dmseay

It is dark. Sounds of diesels passing by on the nearby highway make a melodic song. Cicadas are also singing. Making high-pitched sounds early in the morning. Through the windows, darkness becomes light, and dogs begin to bark loudly every once in a while, making all of this a symphony as the old man snores and dreams.

He sleeps on the couch in a fetal position. His mouth is wide open, and occasionally, he talks out loud. Muttering statements. Saying, come back here. Don’t leave. You’ll never find a better deal. The old man rolls over on his side and kicks off the blanket. His black and blue legs stretch out as he begins to wake up. He looks down at his boxers with yellow stains on them and says, damn. Not again. 

He sits up and rubs his eyes. Dogs are barking louder, and a truck starts up across the street.  Headlights come through the windows. The cicadas stop singing. There is no longer any music. Just noise. He curses the light.

Red and black markings on a wall. Stick figures drawn. Straight lines and circles. Two of the figures are holding hands. One is taller than the other. The shorter one holds a red balloon attached to a black string. A truck is drawn on the wall as well.  It is red and says Ford on the side in small black letters. Above it is a statement; Bobby was here.

A toilet flushes weakly. A running toilet sound will not stop. The old man shakes the handle and lifts the lid, looking at the mechanism. He holds a copper rod connected to a pump. The sound stops. He releases it, and the running toilet sound begins again. Just like most things in his life, he gives up on fixing it. This running toilet haunts him as he walks into the main room and sees drawings and sentences on the wall. 

Goddammit, he says. Can’t have anything nice. The old man stares at the stick figures and Bobby’s statement. Bobby was here, he says. Bobby was here. The moans from the toilet stop while the hum of the refrigerator gets loud, then soft. The old man places his hands over his ears.

Bobby was here, he says out loud. I know he was here. He didn’t have to tell me. Didn’t have to write it on the wall. Just like his mother. Always trying to make a statement. Trying to make folks think about them.

There are empty bottles of Fireball lying around. He kicks one across the floor like a soccer ball. Then, he kicks another and another. He lays down on the couch and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Picks up the remote and points it at the busted TV. Damn thing.

Light comes through a cracked window. Soft humming from the refrigerator. The old man sits on the beaten couch with a small bottle of Fireball in his hand. He stares straight ahead, fixated on nothing. He begins to hum a George Jones song, He Stopped Loving Her Today. There’s knocking on the door. It begins soft, then grows louder, turning into a drumbeat.

What? What do you want? he continues looking forward. The beating on the door is getting harder. The old man takes a drink from an empty bottle. There is nothing in it. Not even a swallow. The drumming is at full pace.

Leave me be, he says. Leave me be. The beating grows softer but still is heard. You’re  going to beat the door down. He pulls a blanket over his head and begins nodding back and forth, almost dancing to the rhythm of the drumming. Suddenly, it stops. There is silence.  Again, he picks up the TV remote and aims it at the busted television. He takes batteries out and examines them. He holds them up and turns the small devices. Spits on the ends and rubs them, places the small items back in the remote, and points at the TV once more. The beating on the door begins again.

I said, leave me be. A laugh is heard outside. At first, a chuckle. Barely noticeable. It grows louder.

What’s so funny? You like torturing me? Thelma? Is that you? Is that you? There is no reply. Just laughter. He walks over to the door. He is scared to open it. The hum of the refrigerator gets louder. Laughter gets louder. The beating on the door begins again. He screams out and walks in circles around the room.

I know that’s you, Thelma. I knew you’d come back. Go away. Just go away, he states. This ain’t fair. You’re some kind of ghost. Some kind of spirit.

The old man walks back to the door again. I’m going to open this damn thing on the count of three. You best be gone. Hear me? Thelma? One. Two. Three. He opens the door. Bobby stands there, laughing at him.

She’s not coming back, old man. Left you forever.

You think so? Huh?

Could you blame her? Bobby pulls out a small bottle of Fireball from his pocket. He holds it over the old man’s head, making him grasp for it. He holds it high and walks backward as the old man follows. Bobby tosses it like a bone to a dog.  The old man hunts around for it and finds the bottle. He drinks the whiskey down. Bobby begins laughing again. The light from the window grows dark.

An old refrigerator sits in the corner. Broken plates on the floor. Towels  soaking up rainwater. Walls stripped of paint.  A couch’s cushions ripped, exposing brown and yellow stains.  He lies there. Wrapped in a blanket that has small logos of NFL teams sewn on it. His head rests on the armrest. A TV remote in hand. The television has a busted screen from where he kicked it years ago. He points the remote and hits it with his other hand. Slapping it and cursing.

Damn thing, he says. Son of a bitch. It worked yesterday. Piece of shit.

What are you talking about? asks Bobby. That thing hasn’t worked in years. You destroyed it. Kicked it with your foot a long time ago. When I was a kid.

That so? Dad asks. Well, I’ll be. He continues pointing the remote at the small TV. I’m losing my mind.

Yeah, the son laughs. Have been. The kid pulls out a folding metal chair leaning against the wall. He turns it around and sits in it backward. This place is a dump, he says. A true dump. Looks like a wrecking ball came through here. 

Yes. Thanks for pointing out the obvious, the old man sits up, still pointing the remote at the television. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a ten dollar bill. Here, take this and go get me a bottle. Couple of shots of Fireball.

Takes more than that.

It’s all I got till the first. 

Right. The kid takes the money and stuffs it in his wallet.

Go on. Go get me something.

I will.

Now, while I’m young.

You were never young, says Bobby. You’ve always been this frustrated old man who breaks everything, he laughs. Refrigerator. Broken. Couch. Broken. Plates. Broken. Your marriage. Broken.

That’s not true.

Well. Where is she?

She went out to get eggs.

She’s been gone awhile, dad.

She’ll be back. He continues pointing the remote. Hitting it harder and harder. Mumbling and swearing. The boy pulls out the ten spot and examines it. He notices a tear.

Got any tape?

No. I don’t think so.

This is torn up too. You can’t have anything, can you? Without it in some kind of disrepair. 

They’ll take it.

Right. Whiskey. You want whiskey.  Some kind of magic potion.

Just go get it.

Bobby exits the room, and the outside light goes dark.  A voice is heard. The old man’s voice. Yelling at the TV. Son of a bitch. Everything is broken.

An old rusty mower sits in the yard among tall green weeds. Brown stains on a trailer, covering up its yellow color. Gutters filled with autumns of years gone by. Cats patrol the wood deck and piss on an old barbecue grill. Laundry out to dry. 

The fence is falling down. Gates are crooked, dragging on dirt dug into the ground; a small mud bowl where Jr plays after rainstorms. A Tonka bulldozer is moved side to side with tiny hands while the kid makes engine noises with his mouth. Grrrr, he moans. Grrrrr.

They sit inside the trailer watching television. Old reruns of  The Rifleman starring Chuck Connors. He pops open another beer. She lays on the couch, wondering what it would have been like if she’d made a different choice.

What’s for dinner? he asks.

Hamburger Helper, she says. I’m doing it with a can of tuna.

So it’s not Hamburger Helper?

I suppose not.

It’s Tuna Helper. Right? he lights a cigarette.

Yeah. Tuna Helper.

Well, get it straight. Make up your mind before you talk. Know what you’re going to say, he blows out smoke. Too many people just talk without thinking. They just blurt out stupid things. Misinformed statements. Understand? she nods her head.

I’m going to get started. She gets up and heads to the kitchen. Pots and pans are rattled around. She picks one and begins the process of making Tuna Helper. Cats circle the trashcan.

Is that spring water tuna? I only like spring water tuna.

I know, she says. I know what you like.

He gets up and walks behind, pushing his body into hers. He starts to kiss the back of her neck. She used to like that. Nowadays, she’s repulsed by it.

Come on now, he folds his arms around her.

I’m making Tuna Helper.

That can wait.

Stop, she says. Just stop.

He gives her a push. Steps back. And walks towards the door. I’m out of here, he tells her. Going someplace where I’m appreciated.

I’m making dinner, he slams the screen door. I’m making Tuna Helper. There won’t be any when you get back. You’ll have to eat leftovers, she yells.

Jr continues playing with his Tonka bulldozer. His father pats him on the head and tells him to take care of his mom.

Dying grass. Yards turned brown from summer’s green. Leaves of rust, yellow, brown, and red in piles along the street. A kid’s runny nose.

You lie there in disrepair. Complaining of the cold. Covered by blankets sewn together from a grandma up north. Smells of mothballs. A fire burns slowly till it dies out, leaving ash behind. Orange embers glow.

Ulysses sits on your nightstand under Moby Dick. Pages are stained from cups of coffee. Yellowing with brown circles. Call me Ishmael. 

And I watch as you close your eyes for a final time. No noise. Your chest does not rattle. A ruddy face turned gray. You are gone. 

See you in Chicago.

They sat on the couch. Rusty springs came through cushions with yellow foam exposed. Torn holes in arm rests. A shredded blanket on back.

A small black and white television with an antennae sat on the floor. No sound came from it. It was drawn on with black marker. Stick figures holding hands. His initials on the side; B.J. He was quite proud of it. Every day, he’d turn the dial until it clicked. But nothing was ever clear. The picture always had wavy lines through it. They learned to watch Andy Griffith sideways.

Outside was parked a rusty old Ford truck with the doors off of it. A pair of rain-soaked fuzzy dice hung from the rear view mirror. Tires were flat.

One day, I’m going to fix that beast up, Bobby Joe said to Carol. You’ll see. We’ll drive around town in style.

With what? Carol laughed. How are you going to do that? We barely eat, and you’re talking about fixing up a truck. Well, I’ll be, she declared. I’ll be.

I fed you last night, didn’t I?

Bones, she said. Old bones without  much meat on them. How are we supposed to survive?

Things are tough all over, Bobby Joe said. Hard. I didn’t see this coming. Nobody did.

There’s people living fine, Carol lit a hand-rolled cigarette. They got decent homes and cars. They work for those things. They don’t just sit around and do nothing all day.

I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. I can’t work. Doctors said I was crazy. Some kind of bipolar deal. Can’t remember if it’s bipolar 1 or bipolar 2? But I’m crazier than ten whores on crack, he said.

Yeah. You’re crazy alright.  And I’m crazier for living with you.

Don’t you think about leaving me. Don’t even think about it. I’ll find you. Yeah. I’ll find you.

Where are you going to look?

Everywhere.  All over. I’ll fix that truck and come for you. I swear.

Carol laughed. They both laughed.  Wheel Of Fortune was coming on. The two watched as Pat spun the wheel. They never solved the puzzle.

Grass is cut. Morning dew makes it shimmer. Soon, leaves will fall.

It is August, and daylight fades earlier. Kids play tag under streetlights. Moms call them home.

In backyards throughout suburbia,  fire-pits burn an orange flame, and beers are handed out to neighbors. An overflowing ashtray sits on the deck next to a cactus that can not breathe. Mom lights another Virginia Slim. You’ve come a long way, baby.

And I look on from my bedroom window at the stars, wishing I could ride one far, far away. Never to return.

It’s hard. Never did I expect this, he told her. So different than how I planned it. You were supposed to fall in love with me. Be by my side. All that stuff you see in movies. Two people who can’t live without each other, he poured a drink. Want one? she shook her head. Whispered no. I’ve always adored you, he said. Always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world. I still do.

Do you?

Yes. You don’t believe me? I’d like to prove it to you, he ran his fingers through her blonde hair. I’d like to show you.

Please don’t. That’s not what I want. 

You sit there. All tied up. And you have the audacity to tell me what you do and do not want.

How am I tied up? she asked.

Me or him. Right? I mean, that’s what it gets down to. The choice has you all tied up. You feel restricted.  Yes?

No. I do not. I made my decision a long time ago. I was just waiting for things to be in order.

Order?

Yes. Order.

Are things in order?

They are.

Where are you sleeping tonight?

Not here.

I see, he took another swig. Is it hard for you?

What?

This decision. 

It’s never been easier.

It’s never easy. Always a risk. At any moment, you could be caught. Maybe you want to be caught. Someone catch you in the act. No more worries, Paul said. It would be over. Done. And just like that, you could sleep at night.

Sleep? Bill asked. To do that, you need a clear mind.

Confess these sins, Bill. Both men laughed. Have communion and confess, he told him. They both downed a shot of whiskey. Ate shelled peanuts on the bar.

I have nothing to confess. Life has been rather dull, he said. I sleep, eat, and read.

Never stole?

No.

Have strange addictions?

Nope.

Raped? Pillaged? the two men laughed again. Bill shook his head.  Murder? Paul asked.

What?

Did you ever kill anybody?

I don’t recall.

Oh, you’d remember. You’d recall.

Might have blocked it out. 

No. That sort of thing sticks with you.

I suppose it would.

Where all have you been? Paul asked.

All over. 

I’ll bet.

Chicago, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Boston, Montreal, Montpelier, Vermont, New York, lots of places.

Your back was never against the wall?

Keep to myself.

That’s hard to do, Paul said. He motioned for two more; Johnny Red.

Yeah.

I mean, everyone is in your business. There’s no privacy. You shower together, you shit together.  No time alone.

Right.

So. Did you ever kill anyone?

Some things are best left unsaid.