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Hello.

Hello.

Why are you calling me? she asked.

Out of habit, I guess. Just used to calling you, he said.

Well, break it.

The habit?

No. Your nose. What do you think? she exhaled. Stop calling me.

I can’t. Don’t know how.

Do I have to change my  number?

That would help.

Well, I’m all about helping you, she told him.

Always have been.

Not anymore. I’m done helping you.

Listen. I’ll change. I can put a stop to my ways.

Where you at?

Sitting on a park bench. In Washington Square.  Where are you?

Home, she lit a cigarette. Just sitting at home on a Friday night.

Miss me?

I’m trying to shake you. Stop calling me.

Not just a little?

Not even a little. Now let me go.

Hello. Hello. Hello.

Do you ever think? Just put yourself in my shoes, Robert Paul said. I’m the one under pressure here. It ain’t easy.

Always bitchin. You’re always complaining about how hard life is. Your life, Johnny said. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

But I’m the one on the bottom. I’m trying to get to the top, but it’s like climbing through molasses.

Robert Paul. Stop right there, he swiveled on his barstool. Who’s fault is it? The man’s keeping you down? Society won’t accept your kind? You think you’re any different than anyone else? We’re all in the shit, Robert Paul. All of us are trying to make a buck, Johnny motioned to the bartender.  Told him to pour another round.

All I’m saying is it’s tough out there. I’ve moved from place to place, and I always end up back here in Dallas. Drinking in bars on Henry Hines boulevard.

You’ll  never settle, Robert Paul. Never. And, you’ll complain wherever you go. Whether that’s here or someplace else.

Guess so.

Guess so? I know so. I’ve known you all my life. You ain’t gonna change, sir. No, you won’t. Johnny told him. Me? I’m just waiting on the apocalypse.

I drove by her house the other day. They painted it yellow. Almost missed it. Shrubs were gone. Replaced with wooden buckets holding mums in all kinds of colors: rust, red, orange, white. And the TV antenna on top of the roof was gone too. Really something.

Strange thing, he continued. The swing on the front porch was gone. We used to sit there in autumn every night with cups of coffee and cigarettes while the kids jumped in the leaves. I used to rake them in piles. Kids jumping in dry leaves that come morning were wet with dew. Things change overnight.

Sometimes, late at night in October, I parked the car in front of the old house and just waited till almost every light had been turned off. I sat there with a cooler full of Old Style and just watched. Remembered how the lamp in the hallway didn’t get turned off till morning. Then I’d drive on. Park the car under a bridge and dream. Dream of how it used to be before demons took over. At one time, there was peace. 

I didn’t know she’d left. Nobody told me. When did this happen? the old man asked.

What do you mean?

When exactly? And where?

Dad, it was seven years ago. She died, the son responded. Heart attack. Middle of the night.

Nobody told me.

You were right there by her, dad. She died in your arms.

Oh. I forget these things.

Dad, what day is it?

Sunday. I know that because David Brinkley is on TV.

Yeah. That’s right.

Where is she buried?

She’s right here, dad. Right here in this box. 

Is that so. You burned her?

She wished to be cremated.

How’s she going to get into heaven?

What do you mean?

She’s got no body.

Her soul, dad. Her soul goes to heaven.

Sure of that?

I think so.

I see. Are you sure she’s dead?

Yeah.

Didn’t just run away with the postman?

No, dad.

You know they had a thing once. She told me.

Really?

I think it was her. Maybe it was the woman down the street. Not sure.

I see.

Let me see that box. The old man opened it. Looked inside at the ashes. Closed the lid. Shook his head. Ain’t that something, he said. Ain’t that something.

Chewing on chapped lips. Hair wet from sweat. Pillow soaked.  The bathroom light is on.

A ceiling fan turns slowly. Burned out light bulbs dangle from it. Water damage in the kitchen walls. Big brown spots. Rain begins to pour. 

He sits drinking coffee at four in the morning. Reading The Brothers Karamazov. He uses a small flashlight to see the words. The book lies on a table as he turns pages about an unworthy father and his four sons written by Dostoyevsky years ago when literature mattered. He strokes his chin and places a prayer card between the pages to mark his spot, closes the book, and breathes heavily.

Am I a fool? he asks himself. I can not let go. I just can’t stomach it, he says. One day, I will. One day. Or, will I continue being this way. A sad man. A clown. Who knows? All I can do is wait for the end, he continues. Wait for the end.

Rain seeps through the bottom of the door. For a while, he used to put towels down to mop up water. Now, it just gathers, warping the wooden floors, discoloring them. There is no sense in cleaning up, he says. It’s all falling apart. Too much for one man to handle. This house has become a shack, he cries.

He opens Dostoyevsky once again and shines the light on the words.  The Russians understood, he says. The Russians got it.

In hours when there is no light. Mice scurry on a kitchen floor, picking up crumbs. The cat watches. Ready to pounce. While voices down the hall reach high-pitched tones and squeak here, and there, like a saxophone played by Coleman. Notes are improvised.

I sit on a sofa staring into darkness. An old air-conditioner goes on and off throughout the night. It is cool, almost cold. A blanket is used. There is no sleep. Just sounds in the dark, keeping me awake.

Sunlight sneaks in. A window without curtains. Telling me to get up and embrace this day. The dark is gone too soon.

Why?

Not sure. Could be a million things. Million reasons. I’m just not sure, he said.

Where you heading?

I don’t know, Tom responded. Never know. Just hitch a ride and take off, he sipped his coffee. One time, I got a lift clear out to the East Coast. Didn’t talk to the driver much. He said he just liked the company. Someone being there, he lit a cigarette. And I knew what he meant.

Right, Sonny responded. I get that.

Like sometimes, I don’t want to hear a woman’s voice. I just want her next to me.

Yeah.

Well, this guy didn’t want to hear me. Just have me there in that old station wagon. Playing with the radio. Listening to oldies throughout the night. And the next day. And the day after that.

Where’d he pick you up? Sonny asked.

Out in New Mexico. Albuquerque.

That’s a long drive.

Yeah. We got to New York two and a half days later. He dropped me off in Times Square. All those people. Had a hundred to my name, Tom told him. Went and got a slice of pizza for a buck.

Yeah? How long were you there?

Couple of months. Then I headed south to Philadelphia with a guy who never stopped talking, he said. We talked about politics and movies. TV shows. He never turned on the radio. Kept it off. We just talked.

Yeah. I know the type. I’m going to Arkansas. 

Never been there.

You want a ride?

Sure.

You want some of this? he asked. I’ll give you a bit. Let me heat it up for you. It won’t take but thirty seconds. Grab a roll while you’re waiting. There’s bear claws, cinnamon rolls, long johns. Guy from the bakery dropped the box off this morning. Take your pick, he offered. Need cream and sugar?

Cream, the old man told him. Got any of those flavored kinds. French vanilla. I like that.

Let me see. Irish cream, Dutch chocolate,  pumpkin spice. Here, French vanilla. 

Wait. You got pumpkin spice?

Yeah.

I’ll take that. Even though it’s August.

Take what you want, the owner handed him a bowl filled with tiny creamers.

August. We’re rushing seasons a bit, aren’t we.

I suppose. What kind of roll do you want?

Bear claw will be fine.

One bear claw, he served it on a plate. Poured more coffee. You get tired of life, don’t you? the old man looked out the window at cars as they drove by in the dark. Headlights shone into the diner.

I do, the old timer said. I do.

Curious?

About?

What’s on the other side. If church is right. Heaven and hell. All that stuff.

What do you think?

Not sure. At one time, I thought I knew. Not anymore. 

I’ve been coming here for twenty-five years, he said. You’ve been here for ten. Used to have this talk with the old owner.

Hank?

Yeah. Right before he died. Said he was going to heaven. Then he took a gun out and shot himself right in front of me. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.

Yep.

I saw some strange shit in Korea, but nothing like that.

I’ll bet.

Place was closed for a year, a year and a half.

I remember. Bet it was a bitch to clean up.

I’ll bet, said the old customer. There was silence. The old man kept watching traffic go by.

You want more coffee?

Sure.

Where are you going? he asked.

Nowhere in particular. Maybe downtown for a few things, she said.

You’re always leaving at this time. Monday through Friday. Don’t come home till dark. 

It’s always something.  Milk. Sugar. Your six-pack of Miller. We’re always out of something. 

Can I go with you?

I’ll be right back.

You always say that. Then, hours later, you walk through the door. Smiling. Like you met your lover. 

I’m just happy to see you. 

Right. 

He fell asleep in the recliner. The television was on. Tom Snyder talking about Charles Manson. Asking the prosecutor questions about Mason’s state of mind. Knowing he’d never be free. Talked about Squeaky and the rest of the California crew, Sharon Tate, and the grizzly murder scene. It was two in the morning.

She snuck in through the backdoor and went straight to the laundry room where she took her clothes off that smelled of cigarettes and air freshener. Walked through the house naked. Saw Snyder on the TV.

She felt guilty.

Open. Nothing is closed off. All is possible. You believe that, don’t you? We’re all given this chance in life, he said. An opportunity. But you have to gamble. Stand at the blackjack table and eventually show your cards. This is what the rich and famous do, he told his son. They throw the dice. They’re not worried about the outcome. You know why? kid shook his head. Because they will get back up if they’re knocked down, the father smiled. A rooster crowed.

He’s starting his day, dad said. Waking all of us up. Mom will put a pot of coffee on soon. Don’t tell her what we talked about. She wouldn’t understand. The old man looked out the window of the trailer. Saw the lined up mailboxes, porchlights on, a dog chained to a tree. He looked at his son. Sorry I didn’t give you more, he said. But you gotta earn it. Just like I did. I didn’t have a dime when I came to this town. Not a cent to my name, he told him. Slept under bridges, in woods, rummaged through trash. And I never gave up. Took any work I could find, the rooster crowed again. Saved, cause that’s what you’re supposed to do. Didn’t waste it on women.

Until mom came along, the boy said.

I didn’t chase them around. She came to me.

Where did you two meet?

In church. We were both godly people. Never lost the faith.

Yeah, the boy lit a cigarette from dad’s pack on the table. You don’t mind, do you?

No. Not at all.

All that about not giving up, the boy looked around the trailer home. Saw the TV in the corner. A boom box on the shelf with cassette tapes next to it. Opened a cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. You don’t mind? Right? the boy laughed. The old man slowly shook his head. Kid grabbed two glasses from another cabinet. Juice glasses with Mickey Mouse and Goofy on them. He poured them full. Here’s to all you’ve attained, Daddy.  He lifted his glass. Come on now. Lift your glass old man. To not giving up, he  laughed and slammed the whiskey down, poured himself another.

Is this some kind of joke?

Nooooo. Look around you. You rolled the dice old man.

Right. You’ll learn one of these days how tough it is out there. I never gave up, boy. I never gave up. 

Yeah. You just settled.