dmseay

He knows a lot. Too much.

How so?

What’s that?

I said, how so?

I made these confessions to him. I told him.

You told him what?

Every detail. Didn’t leave a bit out.

The money?

Yes, the money. These crimes we committed. We stole from people. That’s what I told him.

Choices. Right? We all make choices. Once we make these choices, we can’t look back. Good or bad. We can’t look back, he lit a cigarette and took a shot of whiskey.  Does anybody else know? Did you confess to anybody else? Ha. The fuck? Well, I hope you did the right thing.

What’s that?

Stuck a gun down his throat and told him to be quiet.

I didn’t do that. 

Why not?

I just let it go. Maybe I want to be caught. Maybe I want to pay for my sins. 

You told him about me? 

I didn’t say your name.

What did you say?

I said we held up gas stations and liquor stores. That’s what I told him, he looked away at the television in the corner. The Guardians were up 3-2. Guardians. They’ll always be the Indians to me, he took a sip of beer. He said son, you have to pay for these sins. Told me to turn myself in.

I can’t let you do that, he pulled his jacket back and revealed his gun. We’re going to walk out of here slowly. And get in my car.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

Are you going to kill me?

We’re going to take a drive. A long drive. And by the time we get there, I’ll have made my decision. 

Your choice?

Yes. My choice.

Not sure. You can never be too sure of these things. One day, you think it’s there, and then the next day, it’s not, he told him. Some kind of belief in something. I don’t know, a god, some messiah, a holy man, maybe a shaman. And as you get older, you doubt these things. You doubt their existence.

Look at Judas. He lost faith.

No, he didn’t. He had faith the whole time. He knew what he was doing and who he was doing it to. And he knew he had to do it. 

How so? Wasn’t it just greed and anger? 

Look at the bigger picture. If he wouldn’t have done that, there would have been no sacrifice. 

Pilate would have caught him eventually.

No. That wasn’t God’s plan. It had to go down the way it went down. That’s what God wanted.

And, now you doubt him.

I do. It’s a schizophrenic relationship. My beliefs keep shifting, he lit a cigarette. The constant state of confusion. 

Yeah. 

Yeah. 

It is loud. His voice is coming through walls. Through vents on the floor. Loud talking. Stern warnings. She cries.

Cars down below on Broadway. Police sirens sound. A million tourists shuffle their feet. Talking. Yelling. Drunken behavior. Young men throw up in gutters as girlfriends turn away. They cover their mouths. Lips will not be kissed.

I open my window. High above it all. Ashtray is overflowing. Stale smoke hovers mid-air. And this kid is yelling again at his girlfriend, maybe a wife, perhaps some whore. Her tears continue.

Get out, he says. Leave. Pack your bags. This was a bad idea, he tells her. When will you learn, baby? When?

The door down the hall opens and is slammed. She stands there in the hall with the dangling light fluttering off and on.

Christmas came early this year.

Daylight has moved on. Sun is sleeping over a flat Earth. Darkness has taken over.

She goes down to the river where stars cast their light. Glowing on water as catfish jump and frogs croak. 

Remembering times when night meant swimming naked. Bearing bodies and souls to no one; a secret. 

They were in love. Said they were. Kids make up stories, tell tales, passions true, promises made.

Lives change. The sun does rise.  New days begin. And past loves are dreamt about. Never going away. Never fleeing. Forever swimming in a river at nighttime.

Yes. There were times I felt like walking out. Quitting. He’d say something, then I’d say something. We’d fight over small things. Which led to bigger disagreements.

I remember, the daughter said, looking in the mirror. I remember all the nights, Daddy walked out. And you didn’t follow him. He just got in the car and was gone, she lit a cigarette. 

Don’t ash on your dress, Momma told her. Be careful.  Shouldn’t smoke anyway, she grabbed the cigarette from her daughter’s lips and crushed it on the pine floor.

Do you wish you married a different man? Someone who took better care of us?

Sometimes. But then I never would’ve had you.

Strange how that works.

It is. You love this man? This boy you’re about to walk down the aisle with?

I guess so. Seems like the best thing to do.

How so?

What’s that?

I said, how so?

He’s got a good job. I think he loves me.

Do you love him?

I’ll learn to, the bride said. You taught me that.

Yeah, but I never did. Thought I could. Never did.

You never loved Dad?

The mother shook her head. I’m afraid not. Couldn’t wait for him to die.

Why didn’t you just get a divorce?

Christians don’t do that. We just stay miserable. 

These rare instances, he said. Moments in time we’ll never get back. Think you got something, and then the door is shut. Any chance there was is now gone. It’s a brief opportunity, he lit a cigarette. And for what? To see beyond? The gathering of information? Seeking out love? Ask yourself.  Do these things matter?

Hey chief. Ready for another? the bartender asked. He nodded yes. Downed what was left in his glass, a short scotch. A snifter was placed before him.

And I don’t say these things lightly, he whispered. There’s always a reason. We’re forever looking at the broader scope, crushed out his Marlboro.  We take what is there, and we narrow it down. And what is there? A gift? Punishment for sins we committed long ago? Greetings from God? We wait for his word. Whether we believe or not, we’re always wanting a sign that everything will be alright. Sun in the sky. Birds chirping.  A white Christmas.  We want to be told it’s all OK, the bartender looked down the bar at him. Sitting there. Talking to himself. Vanna turned another letter. The puzzle was solved.

I don’t recall, he said. Funny. Used to remember such things; birthdays, always sent out Christmas cards, knew addresses off the top of my head, he told the doctor. Now, I don’t know.

Can you tell me who the president is?

The current one?

Yes.

He hesitated. Looked at the tile floor. The doctor sat patiently, waiting for an answer. There were pictures on the office wall. A wife, kids, diploma from Indiana University, a medical license. The old man looked up at the pictures and accomplishments. He nodded his head and laughed.

I can’t.

What?

Couldn’t tell you who the president is. Besides, I stopped voting a long time ago.

Who was the last person you voted for?

The old man looked back at the tile. He felt the pictures on the wall looking at him. He felt embarrassed, naked of knowledge.

I couldn’t tell you that either, he said. I just don’t know.

Do you remember your wife?

I was married?

Yes. You have five children.  One of them drove you here.

Who did?

Your son. One of your sons. I believe his name is Michael. 

That so?

Yes.

Did I tell you about the time I flew to Mars?

No.

It was amazing. Truly something. 

Sure. I’ll bet.

Now that’s the sort of thing a fellow remembers, he smiled.

Yes. Yes, he would. What was Mars like?

Hot and dusty during daylight. Cold at night. Like the desert. Just red clay everywhere. I was sent there on a special mission. Very hush hush. Now that I’m dying, I don’t care anymore. I’m telling everybody.  Funny thing. No one believes me. Do you believe me?

Sure.

Why?

Why not?

In blue spray paint, words were written on the west wall of the old house. Simple sentences expressing thoughts. A fire in the fireplace roared.

These statements, some questions,  glowed in the dark. Shadows were cast on them. A boy made animals with his fingers, jumping over words and exclamation points while his father whittled wood with a long knife. A kettle of hot water whistled.

Want some tea? the father asked. I got cinnamon, chai, orange blossom, and mint. The boy shook his head and continued casting shadows. Alright then, he said. Don’t get sick on me. I’m gonna have this chai, he tore open the small packet and read out loud, From the far away land of India, he said, comes a delicious tea that will warm your soul. The old man placed the bag in the Styrofoam cup and waited as if meditating. He hummed an old song from his youth; Main Street by Bob Seger. The boy came over and curled up in his arms. Everything will be fine in a few days, the father said. We got each other, he held the boy tighter.

The fire crackled as alarms throughout the city sounded. The son covered his ears. Planes flew over. Soldiers shot guns in the streets. Women cried. Men yelled.

I wish I could make it all go away, dad said. Just stop, he whispered. The boy began casting shadows on the wall again. What are those? he asked the boy.

Sheep, he said. Sheep in green meadows. Peaceful. Peaceful.

Yes. Peaceful. 

You’re not listening. This is not some game. Not a trick. It’s staring you in the face, he said. Looking down your soul to the very pit. That’s what life does, boy. Takes you for a ride. A wild trip. Trip? Is that what your generation says? Trip? the boy nodded and smiled, began to laugh. Look at this mess, the father said. Some kind of metaphor. Messy room,untidy bath, your toilet is unclean. Stains in it from God knows when. And you come home at all hours. Leaving beer cans in the front room for your mom to pick up; always picking up after you. TV dinner trays. KFC boxes with chicken bones in them. And no job. Where do you get money from? the kid looked at him, then looked down at the dirty carpet. He began laughing hysterically. The father took off his black leather belt with a silver buckle on it. The old man swung it in the air wildly while the son just sat there with no fear. Laughing the whole time. Taking the remote and turning on the television. Old reruns of Good Times were on. He flipped the station. The strap came towards him. The boy caught it in mid-air. The two looked at each other as the kid pulled the belt away. The old man sat in the torn recliner. They just sat there in silence, the young man snapping the belt in front of the father. His hands in the air. The belt made a popping sound as leather hit leather.

Next time, get a gun, the son said. This, he began hitting the floor with the object, doesn’t quite cut it, he smiled. You have to mean what you say, old man. Gotta have a purpose. You want to kill me? Do it right. Shoot me through the heart. But, you got to get in close, he said. You’re not that good a shot, he held the folded belt across his chest. The old man didn’t make a move. Both of them in the dark with the light from the TV glowing and the National Anthem playing in the background. They stood up and placed their hands on their chests; kind of a truce. A cease fire. The song ended, and the television was turned off by the kid. Goodnight, dad.

Goodnight.

There’s always a twist. Information left out. On purpose? Maybe, he said. Most likely. We’re scared of truth. Facts. Especially when they harm us. Many times, people say they have something on us, but they don’t. It’s made up. Make us look like fools. Right? his friend nodded. This is the case. Money. It’s always about money and sex. The two things people crave, driven by, desperately want. And people lie to get these two things. Capiche?

What about morals?

Morals? Those were thrown out the window a long time ago. Morals? Values? Doesn’t exist. Never did. Where do you live? Another planet? Some other place?

Just saying.

What? What are you saying?

There has to be a code of which we live by.

And there is. That code is screw you before you screw me. Competition does that. It doesn’t bring out the best in people. That’s an old twist in the story of America. Of commerce.

Treat people right. The way you want to be treated.

That’s a good one.