dmseay

Cool breezes blew through the house in the month of May. He sat in darkness, drinking coffee and eating cookies. The cat slept behind the toilet.

Fifty-two years of marriage, he thought. Time spent on watching kids. A daughter’s first dance. His son’s first fight; a black eye given to him by a fat boy down the street. I never liked him, the granddad said out loud. He was boastful. Just like his father. I think he was arrested for selling junk bonds. The old man added Irish cream to his coffee.

What will become of me? he whispered. Who will I be in my next life? he asked God. Could I be an Indian boy in New Delhi? A tribesman in Africa? The prime minister of England? Thoughts and questions raced through his mind. How much time do I have?

Years, a voice said, hands on his shoulders. You have years. He turned around, and no one was there.

That’s funny. I could’ve swore I heard her talking.

A cool breeze blew through the house in the month of May.

You don’t work anymore.

Work is overrated.

How do you make ends meet? How do you survive? This country isn’t too hard, but it’s hard enough. To live that is. You have to have a roof over your head. You gotta eat.

Who says? Expectations. America places too many expectations on you. It builds this personality of greed. People want everything. New clothes, house, shiny car, food in their stomachs. I say it’s the simple life for me. All I need is a book and a piece of bread; rye if you have it. But I’m not picky, he said. When I was a kid I didn’t want for any thing. I was happy with my Pop Tarts and glass of milk. Loved my bicycle. Used to ride it all over the village. Through back roads and Main Street. Watched women holding the hands of children. Saw men stumbling out of bars, he lit a cigarette. And even at that age, I thought, is this all that people want? Maybe they were happy. Who knows? But I made up my mind then not to follow that path. Decided I didn’t need anything. Just my legs to get me places. My back to sleep on. Brains to think, he crushed his cigarette on the sidewalk. Pushed it over into the grass with the toe of his torn shoe. I know what you’re thinking. Right? the two men looked at each other. I’m a bum. Right? Gave up. That’s what you’re thinking. And maybe I am. Maybe I did. But I wake up with no guilt. None. Can you say that?

The younger man looked at him. Tilted his eyes towards the ground.

You lied to a guy over a business deal. Cheated on your wife. Never spend time with the kids. Worried about going over the mileage for that oil change, they both laughed. No. I do not live in that world. Never did. it’s not for me.

You assume too much, the father of four said. I’m quite happy. Quite happy indeed.

When was the last time you made love to your wife?

I don’t see…

When?

It’s been a while.

For some, it’s months. Years. And they still say they are happy. Happy? I guess we’re all happy.

A small room with lamps all over the place. Standing lamps, desk lamps, table lamps, Coleman lanterns, bulbs burning.

He sat in the light. A dim light. Making shadows on the walls. A wax candle and a knife lay out before him. He carved different shapes and placed initials in it. R.S.  stood out on the side. He lit it and watched it begin to melt. Put on a record by John Coltrane: A Love Supreme. Saw black smoke rising from the red candle. Decided to turn off the lamps and just watch it glow.

He remembered lighting candles in a church when he was a kid. Sent prayers up to heaven. Asking God for miracles. Save his granddad, save his mom, feed the world. Stop all wars. His prayers never came true. Never answered.

Now he just looked on as the candle burned in the dark until the flame eventually went out. Sat there in his room. Looked out the window at the flickering streetlights. A neon sign above a furniture store across the street. He began to cry. Sad.

The lamps were turned back on. He hated the dark.

He didn’t see her. He said he didn’t see her. I don’t know how he could’ve missed her. She was dancing in the middle of the room. Sliding up and down on a pole. Glitter on her body. All sparkly. She shined. Her tanned body glowed in the lights. Men didn’t know what hit them.

But he said he didn’t see her. Long black hair with a headpiece on made out of feathers. Looked like an Indian up there. Long tall body. Dancing to a song by Journey about two young lovers taking the midnight train to anywhere.

She took out this bear rug and started rolling on it provocatively. Silence from the men. Quietly, they drank their beers and watched as she spread her legs in the air; throwing dollar bills at the stage in slow motion. She collected each one as Every Rose Has It’s Thorn played, and she exited the stage. The d.j. said, put your hands together for Rose, everybody. And dont forget to tip your waitress.

Out in the parking lot, he sat in an old Ford truck with the radio on a country station. They played an old Emmylou Harris song. Why don’t hey make more women like that, he whispered. Why don’t they make more women like that.

Voices. Loud voices outside my window. Tugging on the blinds, I see nothing. Darkness, a little moonlight, but no people. Just voices.

At times, the talk was loud. Sometimes soft, a woman’s touch, telling her man to quiet down; people are sleeping. Eventually, he did as was asked. Mumbling incoherently.  Talking to himself.  Speaking in a foreign tongue. Maybe Spanish. Maybe Esperanto. 

I looked at my watch. It was close to two. The voices loud. Now she was screaming. Yelling. Do you think it’s my fault? she asked. Don’t look at me that way. Do you think it’s my fault? she asked again. Maybe you secretly wanted this to happen. You wanted to see me go through pain. Tell me, she demanded. Tell me.

No response. Just silence. And nobody there. No voices in the dark. Quiet.

I miss her.

He used to walk around downtown. Had tattoos and scars on his face. Greasy hair slicked back. Some of it gray, some of it black. He went through the streets with a pole in his hand made of wood. An old thick oak branch he’d found after a storm in the park where he slept. Carved a heart into it with initials, D.C. and K.L. painted in red. The colors were beginning to fade.

We forget things, he said once. We’re in constant need of reminders. Pictures, letters, songs that run through our heads. Old clothes. A sweater she got you for Christmas. a pair of boots strapped together with silver duct tape. Hold onto these things, he said. Don’t lose them.

The vagabond carried these items around in a green Army bag. Had medals and badges from his days as an Eagle Scout as well. Old memories of swimming a mile across a river in Texas to earn a badge. Saving a life with the CPR he’d learned. Various knots with rope he had tied. Items he held in his hands and concentrated on, meditated. 

Some men have houses and families. Wives and kids. Sports cars and sail boats. He just had memories. And that was OK with him. 

At one time, he had a wife. They lived up in Alaska. Used to hunt for food. Fish in the summertime.

He went out for a pack of cigarettes one night. Passsd the liquor store where he usually stopped for his bottle of Wild Turkey and smokes. But this night, he did not go in. He kept walking on the dirt roads.  He walked all night till he crossed the Canadian border. Looked around at the lights and the duty- free shop. Saw men on horses roaming around the place. Sun was coming up. Rain began to fall; glistening on the pavement. The black top shined. Amongst the oil and rain, he saw an image. It was a reflection of himself. He had a beard and mustache, all salt and pepper. His eyes were clear; no red. He felt at peace. The road was his home. And, some go a lifetime without.

I watched rainwater pour through gutters on the old house out into the street. Sticks and leaves washed on pavement.

Red bricks needed tuckpointing. Bits and pieces broken. Sharp edges smoothed out over time. Stones split in half.

Windows with cracks in them. Wooden frames splintered. Overgrown weeds and tall, fat shrubs covered the front porch.  A sign on the front door stated CONDEMNED.

This is where he lived. This was my father’s house. He lived there by himself. Left the family years before his death. Mom just let him go.

He doesn’t want to be here, she said on the phone. He might as well leave. Him and his whiskey, along with those depressing Chet Baker records. I’ve had enough, mom said to my aunt. I’ve had enough.

It took me forever to find this old house. I was not shocked to see the disrepair it was in. An old broken down house. I wonder if it was ever a home.

A thousand pieces of her broken. Bits of bone scattered on the floor. Locks of blonde hair lie in the corner, removed from her head. Blue eyes stare at the ceiling.

The fire completely demolished the farmhouse they lived in. Officials said it was a gas leak, while others believed he had set it that night with a match struck after she had been killed. Either way, she was dead. Two bullet holes were found in her neck. 

Twenty-four hours after the fire, he was found in a hotel room in Richmond. Cops knocked on the door. He responded right away. 

Yep. Give me a minute, a hoarse voice said. The officers continued knocking. I said, give me a minute, I’ll be right there. 

An older man with his tie half -way tied looked through the hole in the door. Saw the police adjusting their hats; placing hands on weapons. He opened the door.

Help you boys, the suspect said. Something I could do for you?

Where were you two nights ago? the officer asked.

I been down here on business for a week.

I see.

Yeah. Came down here to play some golf with clients. Not much good at the game, he told them. But I play OK. What’s this about?

Were you aware of the fire at your house in Warrenton?

No. I was not.

A body was found inside. A woman. Burned badly. Pieces of her on the floor. Two bullet holes in the back of the neck.

Who was she? Please don’t say it was Jenn.

Jenn?

My girlfriend. Jenny Black.

We’re afraid so. Need someone to identify the body. What’s left of it. She have any next of kin?

No. Her parents passed away years ago. No brothers or sisters.

Would you mind coming with us?

I guess not.

Turn around and face the wall.

What is this?

You have the right to remain silent…..

And silent, he remained.    

All the time. It could be midnight with orange neon blinking in the windows. Maybe morning when the sun kisses the cactus. Or evening, watching reports on war and famine with a feel-good story at the end. These hours go by.

Years can not erase thoughts or memories. Pictures are always there in the mind. Where are you now? We are no longer in Chicago or New York. Not in Los Angeles chasing dreams. Nor are we in Montpelier or Montreal. Watching autumn set in. Rain on leaves. Rust drips.

Older now. The body hurts. Breath is short. Looking at lovers strolling  in the park past streams and waterfalls. Thought I saw your ghost standing by the cherry trees whose flowers have fallen to the ground. Was I mistaken? Are you haunting me?

All the time. Days wasted. Nights of unrest. Because of you.

Be a mirror, he said. Not a visionary. It’s hard to lead when nobody believes you. Tough to tell people where they are heading. The pages turn. Leaves fall from trees. Eventually, we’re all stripped naked, standing in front of the reflective glass, showing us what we truly are, the artist told him. Fat, short, too thin, not thin enough, pimples on our face, a birthmark, all of it is seen. And though we deny it, truth looks back at us, leaving only ourselves, good or bad, to contend with.

Miller was a visionary. A prophet,  the young man said. I’ve read Tropic Of Cancer, Tropic Of Capricorn, both are warning signs. Telling us where we are heading. Eventually, freedom will be ripped from our souls, he said. And, that means whether you’re in New York or Paris, artistically, you will be ruined on your own accord or that of a lover’s, a friend, government, the list is endless. Unless we make changes. Until we listen to the visionary, we will be lost.

Keep looking in the mirror, the old man said. Or are you frightened by truth? the kid turned away. I’m asking. Are you frightened by honesty? he looked down at the ground, the mud, trash, candy wrappers, beer cans, rusted chains, used condoms spit out of mouths of whores who years ago never saw this coming. And now it’s too late. They never looked in the mirror. Never at themselves, few of us have.

Who has?

Writers, sculptors, painters, teachers, the wise; the very wise. They’ve had the courage to show us what we are, if only we would look.