dmseay

It hit him like a bullet. This idea of living forever. Somehow cheating death. To do the impossible.

Christ rose on the third day, he said. Came back to life. Stone was pushed aside. I think I can escape that, he told the monk. I believe I can just go on living, he slurped his coffee.

No one stays on this earth forever, the monk said. And why would you want to? Things are just going to get worse, he smiled. Think about it. Do you really want to be around when it all falls apart? The man looked at the brother.

Yes. Yes, I do, he said. I want to see it all. Big ball of destruction coming our way. Yes. I want to see God’s wrath.

Oh, you’ll see it. But you have to move on to the next part of life, he told him. Death is a part of life.

I see. We never really die. Do we? The priest shook his head. We just move along, brother nodded yes. Do you believe there’s a Hell?

I do.

I was afraid you’d say that.

You’re free to do whatever you want, she said. You can come and go as you please. There’s nothing stopping you. I’m not stopping you. You’re a free agent, she told him. Ties? You don’t have any ties, they both looked out over the river at the bank on the other side. It’s peaceful here, she lit a cigarette, and he leaned against the window. Little drops of rain began to fall. Come on out in the rain with me, she said. He began to laugh. Come on. Let’s make out in the rain one more time, she took her tee-shirt off, exposing her breasts. Come on now, she leaned over and playfully started to unbutton his fly. It’ll be fun, she opened the door and ran down into the red mud. He watched as she shook her her body all about. Tempting him to come join her. Reaching her arms out for him. He turned on the radio and watched her dance. A Warren Zevon song was playing, Werewolves Of London. She slipped and fell to the ground. The rain washed away her sin.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. They walked back to the truck, and like a gentleman, he opened the door for her. She slid over close to the driver’s side. He got in and just looked at her. What am I doing? he asked. What am I doing?

You’re making a choice. You can go wherever you want to go, she declared. But, once you make that choice, stick to it. You hear me? Lotta men don’t have choices. They’re squandered on youth. Mistakes. We pay for our mistakes.

Yep. I suppose we do.

Go on now while your slate is clean.

And they drove through town. Passed the school where they played on the swingset together when they were kids. Went by the drug store where they used to steal gum and Tootsie Rolls. Drove her up to the trailer they shared as boyfriend and girlfriend. There was no kiss goodbye. No words were said. She just got out of the truck, and he drove away.

I didn’t hurt you. You did that to yourself, he said. All this talk. This constant babble. Unhappiness. Do you think you’re the only one with problems? Disappointments? he asked. Look around you. I haven’t met a happy soul yet, he lit a cigarette. Maybe it’s that time of the year. The holidays are over. Christ’s birthday? done, she pulled out a bottle of water from her coat. No one drinks in January. Dry month, they call it. Let the body recoop, he shook his head. But no. I didn’t hurt you. You were just looking for something else. A good man? That’s hard to find, crushed out his cigarette with his boot. We’re all looking for something. I dont know if we’ll ever find it, he smiled. I just want peace. That’s all. Just peace.

He placed his hand on hers. Patted it. Held it. Fingers linked. You take care now, he told her. And then he walked away.

Folding chairs standing in the corner. A lamp across from them. Two milk crates act as tables. Mattress on the floor.

Blinds are open, letting in sunlight on a cloudy day. Dust on the windows. He sits on the carpet like a Buddha of old. Bill Evans plays in the background. Not loudly, but soft. The fat man listens and goes into a transcendental state. He is calling on friends of old who have gone before him. He whispers their names; David, John, Michael, Gabriel, and Peter. He wants to see them one more time. Have tea and cakes with them. Perhaps a shot of whiskey. They are nowhere to be found. Their spirits have lifted higher than he can attain.

But he does see a light. The shining light everyone talks about when reaching life’s passage. If only for a fleeting moment.

His three hundred pound mass starts to lift from the floor. Take me now, Lord, he prays. Take me now.

But he is placed firmly back on the carpet. A voice is heard inside his soul. We have work to do fat man. We have work to do.

I used to love snow. Cold, wet snow that came to my town in Arkansas once a year. One inch of white magic.

School would close for two days. Kids playing football on fertile grounds of summer. Squash, greens, tomatoes, corn, peppers of red and yellow, purple hull peas, and green beans growing in the spring. Picked in late August and canned for winter. Shelves stocked high in basements.

Across town in trailer parks, kids would wake to the ground cover as well. Yelling, screaming, laughing over news reports of closed roads, closed businesses, and the inch that was reported. Their parents were not so happy. Missing two days of work. Worried over bills. A bottle of hooch in the cabinet. But the kids were just like us. Pleased with the inch and the magic that it brought.

And then it was back to normal. Roads wet from melted snow. Temperatures back to around fifty-five degress. The sun showing who truly owns this land. We would all wait for the inch to come back. And it always did.

Going east on Highway 20. White blotches of snow on chopped trees. Dead wood.

Pickups parked in driveways. Various houses along the road. Shacks and beautiful old farmhouses dot the land. Wires high above. Electric poles passing for crosses. Did they crucify Jesus in the Midwest?

Dollar General store shines like a temple. An old restaurant has a for sale sign on it. Surrounded by bare land and brush. Trees with no leaves. Dead, all is dead. Christmas lights on a shanty home. A barbed wire fence keeps no one out. Ghosts come and go.

Soon, this land will be covered in corn and soy. Gold and green. But for now, it is in mourning.

Aren’t we all?

What happened to you? she asked. Looks like you’ve gained some weight. Few wrinkles. Blotches on your skin. I guess some folks show their age.

Yeah. I suppose, he told her. You look good. No wrinkles on you. Fit and trim, he gazed at her, lit a cigarette.

I take care of myself. No smoking or drinking.

That so? Hell, I couldn’t make it through the day without smoking and drinking, they laughed.

Some things never change. Remember when we used to get drunk and jump naked in the lake? he nodded. Those were good days. Nice nights. Making love under starlight. Not a care in the world. Just two kids.

Yeah.

Then you went off and joined the Army. You were gone. Never called. No letters.

Sorry about that.

Had to pay for the abortion on my own.

What’re you talking about?

It’s alright. It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to come home or anything. Didn’t want any money.

I had no idea.

She shrugged her shoulders. Twisted her long gray hair. Say, she said. You wanna go down to the lake? Take a dip?

He looked at her. Is that what you want?

It is. I want to be young again.

There’s no going back.

Lying awake. Warm night air. Too hot to sleep. Thoughts crossed his mind.

That woman down the street. I never saw her with anyone, he said. She’s always by herself. Alone, he whispered.

In bed, she tossed and turned. The windows were open. Ideas formed in her head.

I’ve never seen that old man at the tavern with anyone. I wonder if his wife died. Did he get divorced? she pondered.

They sat at opposite ends of the bar. Wheel Of Fortune was on. While others yelled out, buy a vowel, they sat in silence. Quietly having their drinks. Every once in a while, the two would look at each other. Then turn away. Back to his scotch and soda and her Manhattan.

Both walked home at the same time. She walked on her side of the street, and the old man walked on his. She watched as he continued to walk down a few houses. Looked on at him, unlocking the door. It was time for Jeopardy.

A bed. Queen size. Blankets and sheets. Two pillows. Headboard made of wood. Shaker style. His father built it.

She slept there during the day. Alone. Didn’t even eat. Just slept. A bottle of whiskey was in a cedar chest at the end of the bed, along with sweaters and winter clothes. She thought she was fooling him.

In the evening, when he came home, no supper was made. He’d heat up a TV dinner in the microwave. Sat and watched Jeopardy in silence. Eventually, she’d come down the hall to use the bathroom. She never said hello or how was your day. Didn’t ask about work. She just took a quick drink and went back to bed; wrapping herself in blankets her mom had sewn.

And he just sat in an easy chair all night with the television down low. Falling asleep around midnight. Dreaming in color. The two of them. Sleeping in separate rooms. Alone under one roof.

Listening to no one. Hearing nothing. Not a sound, nor a voice.

She speaks in soliloquy; an ongoing monologue. Talking to herself about loves lost, fools she danced with, journeys never taken.

A garbage truck rolls by at five in the morning. Men working loudly. Disregarding the hour. Kitchen lights in windows shine. Couples drink coffee. Lonely people drinking whiskey. Sounds of the city go by.

And she talks and talks and talks. But still, he does not hear. Does not listen. Fumbling his slippers with his bare feet. Watching a mouse scamper across the floor.

Her voice grows louder. A crescendo peaks.

Quietly, they start their day.