dmseay

Fans twirled above like helicopters. The refrigerator hummed out loud. A nightlight glowed in the color red. He sat in the dark, killing bugs as they marched on his arm.

A warm can of beer sat on the table next to him. He opened it the day before. Forgot all about it. Woke up, and there it was, waiting for him; an Old Style at room temperature. Another bug trudged on his skin. They played in his hair. He stood up and violently shook the creatures off. Some landed on the rug while others scurried across a hardwood floor. The old man drank what was left of the beer.

As morning came, he woke up in the glaring sunlight. The bugs had disappeared. He wondered if it was a dream. Bugs. Stale beer. He shook the empty can. A cockroach crawled out. The old man laughed. He looked around the trailer. Fans still twirled. The refrigerator hummed. It was no dream. This was his life.

Christmas lights in July. Santa in the front yard. Fireworks going off in the distance. Kids playing with sparklers in the street. Dogs barking and running for cover. Another case of beer finished off.

They sat on the back porch. The charcoal grill was still smoking from earlier. Dad lit a cigarette and handed the pack back to mom; Virginia Slims. He smoked his last Marlboro that afternoon.

Red, white, and blue fireworks lit the sky. A haze settled in over the city. Mom and dad slurred words. Talked about how nobody gave a damn anymore.

There’s jobs, he said. They just don’t want to work, he took a drag off the skinny cigarette. Nobody wants to do anything anymore, but play video games. They want jobs playing video games. I saw it on the news, he continued. Just shooting things. They all just want to shoot things. Imaginary things. With imaginary guns. Makes you wonder, he said. Makes you wonder.

The cigarettes were all gone. Mom and dad went inside. Dad called for the boy and girl to come in from the back window. The two kids complained. Asked for five more minutes. Yellow light from lamp posts shined down on the streets. Their request was granted.

Five years from now, they won’t want to go outside, he said. They’ll stay in all day and night. It ain’t right.

I was talking to Judy next door the other day, she said. And her boy had a girl over, the husband looked in the refrigerator, moving items around. And she said they didn’t kiss or hug or anything. They just played video games in the basement. Said she wasn’t worried about them in the least. They were yelling and screaming at the TV, she threw away paper plates and plastic forks.

I’ll tell you one thing, he said. I’m worried. Who is going to take care of us? she nodded her head. Who is going to make sure we’re safe? she put away potato salad.

Dad opened the window again and told them to come in. Again, they cried and moaned. Get in here, dad said. Before I tan your hides. March in this house now. Pronto.

Brother and sister walked into the kitchen and kissed their mom on the cheeks. The dogs stopped barking. Night got quiet. Dad stuffed a cold hot dog in his mouth. Summer had begun.

Morning. They sat quietly while various news stories appeared on the television; a shooting on the West side, car jacking in Lincoln Park, the water of Lake Michigan declared unsafe to swim in. Not a word was spoken.

Medicine was taken with coffee. Cats spoke to one another in a strange language. The birds outside sang a different tune. Still, no talking.

Something had transpired overnight. This silence in the house was unusual. Most mornings were filled with jokes, laughter, a kiss goodbye as they went to work.

The sun came up and neither commented. The two just looked at their phones and glanced to see if the other was looking. The coffee was running out.

Do you want more coffee? she asked. He shook his head, no. Back to silence. She stood up and walked to the door. It was nice talking with you, she said. Have a great day.

You too.

An old ghost came to visit last night. She walked right into the room. Tapped me on the shoulder. Pillow was wet from my head. Laid on my right side. No blankets. Just a naked body lying there. She saw my flesh. Again, she tapped my shoulder. The dream I was having. Traveling in a distant land; Europe, I believe France, walking around Paris. It was Novemeber, and the wind was cold. She whispered in my ear and told me my dreams were alive. You’ll never go home, she said. This is your final resting place, she kept tapping my shoulder. Blowing on my neck. I didn’t turn to look at her, but I could tell there was something familiar about her. I’d known her from another life. We were once happy. As happy as people can be.

The bottom sheet had come undone. No longer was it tucked away under the mattress. A bare bed left marks on my body. I still felt her presence. She said she’d been waiting on me. Waiting for my turn. The ghost grabbed my hand. I turned over, and it was nothing. No one was there. But, I felt her. I could tell there was someone there in the room with me. I’ve been fooled before.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. Church bells rang. I walked over to the window. A sealed window. Snow. The end of June and it was snowing. Or, was it June? Maybe it was November in Paris.

A calender was taped to my bathroom wall. Pictures of old buildings throughout the world were displayed on the page with dates and months below. November seventeen was circled. There was no year on the calender, just days and months. And then I asked myself what year it was? 1967, 2000, 2011. I didn’t know. There was no mirror in the bathroom. My beard was long, and there were no razors.

I looked over, and there was a Spanish man talking in his sleep. He was speaking Spanish in his sleep. The room was dark, and a light came from under the door. I heard voices on the other side. People said things that didn’t make any sense. Just rambling sentences. Incoherent jabber. I was scared to open the door. Frightened of what was on the other side. And then the door was opened by the ghost. She said, time for your meds.

See anything? he asked. She shook her head. No lights? Lanterns moving in the dark? No fire sparks? again, she just shook her head. Let’s set up camp here tonight, he told her. No fire. Can’t take the chance. Sleep with one eye open, she didn’t say a word. Just got out her bedroll. She slept on top of it. No blankets covering her. The girl wanted to be ready to move.

No stars out that night. Pitch black. The moon didn’t even shine. Let off a hazy glow covered by clouds. The clay they slept on began to turn to mud. Rain drops fell on them at a fast pace. Felt like bullets. There were no trees to hide under. Out in the middle of nowhere.

We might as well walk, he said. can’t sleep. They’ll find us soon enough, he began folding up his bedroll and placing it on his back.

That’s what I’m scared of, she said.

How’s that?

They’ll find us, and that’ll be the end. No more us, she lit a cigarette.

We got a long walk ahead of us, he said.

Do you know where you’re going? Have you got any idea? he shook his head. She laughed. I remember when we first started out. We had wheels. Easier to get around this country. We could move quickly back then. I miss that old truck. I miss the radio. Haven’t heard music in weeks, she said.

Keep it in your head, he told her. Keep the songs in your head.

I hear you humming sometimes.

‘Cause I got the music in my head. Earth, Wind and Fire, Ohio Players, Kool & The Gang. They’re all there, he pointed to his right temple. Right there inside my head. A constant juke box. Sometimes, I hear Bob Seger, the Stones, Billy Preston.

Who?

Never mind, he said to the young girl. I’m too old for you. You can’t relate. Haven’t got to the point yet where the music is inside of you.

I remember you playing that station in the truck. Playing all them old songs. Then you’d switch to talk radio. People calling in from everywhere. Just to hear their own voice. Calling the president an idiot. Saying the whole country is going to Hell, she looked at him as they walked. You think we’re going to Hell?

Who knows? I can only think about us at this time.

Celebration by Kool & The Gang ran through his head. They kept walking.

Bushes covered the front windows. Wildly grown. He couldn’t see out. A gravel driveway with a truck on concrete blocks parked in it. Trashcans overflowing in the alley. Tom cats trace back and forth. Old chicken bones strewn. Gutters falling off.

No one left that house. None of the neighbors knocked on the door. Burned out Christmas lights hung on nails in the siding. A lamp shined in the side window. It was never turned off.

People wondered if he was alive. Grass and weeds grew in the yard in the summertime, and snow covered a broken up sidewalk in winter. The old man sat eating Saltine crackers in his easy chair. He sat in silence. He didn’t even talk to himself. Alive? He had given up on life years ago.

There is no comfort in being alone. Old and alone. Left behind by wives, lovers, children, dogs that ran around the house. You become a stone. You don’t move. Just wait for death. Maybe death waits for you.

It wasn’t what he planned. Alone. But, things got out of hand. Some say it was drinking, but he never drank. Others said it was mental illness. Said he was on some kind of disability for being crazy. And, maybe he was. But, no one ever stepped a foot on that front porch to find out. No one ever knocked on his door. Sometimes, kids would look through the windows. They never saw anything. Just a lamp on a table. Their parents told them to stay away. Kids never mind their parents.

So, the old man sat in the dark eating Saltine crackers. Crumbs in his lap. A beard down to his chest. Alone. No one likes to be alone.

Blinds closed. There’s not much light coming in. The fan above gives off a cool breeze. Dust is blown off tables and lamps. A pile of dirty clothes sits in the bedroom; piled high in a basket. Nothing has been washed in months. Nothing has been cleaned in years. Crumbles of tortilla chips and popcorn stick to his feet as he walks across the floors. An old easy chair with black blood marks on it. The old man sits in it. He flips through television shows; The Price Is Right, Jeopardy, Wheel Of Fortune, Let’s Make A Deal. He snickers at the losers. Taunts them from the comforts of his trailer home. The cat box is overflowing.

He looks outside his small window in the door. Cut out in a square. He sees kids playing dodgeball. They’re throwing the ball at one another; hard and fast. One boy falls to the pavement. He is bombarded with balls. A whole group of boys hit him with rubber balls as hard as they can. It brings the child to tears. The old man laughs. He yells out things like, Smear the queer. Get him.

Soon, the boys put the balls down and start throwing rocks at the kid. Then bricks they find in the old man’s yard. One picks up a two by four and swings wildly until there is no response. The boy lies in the street. Silent. Gasping for air till none is left inside of him.

The old man closes the shade and goes back to watching television.

He carried her upstairs. Long strands of blonde hair covered her face. Blue eyes closed. Snoring. In his arms, her limp body lay still. Like a rug folded in the middle. Every once in a while, she’d smack her lips with her pierced tongue.

She had a tattoo of the maiden voyage on her right arm. Outlined in black with red ink. Wore short sleeves to show it off; even in winter. He laid her on the sofa in the front room with coffee stains and spilled gravy on it. Without opening her eyes, she smiled at him.

The television was on with the sound down low. Spencer Tracey and Kathryn Hepburn kissing on a black and white screen. The young man opened a beer and sat beside her on the couch. He placed her head in his lap. Started flipping around channels. Entertainment Tonight was on. Celebrities interviewed on the red carpet as they strolled into the theater.

We’re going to be stars like that one of these days, he wispered to her as she slept. People are going to know us, he said. They’re going to recognize us when we go out for dinner or get a latte at Starbucks, he laughed. Then we’ll take all our money and move to Paris. Start speaking in French. You’d like that ,wouldn’t you? she smiled, coming out of her coma.

There ain’t no such thing as Paris, she said. There’s a Paris, Texas. There’s a Paris, Tennessee. But, there ain’t no Paris, France, she said. Not for people like us. Never for people like us. Do we have any ice cream? Chocolate?

We got frozen yogurt.

See. You’re already getting weird. Paris, France? Frozen yogurt? I don’t know, Billy. Things sure are strange.

Go back to sleep, he said. And dream. Just dream.

That’s all we do is dream, Billy. That’s all we do.

Shouting. Screaming. Yelling out in the middle of the night to no one. That voice. A screeching voice. One with a mix of cigarettes and whiskey.

Kentucky Fried Chicken barrels all over her apartment. The old woman hangs the fried skin of the chicken on wire hangers. She saves them for midnight snacks. bones from thighs and drumsticks litter the room.

She cries out obscenities. You mother fuckers. You sonofabitch, she carries on. You left me, she says. Left me here with nothing, she goes on. I hope you rot in Hell.

There’s a light on in the kitchen window. She’s on the floor. On her hands and knees. Pills are emptied out of prescription bottles. The old woman is naked. Rolls of fat, loose skin, knees shake. She wobbles as she tries to pick up the pills.

A young man looks in the window and sees her struggles. He notices pictures on the walls; a man in an Air Force uniform. Black and whites. A girl with ribbons in her hair. You mother fucker, she yells. You sonofabitch, she curses again.

The old woman looks up at the window and looks at the young man. What are you looking at? she asks. He quietly shakes his head and says, Nothing.

Work. tirelessly working at something, not sure what it is. Just like ants. Carrying things above heads. Shovels, pitchforks, hoes, everybody has something in their hands. Heading up a mountain top. The earth is soft from the rain. Looking for a place to raise their flag; a marker for others to find them. Clouds grow gray. Darkness falls. They work into the night. Digging a final resting place for a comrade; limbs cut off, eyes staring up at the sky. Red blood turns black.

War is not neatly packaged. It is not pretty. Heroics go unrecognized. And here, on this mountain top, they bury their friend, a soldier, a boy of twenty-one. They drink vodka and cry. Some laugh at memories of the lad. They tell stories.

And, in the distance, there is gunfire. There are missiles being shot off by both sides. More soldiers killed civilians, too. Some say peace will never come. Others hold out hope for victory. A win. At what cost?