looks inside the coffee maker, where there are used grounds, pours water in, and waits for a pot of light brown water. The dog is getting louder, and the refrigerator stops humming; dead, broken, like everything else in the trailer. The old man waits.

In walks Bobby with bricks of pot. He doesn’t have as many this time. Only seven, neatly wrapped packages. The kid places them on the table and has a seat in the metal chair. 

Waiting on something?

You could say that, Walter replies.

You and your brown water, he pulls out a twenty, wads it up and throws it at the old man. Go get yourself a real coffee, Bobby orders. I don’t know. A Starbucks or Timmy Hortons. Hell, there’s a gas station up the street, he laughs. Get out. Get some fresh air.

Had a dream the other night. Or, a memory came to me.

Yeah. What was it?

About the first time I met Thelma.

That a fact?

Just a kid back then. Both of us were.

Well. She was dad. You were robbing the cradle.

That’s a crude way of putting it.

It’s the right way of putting it.

Really?

She used to tell me stories about you two. Driving around the country. Getting lost. I didn’t know if they were true or false.

They were true.

Figured as much. She used to hold me at night when you were at work. She’d sing songs.

Hold you huh?

Yeah. Real tight like. Did she hold you like that dad?

Like what?

Tight.

None of your business what kind of holding she did to me.

I didn’t think so. We loved each other. She said she loved me. She ever tell you that?

What do you think?

I think she loved me more.

Bobby unwraps a package of Marijuana and rolls a joint with paper from his front pocket. He lights it with a large orange torch. 

Yeah, old man. I think she loved me more.