dmseay

They talked on the phone for hours. Long distance. He was four hours ahead.

She told him about her night. Waiting on truckers and folding highchairs. Pouring coffee, serving pie, and smiling the whole time. She threw away dreams.

And, he said he wanted to move there. See her in person. Told her he liked her pictures; the ones in the swimsuit. He carried a polaroid in his wallet. Showed her to men at work in the lunch room. Said, that’s my woman. They were all impressed.

On the phone, you can be anything you want to be. He wanted to be a country singer. Said he wrote songs in her honor. He’d put the phone on speaker and sing to her from his rented room. Sang about loneliness and heartache. Told stories through songs about loving her for eternity. She smiled on the other end. A kid cried in the background.

She rocked her baby asleep. Whispered into the speaker, I love you, babe; pulled the pacifier gently from the child’s mouth and told him it was time for her to go.

They kissed from a long distance. Told each other goodnight. And then softly touched the phone to hang up. He strummed a few chords, and she put the baby back to bed.

The sun was coming up in Nashville.

I was glad to have known you, she said to the tombstone. Wildflowers and weeds grew around it. The woman placed a coffee mug in front of the marker.

Brought your favorite cup, she said. Pictures of her grandkids were on it; the boy on one side, girl on the other. Missing teeth. Smiling. I brought flowers too, she told the piece of concrete. The daughter placed them on top. They kept falling off; her hands trembled. There, she told the rock, pushing the yellow tulips down, Hope you like these, a cardinal flew by.

The woman kissed the tombstone and hugged it. She held it with her two hands. I miss you, mom. You went too soon, she said. Oh, well. God has a plan, she said. Don’t know what that is sometimes. I never do, really. Things just kind of happen. Like you getting sick with cancer. Never saw that coming, she patted her mother’s name. Traced the letters with her bony fingers. I’ll see you one day, mom. Streets of gold. A mansion on the hill.

She waved goodbye to the tombstone.

Brick walls with graffiti on them. Painted in blue and red. Crowns and pitchforks. A crack pipe on a sidewalk made of tin foil.

The Arab store trades in food stamps for cash; sixty will get you forty. A transaction is made. Now he can buy his goods for the night; a forty ounce, dime bag, pack of smokes. Later, in the midnight hour, he will purchase a Big Mac. Maybe fried chicken at Kennedy’s on the boulevard. Before the sun comes up, his money will be spent.

And he sits on the corner the next day with the other bums, junkies, crazies, runaway teens and whores. Waiting for someone to walk by with mercy. He begs for a dollar. Dimes and quarters are dropped in his hat. This is their church; a collection must be taken.

But, it’s not one for all all for one. It’s every man for himself. America has taught them well. All profit. No overhead.

The fat man sits in his pants filled with piss and shit. The smell is horrendous. He sings out songs as people walk by. His voice cracks and sputters. They keep walking.

He tells Jr. tales from Bellevue. Strapped to a bed. Isolation. Meds handed out like candy. Talked about the woman who used to bring in pizza for everybody. Everyone got a slice. She was an angel. Then, one day, she stopped coming. Nobody knew why. She just stopped. Maybe she went to Heaven, Jr. said. The fat man nodded his head. That’s it. Maybe she died and went to Heaven. Do you think we go to Heaven? he asked. Fat man was silent. Started singing again. A dollar was dropped in his hat.

I’ll tell you what is real, he said. Nothing. It’s all in our minds. Truth? that doesn’t exist. It’s just made-up situations, the old man said. Lies we tell ourselves, he drank his coffee and continued talking to himself. Old girlfriends, former lovers, some old dog that bit us when we were in first grade; figments of the imagination. They were never there, he lit a cigarette. This whole life is just one big dream, his boy came into the room. He looked up at him from the kitchen table. Tall kid. Weighed about a buck fifty. The young man opened the refrigerator and pulled out an Old Milwaukee’s Best.

What are you pontificating about? the boy asked. Out here blabbing on to yourself. You’re crazy old man. Just crazy.

What do you know? the old man asked him. You’re not real. Your mother wasn’t real. Just some kind of thoughts in my head.

What do you know about real? You’ve avoided reality your whole life, the kid slapped him. Now that’s real, the old man was stunned. Face turned red. Did you feel that? the boy asked. Get a little taste of reality? he laughed.

The old man got up from his chair and headed for the closet, where he grabbed a shot gun and placed a bullet in the barrel. He pointed the gun at the boy; his own flesh and blood. This isn’t real, he told him. This isn’t real at all, he pointed the gun at his son.

Put the gun down, dad.

You’re just a dream, a bad dream I’ve had all my life, he put the gun to his head. I’m going to end this dream once and for all.

The son grabbed the barrel and removed it from his jaw-bone. The old man fired, and the bullet went right through the kitchen wall. They both laughed.

Well, the old man said. You can’t kill what’s not there.

Watching the train go by

Flattens a spoon on tracks

Midwestern afternoon.

Graffiti on cars

Corporate signatures

Heading west.

Out to California

Over mountains

Above streams.

A man on back waves

A spoon flattens

On tracks.

He was stuck in Brothers Karamazov. Couldn’t read anymore. The three brothers with distinct personalities and the old foolish father had given him headaches at night. Made him toss and turn. Did he have a good heart? A soul that was bound for Heaven? Or was he evil? Only looking out for his own good. A narcissistic approach to life. Putting himself above others. These spirits swayed back and forth inside of him. Good versus evil. Would he kill his own flesh and blood to attain a lover? On the right given night? Probably.

The rosary hung on the doorknob. It was given to him by monks in the Bronx. The wooden beads felt good in his hands when he held it. Moving his fingers from one ball to the next. He would often hold the small silver cross to his heart and pray for forgiveness of his many sins over the years. Vainly, he would pray for God to give him direction in his life. The fat man would pray with sweat rolling down his cheeks and forehead, Father in Heaven. Forgive me of my sins. Lead me down a path that is worthy of your love. Help me to overcome these sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…Amen.

Was he sincere in this prayer? His actions said otherwise. Around two o’clock in the morning, when coyotes howled and rats scurried through garbage cans, strange thoughts would enter his mind. Clouding out all rationale. He’d stare at the rosary and then at the butcher knife on his desk. Cleaned and polished. Every bit of blood wiped off it from the night before. Father, forgive me of these sins, he’d say, then examine the knife even more. The wooden handle was easy to grip. The blade was dull, but it did the job. The devil was inside him. God had left long ago.

The fat man would dress for the night wearing dark pants and a black tee-shirt with a blue jacket. He washed them every day; very particular about getting every bit of blood out of them. Spots on his jeans. A smear on his jacket. Drops on his black wool hat. Shoes polished. This was his outfit for murder. The killing of the innocent lamb. After he was done, his heart went out to them. A victim was a victim was a victim. He killed without prejudice. And, a prayer was said for each soul that had passed. God forgive them. And take them into your home, he said silently, then he threw the body into the trunk of his car and drove off. Deep into the woods of Ohio, he would drive. Listening to country music the whole time. The Highway Men was his favorite group. Willie, Johnny, Waylon, and Kris; a song about reincarnation. He sang along as he drove his Dodge off highways onto backraods made of gravel amongst tall pines and oaks. Didn’t bother burying the body; just threw it out there for someone to find. Then, take off like a ghost in the middle of the night. Praying for forgiveness. Laughing while Dolly sang of her coat with many colors.

The Brothers Karamazov sat on his desk. He could not finish it. Murder is one thing. Completing a task another. Sliding a blade into someone’s gut is easy, he thought. Seeking truth is hard.

Out of date yogurt. Mold on garlic hummus. Zuchinni had gone soft. A case with two beers left in it. An empty coffee creamer bottle. Bread that’d seen better days. He continued looking in his refrigerator . Some box of baking soda. Left in there years ago. That was a memory of her.

Car parts. As far as the eye can see. Mufflers, tires, steering wheels, mirrors, axles, brake pads, drums, broken windsheilds, wiper blades, engines, rusted, all rusted. Gaurded by a pit bull named Blue.

The fat man looked around the junk yard at all he owned. Everything he had saved over the years. Parts and more parts. Cars crushed over in the corner of the yard. Pickup trucks up on blocks in the other. Rows and rows of junk. He lit a cigarette and surveyed it.

A TV in the office was showing Andy Griffith. Aunt B was entered into a pie contest there in Mayberry. Black and white pictures of pies were on the small screen with rabbit ears reaching to the ceiling. He opened the refrigerator and got himself a beer. Sat in an easy chair and watched as the sky turned black. A rain fell, and he turned to watch Blue out of the corner of his eye barking at thunder. Old Blue eventually came into the office where a bowl Chuck Wagon was waiting for him. The dog ate fast. Gulped it all down. He made noises while he ate. The fat man made noises as well. The rain let up.

At the gates was an SUV. Scratches and dents all over it. A cracked windsheild. Rusted tail pipe. No fenders. The fat man looked it over. How much? he asked the black man who drove it in.

I was thinking a grand, the driver said. About a grand. Hell, you’ll double that in parts.

You got that title?

No title.

Five hundred, the fat man said. No title, no grand.

What do you mean?

I’m the one taking the risk, he said. Lit up another Marlboro. I don’t know where you got this thing. Looks like a West Side deal. Hell, there’s bullet holes in it.

You saying I stole this car?

I’m saying there’s a good chance.

Seven hundred.

You guys don’t know how to negotiate. Do you? If you would’ve said eight, I would’ve have said six. But, you said seven. Therefore I stay at five.

What kind of system is that?

Mine. All mine. Been doing this for thirty years. I know stolen goods when I see it. No title. Hmm. Who you trying to fool? This here is a shotgun special. Probably belonged to some drug dealer. Look, there’s a Puerto Rican flag all wadded up in the back. I imagine you took that off when you stole it.

You think I stole it ’cause I’m black.

No. We’re all equal opportunists in this game. Later on today, some Mexican will bring in shit. Then some naive white boy will come in and buy a junker to get around town in. Way it goes. He’ll be too stupid to ask for a title. Too dumb to look for anything on it. Some idiot from Canaryville. Some hillbilly. So no, I don’t think it’s ’cause you’re black. I might be the last one of my kind in this business.

How’s that?

I believe in fair trade.

Morning coffee. A piece of toast. Sun comes in through shades. Outside, people are talking in the alley. Some foreign language. He can’t make it out. The old man places his ear against the window. Looks out into the alley where black men were standing in a circle. Red eyes. They don’t look healthy. He lights a cigarette.

What are they? he asked himself. Some kind of African?Maybe it’s Creole from Haiti. Some kind of boat people washed up on our shores. The pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. That’s different, he laughs.

Maybe it’s the neighborhood. The whole place has gotten bad. Used to be all white. People had jobs. Kept up with their yards. Didn’t ask for handouts, the old man took a drag off his cigarette and drank some coffee.

Why do they come here? he thought. What do they want from us? Some kind of salvation? he kept looking out the window. Why’d they choose Summerville? Of all the places in the U.S. they choose our little town. Now we got the Portuguese, Purto Ricans, Mexicans, Hatians, the D.R.’s, your plain old American nigger and everything else, he mumbled.

The men continued talking in the alley. The old man sat in his easy chair and listened to talk radio. He smiled as they spoke about what was on his mind.

We need a border wall all around this country, the old man said to the radio, sitting in the corner. They’re disrupting our Christain values, he claimed to no one. Wanting special rights, he got up and opened his blinds. All Irish and Italians it used to be, he laughed. Never much cared for the dagos. Never played a fair game, he said. Anyway. I’ll be dead soon. I’ll be dead. And, I can already see what this country is going to be. Well, if nobody else cares, neither do I, he lit another smoke.

Sean Hannity rambled on.

Green light. Green means go. Did you hear me, the passenger said to him. Why are you stopping? she asked. You’ve got the green light. You’re just sitting like a duck. Let’s go, he lit a cigarette.

Look up there, the driver said. What do you see?

I see a red light. It’s turned red. Now we gotta wait, she crossed her arms.

I said look. Up in the sky. What do you see?

What do you want, Denny? Is this some kind of game? she paused. Clouds. I see dark clouds.

Beyond that. What do you see beyond that?

The sun. The sun, Denny. It’s morning. Waaaahooo, she yelled. We’ve been driving all night. Now the light is green again. What are we doing? she grabbed his arm. I’m tired. I just want to go home, he opened the car door. Where you going?

I’m done. Finished. Drive yourself home.

Denny. You come back here, he started walking away. You come back here this instant, she demanded. I don’t have no license, he turned around. Walked back to the car. Pointed his finger at her. What? she asked.

Denny slid back into the driver’s seat. Turned to her and said, my car, my rules. If I want to stop and look at the sunset, then we will, he yelled.

The light turned green. He waited a second or two. They drove on.