dmseay

His television was always on with the sound down. Pictures flickered on a small screen throughout the night. The old man sat there with a can of Pepsi and a glass of melting ice watching in the dark. A cat scratched litter in the bathroom.

The antenna was adjusted to pick up stations in Little Rock. Channel 7 Eyewitness News was always on at 10. He liked the weather girl. She had a rather round face and wore tight sweaters like his wife used to when she was young. His now deceased wife was also a brunette, like the weather girl. This pleased him. He spoke to her during the five minute weather portion of the broadcast. And though he never heard her voice, he would answer as red lips moved in silence.

Yes, dear, he said every night. I’ll take the trash out in the morning. No, dear, I did not pay the gas bill yet. Do you need a ride to the grocery? he asked the television. 

The weather girl moved her long arm over a map of Arkansas,  explaining where there were highs and lows, rain storms, and possible flooding. The old man didn’t care about any of that. He just kept his eye on her.

I’m sorry honey, he said every night. Sorry I cheated on you. Sorry I didn’t provide better. The cat would jump in his lap.

He said goodnight to her and the rest of the Channel 7 Eyewitness News team with a wave of his hand. He would blow her a kiss and wipe his eyes.

Till tomorrow, dear. Till tomorrow.

Can you stop, please? Stop talking. All I hear is this constant jibberish. A loud staccato voice, he said. You’re not even making sense. Just rambling. On and on and on.

Are you talking to me?

Yes. You would be the one.

What’s with you? she asked. Don’t you like to talk? Converse?

We are not talking. This is not a conversation,  he told her. This is you speaking to yourself.  Which, by the way, you are the only one listening. Do you make a practice of this?

I don’t have to answer that.

No. No, you do not.

He used to ride a tricycle up and down the street; throwing rose petals into the wind. People sat in their front lawns, looking on at his childlike behavior, pointing and laughing as he peddled by.

His tricycle had streamers on the handlebars of red, blue, and silver. The frame was a shiny purple. He named it Grover. 

The old man had dreams of riding the bike to another town, and another after that till he got to the West Coast. He wanted to spread joy.

One summer’s morning as the whippoorwills sang and roosters crowed, the old man left the small Iowa town he’d grown up in. Rode his tricycle out to the highway and headed west. He was gone. Like that, he’d disappeared.

That night, neighbors sat in their folding chairs waiting for the old man’s nightly ride. They carried their cans of beer and cocktails out to the front yards of America and waited until it grew dark. They’re still waiting for his return.

I woke up not breathing, he said. Thought I was in a deep sleep, but there was no air. Felt like I was drowning, he continued. Drowning without water, he paused. Just sat up quickly and tried to breathe. But there was nothing. Just thoughts racing in my head about the dream I had.

Dream? she asked. What dream?

This pickup truck was taking me to the border. I was sitting in the back with all these Mexicans. We were going to stampede the wall.

Stampede the wall?

Yes, he nodded. They refused to cross the Rio Grande. They didn’t want to get wet. Said they had too much dignity. They wanted to cross into America like white people, he told her.

What happened?

We loaded guns and got ready to face the border patrol. The truck was going faster and faster. As fast as an old Ford can go.

Were you Mexican in this dream?

No. I was just myself. As you see me today. American. 

Did you storm the wall?

That’s when I woke up. Gasping for air. Like I was drowning. Dying. My body left behind with a bunch of Mexicans. And for some reason, I felt at home.

With the Mexicans?

Yes. As if we were brothers.

Were you running from anything? 

No. Just going to the border. Just going to Texas with guns blazing like Santa Ana. 

Are you OK?

No.

God sent his anger. That’s what our preacher said. These storms don’t happen by accident. For it is God’s wrath upon us; a nation of sinners, he continued from the pulpit. This is what we’ve come to. A country, a world of violence,  homosexuality, children disobedient to their parents, parents disobedient to God, he slammed down his fist. We looked on in horror. 

Folks talk of Jesus’s love. However, they forget God’s anger. God does not love the sinner. He wants us to follow his rules. His teachings. The  Holy Father says that we are to be baptized in the name of Jesus and leave our sins behind. This is what we must do, he stepped away from the altar,came down to the crowd, and said, Who will follow me down to the river? Come. Come and be replenished. Saved by accepting Christ as your lord and savior, the preacher man walked down the red carpeted aisle. He walked past the one-legged man who gambled on a Saturday night. Placed his hand on a woman who sought pleasure through fornication.  Gazed at the drunk who still smelled of alcohol.

Who will follow? he asked. A line began to form from the back of the church to the front.  You are all sinners, the minister said. And today, you say no more. The shackles of sin will be lifted. And everyone nodded their heads. Except for me.

As they marched down to the river, I stayed behind, closed my eyes, and asked God to forgive him. He knows not what he does.

Later that evening I went swimming in the cool waters of the river. I listened to all that surrounded me; took it all in. The cicadas sang, frogs croaked, birds whistled. And I was at peace.

Waiting. Whippoorwails sang at five in the morning. Half dark,  half light. A tree has been butchered.  Limbs cut. Bare. Frogs croaked. He sat on his back porch and listened.

He looked at what might have been. What once was. Grass long with brown spots. A rusted fence falling apart. Overgrown shrubs. Swings they used to play on. He’d push her into the sky. A dress waved.

Off in the distance, he heard semis going up and down 41. He knows that road. The two would drive to Chicago and watch movies all day long. Walk in Grant Park. She would sing to him old Cole Porter songs of being in love. Drank beers at Miller’s, where he first told the short brunette he loved her. Bought a ring on Jewelry Row. Autumn on Lake Michigan.

The old man read a J. D. Salinger short story once about a man who killed himself. He placed a gun to his head and didn’t look back.

Orioles dance on wet grass. Electric wires stretch across the backyard. Apple trees lined in a row. A bumble bee buzzes by, landing on black-eyed Susan.

These morning meditations, watching nature, breathing in, breathing out. Clearing the mind.

An old friend in Iowa said it’s about mindfulness. Being aware. Weeds sway in the breeze.

Somewhere, a baby cries. His tears wiped away.

Don’t let it slip past you. This moment. This hour.

In morning’s coolness, birds fly and sing. A rusted truck parked in the driveway. Branches cut from a tree. A fence made of wood.

Look around. Sunlight shines on piles of white rocks. A cactus was rained on. Soon, summer’s heat will come.

There used to be a library in town.  But nobody reads anymore. They burned it down. Replaced it with a theater that only shows superhero movies. 

An American flag waves in the breeze. It stands in front of a house on Main Street. A steel pole with a ball atop. Elephant ears planted around it. Soon, autumn will be here.

Don’t let it slip past you. This moment. This hour.

Sunlight came through the trees, shining down on leaves of gold, red, and orange. A stream trickled over rocks; branches floated. Beavers had built a dam.

The father and son set up camp under a tall pine, its needles turning brown, ground wet from the morning dew.

They worked in silence. Dad built a fire pit while the son pitched the tent, taking out pole after pole and placing them strategically, four in the corners and one in the middle.  The boy was pleased with his work.  The father remained quiet.

As the sun went down, wooden stools were placed by a fire pop made with wood the boy had gathered. Still, neither spoke.They just sat by the fire watching flames dance and sparks fly. A cup of coffee was passed back and forth.

I miss mom, the son said.

So do I.

They both looked up at the stars. 

Blankets for curtains; pink with purple hearts. Hung up with nails. Christmas lights hanging on the corners of the ceiling. Some blink on in colors of red, orange, green, and blue. While others lie dead in mid-air. Never replaced. A silver lava lamp sits on the table. There’s a crack in the glass backdoor.

Are you going to roll the dice? she asks. Take a chance? they both laugh. I’ve been waiting on you to make a move all night long. Some boys are scared. Are you scared?

He looks at her and walks around the table to her. The young man places his hand on her blonde hair  and pulls it back, kisses her, and suddenly stops.

She looks up at him. Is that all you got? Hell. I didn’t even feel it. I want something real. Something I won’t forget, she says.

The boy grabs her by the face with both hands and draws her to his lips. Their hands begin to roam each other’s bodies. She stops and begins to giggle.

What’s funny? he asks. 

Reminds me of a movie. Some Clint Eastwood Western.

He never got the girl in a Western.

Did too. Paint Your Wagon.

That’s not a Western. That’s a musical. A very bad musical.

How so?

He can’t sing. Hell, Lee Marvin can sing better than Clint Eastwood and that ain’t saying much.

Kiss me again, she tells him.

Are you going to laugh at me?

I promise I won’t. 

They stand up. He begins to hum the love song, I Still See Elisa. They hold each other and kiss. Neither laughs. They just kiss.