dmseay

Salt and pepper shakers half filled. A bottle of ketchup.Waitress asks, you want any hot sauce ?

Names and numbers on bathroom stalls. Paper towels litter the floor. Sinks are wet. Water soaks into a sweatshirt when bending over to wash his hands. Pants are wet, too.

Tables wiped clean and booths swept under. Fries, pieces of bacon, bits of toast, empty packs of marmalade, wind up in a dust pan carried by a Mexican who doesn’t speak English.White men wearing MAGA hats; tee-shirts barely covering their hairy bellies.Women, far away, are waiting on them. 

Speakers blare out a country song. Someone singing about losing a loved one, heartache, and despair. More sugar is poured into coffee.

And I sit here in this torn leather seat reading Kerouac; tales of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. Wishing I had money, honey. Wishing I had a home.

What did you see? she asked.

Not sure, he said. The dark is hollow. Nothing there. At least that’s what I always believed.

See things differently now?

Could be my mind is playing tricks on me. Maybe I was talking to myself. As you get older, you do that more and more, he told her.

As you get older, you go crazy? Is that what you’re saying? she ran her hands through his thick gray hair.

Maybe. Yeah. I guess I am. There’s no way I was talking to a ghost, he said.

Why’s that?

I don’t believe in them.

So you had a full-on conversation with yourself ?

Must have. Do you believe in ghosts?

I believe in paying rent, she laughed.

Yeah. I put the money on the dresser.

To answer your question. Yes. I believe in spirits. I believe they walk among us, she rubbed his shoulders.

Huh. Never thought about it.

What did the spirit say?

Said she was looking out for me. Told me I was safe.

Safe from what?

Harm. Forecasted a quiet, peaceful death for me.

I hope not too soon, she walked over to the dresser and placed his dollars in her purse.

You have to go?

Yes. Next week?

Sure.  

I’m leaving, he said. Not sure where. Flip a coin, I guess.

Aren’t you getting too old for this? she asked. There’s only so much a body can take. In and out of shelters. Living like a vagabond. How much money you got?

A little.

A hundred? Two hundred?

About five. Depends on the bus ticket.

She shook her head, lit a cigarette. I thought this would be your final resting place, she said. And here you go again. Wandering off to nowhere, she offered a smoke to him. She lit it. He nodded.  I give up. Do me a favor. Don’t come back. You hear me? Can’t take it anymore.

At least I’m telling you. Could’ve just taken off in the middle of the night.

I suppose. She paused. Got a quarter on you?

Yeah.

Well…flip that thing.

We’re not young anymore, he said. Joints hurt. Teeth yellow. Losing hair. I guess it’s all part of the process, the old man told his wife.

What process is that? she asked.

Getting old. Getting on in years.

We’re not that old. Seventy-five is not bad.

Soon I won’t be able to drive. They’ll take my license away, he looked at her.

You’re a good driver. They won’t do that.

About ten years from now.

A lot can happen in ten years, she said.

Yes. We could be dead.

Could be. We could die tomorrow.  It’s just a matter of time, I guess.

Yeah.

It’s been a good life. With you, she said. She placed her hand in his. It’s been good.

Do you remember when you left me? I stood there out in the cold. Yelling at you to turn around. You just kept driving. Kept going. I watched the Pontiac drive away with you in it. Going a hundred miles a minute. 

Yeah, she laughed.

Why did you do that?

I was mad. Mad about that girl you were seeing.

I wasn’t seeing any girl.

You still deny it.

On the holy Bible, I deny it.

Easy to do. Easy to lie.

Not easy to you.

I still love you. I’m a fool, I guess. 

Yes. I love you too. 

Did you ever cheat on me?

Had lunch with a fellow once. A bottle of wine. No. I never cheated on you.

I see.

But, there’s always a first, she laughed.

Right.

We’ve known each other a lifetime.  There’s bound to be some mistakes. 

Yes. Bound to be.

They sat in the quiet of the evening, listening to birds sing. Watching weeds sway in the wind;  thoughts to themselves. Neither confessing the mistakes of a lifetime.

 

Because nothing is there. Nothing. We live in this shopping mall Mcmansion suburbia type of lifestyle, but nothing exists, he said. It’s all imagination, a dream. One day, you wake up, he rolled a cigarette with his rough hand. And you’re on the other side.

What’s on the other side? he asked.

Don’t know. I’ve never been. Came close a couple of times. Car accidents, pills. But never been, he told him. Once, when I was a kid, I tried. Swallowed a bottle of painkillers. Taken away in an ambulance. I watched outside the ambulance, from up above, riding to the hospital. Some would call that the third eye. Others would say I was crazy. But I was almost there. Almost on the other side. I think, he drank his coffee. What do you think?

His friend shook his head in disbelief. You never told me that before. Never said you tried to kill yourself. Crazy man.

Yeah. Crazy. 

Two tulips in a vase. Reflection of a cactus in a mirror.  A wooden crate with the words Product Of Holland printed on it. A broom stands in the corner. Fan blades turn overhead. They sit there waiting.

Did he say he was coming?

He did.

Are you sure of that?

Yes.

Pete looked at his watch while Sam got up and began to pace the warped floors.

Maybe he meant the next day, Pete said. Or the day after that. You could’ve got it wrong. You’ve been wrong before.

When? When was I wrong?

Can’t say particularly. But I know you were. These things happen. People make mistakes. 

He said he’d be here, Sam told him.

OK.

Hours passed. Pete stared out the window. Sam remained on the couch. Springs tore the cushions. A dog barked outside.

I think he’s here.

Get away from the window. Don’t crowd him. Don’t jump all over him when he walks through the door. A man like him needs space. Needs to think. Plan. Just don’t act like a school girl. OK.

Pete walked over to Sam. Is that what you think of me? A school girl? Is that what you think.

I’m just saying.

You better think again.

Look. There’s a pecking order here. There’s him at the head. Then me as second lieutenant. And you, a soldier , who carries out our orders. Capeche?

No, it is not capeche. Since when we’re you my boss?

Since he said so.

He said so?

Yes.

I see.

Just sit down and wait.

Wait?

That’s all we can do.

Want anything? he asked. Coffee? Iced tea? A newspaper? she shook her head.

The television was on. Some show about cookware. A short fat man selling pots and pans, making bacon and eggs. Showing how easy it is to clean up afterward. Just wiped out the pan with a paper towel. The sound was down low. You could barely hear him.

Want some juice? I could ask the nurse to bring you some, he told her. Again, she shook her head side to side. Alright, he sat down next to the bed. We’ll just sit here till it’s time, she smiled.

A nurse came in to check her vitals. Blood pressure was good, heart was pumping, temperature normal. Do you know what time it’ll be? the husband asked.

No, sir. I do not. Shouldn’t be that much longer, she left the room.

It’s so dark in here, he got up and pulled the blinds. The sun came through. That’s better, he told her. So depressing in here. It’s gotta weigh on you, he looked down at the parking lot. Watched the cars moving around. Saw people walking into the hospital carrying flowers and stuffed animals, helium balloons with well wishes on them. He brought a Bible. Neither read from it.

You’re going to be alright, he stroked his wife’s face. You’re going to be alright. I love you, he said. I love you. 

She just smiled. 

She poured him a cup of coffee. Blinds were open, and sunlight peeked through. A stack of buttered toast sat on the table.

Do you like marmalade? he asked. I eat it by the spoonfuls. But I don’t put any on my toast, he offered her a package. Isn’t that strange? I don’t put it on my toast. Just never did. Used to sit down with a jar of it and eat till my belly was full, she nodded. Not anymore. Too fat. Gotta cut back. I figure small amounts are what’s best, they smiled.

Her omelet was brought over by the waitress. He watched as she walked away. He kept looking at her. As if he knew her even though he was a thousand miles from home. 

You know what you got there? 

A Denver omelet, she replied.

Yes. Not a Western, but a Denver. There’s a difference. 

Oh yeah? What would that be?

He laughed. Picked up the menu and tossed it aside. I don’t know, he said. I think they put ham in the Denver and no ham in the Western, she nodded. Could be reversed. Not sure.

Which do you like?

The one with the ham. I’m thinking that’s the Denver. Gotta be the Denver.

I just ordered it cause I like the name. Western. Sounds like old school talk,  she said.

Well. Has it got ham in it?

It does. But Denver has ham, too. They both do. I think it’s the way they’re cooked. Different ways.

I see, the truck driver said. Well, I’m glad we got that figured out.

Right.

Yeah.

What’s your wife like?

Who said I was married?

Got a ring on.

Yeah, he opened another packet of marmalade. She passed away a few years ago. Cancer.

Sorry.

He nodded. Thanks. I guess I’m not ready to let go.

Looks that way.

Doubt if I ever do.

I could help with that, she grabbed his hand.

I’ll bet you could. But that’s OK. I’m going to pass. 

Alright. You sure? 

Yep. I’m sure. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a hundred. Take this, placed it in her hand. And you take care now. 

The young girl took the bill and tucked it away in her backpack. Thank you, she said. I gotta find a ride.

Where you heading?

Albuquerque. 

I’m going east.

Oh yeah? What’s out East?

Just another town.

I see. They looked at each other for a few seconds.

God bless you.

Yeah, mister. You too.

Los Angeles. Why do you want to go to Los Angeles? the driver asked the passenger in the backseat. Think you’re going to be a movie star? he looked in the rear view mirror. Never been there. Isn’t that funny. I’ve lived in Sacramento all my life, but I’ve never been to Los Angeles, he laughed. She remained quiet. You’re pretty enough to be a movie star, a semi passed. You got that classic look. Like Bacall or Ava Gardner. Frank Sinatra used to sleep with Ava Gardner. Ava Gardner used to sleep with everybody, the driver laughed, she pulled out a razor blade, and began slashing her wrists under her jacket. Blood began to soak into her jeans. You don’t talk much, he said. Just kind of quiet? Shy? Your red-hair is pretty. Nice and long. You know, there’s boys with long hair these days. Can’t tell them apart from the girls, he smiled back at the teen. I can tell them apart, he snickered. Oh yeah. I can tell them apart.

The car kept cruising along the highway. Signs for gas stations on the side of the road. Amoco, BP, Exxon Mobil. Convenience Stores like 7-11 shined in the night.

You want some coffee? Gotta go to the bathroom? he asked her. She nodded her head. Sure don’t say much.

He parked on the side of the gas station. Left the motor running on the old station wagon. There was a cold breeze blowing. They both walked inside; him with a limp, and her with a Hello Kitty bag slung over her shoulder. He poured coffee and bought a pack of Kool cigarettes. She went to the restroom in the back.

The driver waited for her to come out. He lit cigarette after cigarette. Took great swigs of coffee. Turned on the radio to a Tonya Tucker song; sirens in the background, getting closer. A cop and an ambulance pulled up in front. He decided to just keep driving.

How soon do we get there? she asked.

We’re still a long way away, he told her.

Nothing but static on the radio. Bits and pieces of sound coming through the speaker. The night was clear. There were no stars.

What’re you going to do when I’m gone? the girl asked.

I’ll be gone before you, dad replied.

You think Texas will be new for us? she looked out the open window. Took in the smells of Arkansas summer.

New?

Different. Will it be different?

It’ll be hot, he said. It’ll be hot, he smiled and drank from a Styrofoam cup filled with soda and whiskey.

You think you’ll find a job?

Yeah. All kinds of work in Texas.  Young ones like you don’t want to do hard work. I still got it in my bones.

What’s that?

Hard work. Labor.

Pay much?

Enough.

I want a big house with a swimming pool, she told dad. And a swing on a tree.

I’ll see what I can do.

What’re you going to do when I’m gone?

That ain’t gonna happen.

Never thought that mom would be gone.

Nope. Neither did I.

Did she leave you, or did you leave her?

We both left each other.