dmseay

What’s left? he asked. Is there nothing? We didn’t come all this way for nothing, hands on his hips. That dry air. You can smell it. There’s got to be something. You just can’t do that to people. It’s not right, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. What do you think? she shook her head. Don’t you have any thoughts? We should’ve read the fine print, he lit up. Should’ve known it was too good to be true.

The two got in the pickup and drove around town. Passed the gas station that sold live bait. Drove on Main Street and went by taverns and diners. A couple of five and dime stores. No motels. It was getting dark. He parked the Ford on a side street and rolled down the windows so the cool night air could come through. They looked at each other and laughed.

We can always go back, she said. There’s no rule in admitting a mistake was made, she placed her hand on his face.

I wanted things to be different, he told her. Wanted to see America. The real America. You know. White fences. Trimmed shrubs. Hair cuts for ten dollars. Instead, we’re right back where we started from. Dusty streets. Graffiti on buildings. Parking lots. All towns are the same. There’s no difference between St. Louis and Gary. Both have been beaten down. This whole country has been beaten down, she ran her hand through his black hair.

On the corner, men were congregating with bottles of whiskey. A fire was set in a barrel. The smell of burning newspaper came through their vents. The men cursed and laughed. Pushed each other. Swinging wildly. Not a single punch landed. Just old men hitting air.

Let’s get out of here, he said.

Where we going?

Some other place. Wherever the road leads us.

The broom had not been used in years. Grease and dried up food stains decorated the stove. Beer cans all over the trailer. A dog outside on a chain.

He sat in his broken, easy chair talking to himself. Speaking out loud. Making predictions and prognosis. The old man knew he didn’t have long.

Beside him on the end table, a newspaper folded up, dated July 4th, 1986. There was a parade that day in town. Bands marched, a fire truck rolled down the street, cop cars turned on sirens. He was at that parade with his wife and son. They watched it all go by, sitting in folding chairs. Their picture was on the front page. Holding American flags. Wearing red, white, and blue tee-shirts with an eagle on them. He often looked at that picture.

You always wanted more, the old man said. Always unsatisfied. I could never do enough, he opened a warm beer beside him. You told me once I was lazy, speaking to the air. That’s not the way it was, he shouted. I paid the bills. Eventually. So what if we were behind. Everybody’s behind, he slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. You wanna divorce? I’ll give you a divorce, he said. As soon as I finish this beer, he swigged it down. Then, realized he was alone.

A lava lamp sits on a coffee table. He sits, watching the colors move around, floating. The young man rolls another hand-made cigarette and pops open an Old Style. He hums Proud Mary while watching old TV clips of Creedence Clearwater Revival. The sound is low on the television. His father is asleep down the hall. Dishes are piled up in the sink. A mouse runs across linoleum tile. It’s two in the morning.

You still up boy? the old man asks as he stumbles to the living room. There is no response. The kid just keeps humming along to music on the TV. I said, are you still up? the old man looks in the refrigerator and grabs a piece of bologna. He opens kitchen cabinets. We got any crackers? Saltines? Boy pays no attention. Hey, the old man raises his voice. I’m talking to you. The son continues looking at the lava lamp. You know. You can get lost in that thing, the old man says, pointing at the colored water. Might not come back for days. Ain’t you got work tomorrow? The kid looks at him. Shakes his head. The music is now Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones. They both look at the television and then turn away.

Outside, a gun is fired. Shots ring out into the night. This sound is ignored. They’re used to it. Same crazy neighbors every night. Shooting guns and revving up trucks. Men are talking. They’re speaking about a revolution. A takeover of America. Make this country what it used to be. A Confederate flag waves under a floodlight.

You hungry? the old man asks. Kid continues looking at the yellow and red blobs floating. I said, are you hungry? he continues looking through cabinets. Wheat Thins? Who bought Wheat Thins? It’ll have to do, he says. It’ll have to do.

The gun shots have stopped. It is silent except for the humming of the son. The old man tears bologna in two and folds it on the cracker. The two men sit there. An alarm goes off down the hall. They both just sit and pay it no attention. The Fifth Dimension is singing on the television. The Age Of Aquarius is being sung. The trucks next door get louder. They spin their tires and take off. The lava lamp turns green.

A bird digs into the ground for worms. Cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers mixed with mulch. An old man pisses behind a bush. The bird has caught his breakfast.

Cars drive by. Broken down Fords and Chevys. A rusted truck goes down the street. It says TUNDRA on the tail gate. The traffic light is red. A man on a scooter goes through it anyway.

People pass time by walking in circles. Talking to themselves. Men look for food in trash cans. A woman whistles the National Anthem.

Western skies are grey. She looks up at them, peaking from under a bridge. Sun hides behind clouds. It’s just come up. Moon glowed throughout the night. The woman slept with an empty bottle of malt liquor beside her. Stars kept her company. Used to be a man who kept her warm. Now it was a bedroll she bought at the Goodwill; a book bag for a pillow.

She dreamt of horses in her sleep. Wild mustangs, quarter hosres, ponies. They were all brown with no saddles. No riders. Just running on the sands of a beach in California. Some place she’d never been, but was bound to get to. She wanted to see Big Sur. Read about it in books by Kerouac. Knew it was the home of Henry Miller. Steinbeck danced there, too. She kept these writers, men in her bag. They were the only men she had faith in. She wanted to see their homes. Walk where they walked. Drink where they drank. Everybody has a dream, she said. This is mine.

But, for now, she slept under a highway in Iowa. She had a compass telling her to go west. A map of America showed her which way to go. Like all of us, she tried to follow it.

Her bones hurt. Muscles ached from walking. She was hungry. Stole cans of sardines and jars of peanut butter. Thought about when she was a little girl and her mom made chicken fried steak for Sunday dinners. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans with bacon mixed in. And now she had sardines with mustard sauce. The price we pay, she said to herself as she opened the a tin can. The price we pay.

The young woman promised herself that when she got to California, she’d settle down. Get a job. Live a normal life, she thought. But, for now, she was free. And, like Janis sang, Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

Ain’t it funny? Following a dream. There are worst things we could do. I suppose.

He’s cutting the grass. This kid on a riding lawnmower is mowing down weeds. Tall weeds. Weeds that have grown since the start of spring. We’re now going into summer.

A man is using a weedeater across the street. He, too, is whacking down the tall blades. He has a cigarette in his mouth. Tattoos are on his arms. They look like prison art. R.I.P. Jose is written in green. His clothes are dirty. His face is dirty. He wears sunglasses to protect his eyes from the flying debris. Shreds of candy wrappers and beer cans lay in the yard.

An older man talks on his cellphone, telling headquarters the job is almost done. Asking, where do they go to next?

The kid is done mowing. He pulls out a gas- powered blower and sweeps the sidewalks of all the trash, grass, and weeds. He’s found a dead bird in the rubble. A bluebird that flew around here at the beginning of spring. He flew with others around the neighborhood, the city. Looking down on all of us. How did he get caught in the muck and the mire.

This job is complete now. The man with the tattoo loads up equipment on the back of a pickup truck pulling a flatbed. Noise from the mower, blower, and weedeater have stopped. He lights up another cigarette. Fountain drinks in styrofoam cups are lined up on the tail of the truck. All of them chew on ice and spit it out into the street.

Spring has almost ended. Summer is near. I’m waiting for the fall of leaves.

There’s a problem, he said. A disconnect, lit up a cigarette. You don’t see things the way I see them. We don’t communicate, he poured a cup of coffee and offered her a cup. She shook her head, no. You always like a morning cup, he said. There I go again. Trying to second guess you. I never know what’s on your mind. Never know what you’re thinking. You think this is it? he asked.

I don’t know. It’s always something, isn’t it. We have this way of going for weeks without a word between us. Just roommates splitting the rent, she said. Sharing utilities. We don’t even sleep in the same bed. We just exist, she said.

You want to end this? Have it done; finished. She nodded her head.

Neither cried. They did not reach out to one another. He just started packing; not knowing where he was going. The middle-aged man put books in boxes. Kerouac, Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Mailer, Miller, Bukowski, Fante, Melville, Camus, all packed neatly in cardboard. All those masculine writers. She always said he didn’t understand women.

Confederate flag waves in the North. Fat man on a riding mower cuts grass. He leaves long dead blades behind. Soon, they’ll yellow and turn to straw.

He wears a red MAGA hat with white sweat marks on it. His tee-shirt rides over his hairy belly. It states, FREEDOM FIRST. Dark clouds roll in.

A banner on his fence says, Jesus Is My Lord…Trump Is My President. Pickups drive by and honk. Wave as they pass.

The fat man drinks a beer on his front porch and looks over his work. He’s proud of his accomplishment. Soon it will rain.

Yard sales. Throughout the neighborhood, people selling old memories. Books never read, old copper pots from grandma, a bicycle missing a seat. Everything must go.

An old lady sits in the garage with the door up. She yells out, Everything on that table is five dollars. A deck of cards with pinups on them. A rosary made out of wood. Couple of leather bound Bibles. Patsy Cline and Charley Pride records. Husbands and wives look cautiously through the goods.

Cars go by slowly. A suburban drive on a Saturday afternoon. From one end to the other, yards covered in folding tables and cardboard signs. Cigar boxes holding cash. It’s all somebody else’s junk, a man says under his breath. Empty picture frames which once housed loved ones. A vase with plastic flowers in it.

How much would you sell a memory for?

He went looking for her past midnight down dark roads; stretches of highways. No lights, just signs that glowed in the dark. Signs saying, Gary 58 miles and Valparaiso, 37. He looked east and west, north and south. There was no sign of her. She had slipped away from him. Left out the back door. No note or letter. The coffee pot was still warm.

She was never happy. She married out of need. A young woman with ginger hair and emerald eyes. She used to seduce truck drivers out where Highway 10 meets 65. Pouring coffee and taking orders all night long. Going home with strangers. The old man was one of them. He fell in love. She quit her job and drove around the country with him. Making love in the back of a semi. He never had it so good.

Wasn’t too long before their newborn arrived. Red hair like her mom’s. Tiny fingers that used to pull on the old man’s beard. He laughed. But, something told him she wouldn’t be around too long. He knew she was unhappy. Being left at home to tend to a child while he saw mountains and rivers, big cities, and the Great Lakes. She was jealous. Mad with jealousy. And, there was nothing he could do about it. It was just a matter of time.

Driving down those highways with the baby strapped into the passenger seat, checking truck stops along the way, he never found her. She was gone for good. She wanted to see America.