dmseay

Check the thermostat, will ya? he asked. It’s a hundred degrees outside, and it feels like it’s forty-two in here, the old man poured a cup of coffee. Did ya hear me? she sat in the rocking chair, slowly going back and forth. I’ll check it myself, the old man looked at the gage on the wall. Sixty-two? Are you out of your mind? she smiled. First thing, we can’t afford it. Secondly, it’s cold, he said, turning the dial to seventy-eight.

I wanted it to feel like fall in here, she said. Autumn. I wanted it to feel like autumn, the old lady continued rocking in the wooden chair.

You want me to paint the leaves too? he took a sip of his coffee. This ain’t coffee. This is brown luke-warm water, she laughed. You know, you’re getting crazier by the day. By the minute, he laughed and walked into the kitchen. The old man started going through cabinets. Looking past sugar, salt, various spices she’d collected over the years. OK, I give up, he yelled. Where’s the coffee?

It’s in the freezer, she said.

Why is it in the freezer?

Keeps it fresh.

That’s an old falsehood. An untruth. It’s a lie some fool started a long time ago. Behind the green beans, frozen chicken stood a can of Maxwell House. They say it’s good to the last drop. Or, is that some other brand? he took out the coffee and removed the plastic lid. Maybe I’m losing my mind too, he said. Maybe we’re both goin’ crazy, he started looking through the cabinets again. What did you do with the filters?

You can’t find them?

Just tell me where they’re at.

I don’t know. Funny. I used them this morning. Now I can’t remember where they’re at.

The old man started pulling everything out of the cabinets; peanut butter, crackers, Wheat Thins, old bread passed the date, a can of sardines, unopened pickles, an Allen wrench.

Where are the Goddamned filters?

Maybe in the bathroom, she said.

He walked down the hall, mumbling to himself. Who keeps filters in a bathroom? he asked out loud.

I think I left them there this morning when I went to the bathroom, she said. I did. I left then on the back of the toilet. I forgot.

Why would you carry them into the bathroom?

I don’t know.

From now on, the coffee and filters stand on the back of the counter, he said. I decree this. You understand? she nodded her head. You’re getting dingy, dear. You’re getting dingier by the day.

I was talking to Robert Paul’s wife the other day, and she said the end days were coming. She could feel it in her bones. Turn on the TV, and all they talk about is war. That and how some cute kid saved his fish from a tornado; I like those stories. Anyway. She said the end times were coming, he counted out spoons of coffee. Added water. Turned the maker on. The brown water dripped into the pot. They sat in silence.

Storms were coming. They sat on the back porch watching the clouds roll in; a mist was in the air.

She loved rain and thunder. Took her back to when she was a kid and she hid beneath blankets in her room with her sister. The two of them would take a whiffle ball bat from the shed and pitch a tent. They’d stay underneath till the storm stopped; laughing and pretending late into the night.

He sat there with his arm around her. The rain drops got bigger. Thunder became louder. She placed her head on his shoulder. Thinking of her little sister who had passed a few years ago. Strange thing. She died listening to the rain fall, thunder clapping.

Bolts of lightning flew across the night sky. There she is, she said to her husband. She’s out there in the sky, letting me know her energy hasn’t died, she held his hand.

We never die, he said. We just keep on living. Lightning, trees growing, leaves turning green, rain falling, we never die. Just become a part of nature.

She rested her head on his shoulder again. He kissed her hand. The sister lit up the sky.

He looked at the Picasso, Dali, Matisse, a sculpture by Rodin. Walked in silence; taking in colors. Hours spent in a museum. Long stretches of hardwood floors. Art hanging on white walls. The middle-aged man felt at home.

Outside, cars honked and belched fumes into the air. Cop cars blasted sirens. Ambulances sped up and down Lake Shore Drive. Boarded up buildings on Michigan.

Alone, he walked amongst the crowd. Kids looking at cellphones, trucks cutting off pedestrians, food vendors selling hotdogs with sweet relish and peppers. He remembered this town. Remembered when Millennial Park was Grant. Drinking six packs at Blues Fest; a bottle of wine with jazz.

The gray-haired traveler thought of Studs Terkel. His interviews on the fine arts station. That gravel voice asking questions to artists, politicians, working class men, and women, seeking truth.

And, he stumbled past bars on Clark Street he used to frequent. The Duke Of Perth, Joann’s Piano Bar, The German American Bar, Irish joints, the raising of a glass, a toast to the town.

He looked in his backpack and found a harmonica. The thin man zipped it across his lips. God, how he missed this town.

I’ve never been one for self-promotion. However, that being said, yesterday, I wrote short story number 2,000 on my website dmseay.com.

It started in 2016 when I was homeless in New York. I started writing about the city using no punctuation. I was experimenting with language about poverty, race, and America as a whole. I had no idea back then it would take me to what I’m writing about today; relationships, leaving, death, life in the Midwest, and still, America.

Two thousand stories and four published books later, I feel lucky to still be alive and doing what I love on a daily basis; writing. Thanks to the few who read my work and buy my books. Here’s to two thousand more.

Tennessee pines. Tall oaks. Hickory wood burning. They sat by the fire on a cool autumn evening. Both of them counted their blessings. It had been a while since the two of them had prayed to their lord. He had just gotten through cancer. And she had helped him along; in the bathroom with him when he was throwing up, putting blankets on him, holding him when he needed to be held. They had survived.

And now they sat in these woods. Quiet. Every once in a while, an owl would hoot, some deer would run, the trickling of water from a nearby stream; peaceful.

They said their prayers out loud so that the other could hear. Man and wife said goodnight. He kissed her on the forehead. Ginger hair pulled back in a bun. Dreams were on their way.

He had this vision. A day of peace worldwide. No armies fought. Missiles would not fire. Handshakes on battlefields. The old man slept with a smile on his wrinkled face.

She dreamt of a black horse on a beach. Running. And she was riding it bareback. A voice kept calling her name. His voice.

And he was dressed in white. Standing on a rock. Feet in sandles. She came to him. They held each other and said goodbye. She told him, I’ll see you in the next life. He nodded his head.

The next morning, the fire had died out. Ash laid in the dirt. She unzipped her sleeping bag and kissed him on the cheek. He did not wake up.

What is this trap we fall into all the time? We’re like kids down by the river at midnight. Out past curfew. Snuck past our parents sleeping in easy chairs. Staying out under stars, making love till the morning dew comes.

I don’t know, she said. Looking at you, I want to believe. Believe in our love. But, then something happens.

It all falls apart, he said. You look at me a certain way. Say the wrong thing. I take off.

Don’t see you for days.

Some bender over in Ohio. Hanging out in bars. Looking for someone to replace you. But I can never find her. That woman doesn’t exist. She’s just a dream. You’re a dream.

Sure I’m not a nightmare? she asked. It’s hard to say goodbye. Hard to watch you walk out that door. But I do. I hear the truck start up. See you pulling out of the driveway. The headlights shine inside the front room. And, I just sit here waiting. The whole time. Just waiting on you to come back home. It’s not fair. What you do to me is not fair.

I was going to say the same thing, he said. He lit up a cigarette. Tossed the match in the over-filled ashtray. Butts spilling out onto the table. At times I love you so much, I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what to do. We are those kids down by the river at midnight. And then, we’re my mom and dad. Fighting all the time. You hit me. I punch a wall. Drywall is getting expensive, they both laughed.

You can say that again.

Maybe it’s best if I take off for a while. Not just two or three days, but longer. Go somewhere. Find out what I’m looking for.

You can’t keep running all the time , she told him. She poured herself a whiskey. Hands were shaking. You’ll be gone for two months. You’ll come back here and what? Same thing. No. You leave this time it’s for good, they looked at each other.

Yeah.

Yeah. Make your choice.

He kissed her on the forehead. Brushed back her long blonde hair. Walked out the door. She watched as the truck pulled out of the driveway. Headlights blinded her. She poured herself another drink.

Paths in the woods. Old deer tracks leading down to a stream. Peaceful. Perfect for a burial.

The moon shined down on the man carrying the body over his shoulder. Wrapped in a blanket made by Navojos. Different colors. Red, green, yellow, aqua, weaved into a square with tassles hanging from it. Blood seeped through. The mother at home. Crying in her sleep.

They talked earlier that morning over coffee. The body lying on the floor. A small naked corpse. No hair. Bald as an eagle.

What do you want me to do? he asked. We can’t call anybody. They wouldn’t understand, the mother nodded her head. She took another sip of coffee and a drag from a cigarette. He poured whiskey into his cup. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, he said. It was an accident. Could’ve happened to anybody, this time, she shook her head.

No, no, no, no, she cried. I meant to do it. All the crying at two in the morning. The constant care. I didn’t love him. I resented him, she said. Look at what he did to my body. I couldn’t take it anymore, she yelled. Just couldn’t.

Shhh, he said. He held her to his chest. Quiet down. Just quiet down. I’ll bury him tonight out in the woods. By the stream. Then, we’ll leave. Start some place new. No one has to know.

No one?

No one, he walked over to the dead child. Placed his hands on his heart. He did not cry. The young husband wrapped the baby in the blanket and said, I’ll be back in a little while. Just sit there. I’ll take care of everything.

On his walk out to the woods, he prayed to the dark sky. Said words out loud to the shining moon. Forgive us. For we know not what we do. A dog barked as he headed in between tall pines and oaks. A shovel in one hand. A son in the other. We know not what we do.

The cactus has gone limp. Leaves touch the ground. Brown. Turning brown. Maybe not enough water. Maybe too much. Soil is ash. White. Looks like death. The death of a plant.

It used to have pink blooms. Stood erect. Stems reached for the ceiling. Now. Now it looks like an old man in an easy chair. Sprawled out. A can of beer on the table next to his cigarettes. Smoke rises.

Eventually, he’ll be buried. So will the cactus. Out in the backyard with the others who didn’t make it. Roses, tulips, irises, purple lavender, all killed from neglect, selfishness. Or, maybe it was just their time.

Sirens. Cops fly by. Ambulances respond. Some cars pull off to the side. Bums on Broadway search for cigarettes on the ground, in the trash cans, pennies pop up.

Old motel signs with torn neon letters. BBQ and fried fish joints on every other block. A black kid stands barefoot on the sidewalk. Mom yells at the child. She goes back to talking on her cell phone. Her hair in curlers.

A line of vehicles parked outside the food pantry. People waiting to be fed. Plasma deals only go so far. White chicks with bruised legs on a hot day show their goods. Walking along Broadway looking for another ticket to punch. Another score to settle.

Liquor stores where transactions are made. SNAP cards turned into currency. Gun shots go off. And again, we hear sirens. Cops come out of nowhere. Ambulances carry the dead.

And at the Greyhound station, a few lost souls wait to land in another town by morning. Different city. Same deal. Night falls.

Hello.

Yes.

It’s Jimmy.

Do you know what time it is?

It’s ten.

Two here.

Did I wake you?

You always woke me. You’d call from all over. Jackson, Shreveport, Indio, Bangor, calling at all hours of the night. Where are you?

California.

Where at in California?

Oakland. I wanted to see a baseball game.

There’s baseball in Cleveland.

I know that. Just wanted to hit the road.

How’d you get there?

Took a Greyhound. Saw some real pretty country. Haven’t been out West much. Farthest I ever got was Colorado.

You didn’t call me at two in the morning to tell me about your travels. What do you want?

Liz. I’m in a jam. I’m out here with no money. I spent it all.

On what?

Bus. Food. A hotel a couple of nights. I think I got a twenty left. I’ll pay you back on the first.

What happens on the first? Some kind of miracle?

SSI comes.

Do you understand the meaning of divorce?

Yes.

That means we’re done. You call me in the middle of the night with this crazy story. You’ve always had crazy stories. Taking off at all hours. Weeks without hearing from you. Or, knowing anything about you. Like you were a spy or something. Are you on your meds?

No. I’m not. They were making me fat. Making me sweat. A real unpleasant man to be around. There are other details, but I won’t get into that. I just need five hundred. And, I’ll pay it back to you. Every dime.

I gotta talk to Mark about this.

Who is Mark?

My boyfriend. We tell each other everything. A real honest relationship.

Where’s he tonight?

Don’t worry about him. Worry about yourself. Let me see how he feels about it.

You need his permission?

I’m getting off the phone now.

Wait. I’m sorry. You were the only person I could call about this. I need help.

Do you need to check into a hospital?

I don’t know.

Think you do.

Maybe.

Sound manic. Like that time, you called me from Pittsburgh. Saying all kinds of things. Crazy talk.

Right.

You been drinking?

Maybe a little. Not much.

You were sober for a long time. Least, that’s what you told me. Made-up stories. Lies. You told some whoppers.

Liz. I’m sorry.

I gotta go. This is your number?

Yep.

I’ll call you in a few days.

Sure. Thanks.

Goodbye Jimmy.

Goodnight Liz.