dmseay

I have not seen you lately.

You left years ago.

Time and clouds change.

Rain falls, and I think of you.

Seasons come and go.

Barren trees and brown grass.

You always preferred gold and green.

Life was never simple.

They looked at each other. Hadn’t seen one another for a long time. Just kind of stared.

He didn’t know what to say. She was tongue-tied. Didn’t even embrace.

Others danced to karaoke songs belted out by drunken fools. Some talked about old times. One guy had become a lawyer. The class valedictorian grew up to be a housewife; living on some ranch in Wyoming with her husband and three kids. The quarterback was killed in a car crash. They said he had a drinking problem. A picture of him, along with the other deceased, stood upright on a folding table. Classmates looked on, wondering when their time would come.

And these two kept staring at each other till he finally said, Hello. It’s been a long time.

Yes, she said. It’s been a long time.

Hoping it turns cool soon. Wanting to see colors of gold, rust, yellow. Burnt offerings in backyards.

A first frost. Shining grass. Writing names in hearts on car windows. Taking in Indian summer. Marching bands. Days getting shorter. Apple cider doughnuts. Kids picking pumpkins.

Sitting on hay. Drinking a stout. Starlit nights and you. Long walks. Blowing out smoke. Oh, how I long for autumn.

This is old. This bread is old. And stale. The flavor is gone, he said. Look. Other pieces are turning green. Mold, he tore off bits and examined them. Some kind of wheat bread. When I was a kid, my parents only bought white, he told him. We had bologna sandwiches on Bunny White Bread. Package had a rabbit on it. Some kind of deranged Bugs Bunny type character. Had a big smile on his face. We ate everything but the heels. We fed those to the birds. These black crows and orioles would fly into the backyard and eat the bread. Some would take off with pieces in their mouths. Their beaks holding onto small bits of bread, he lit a cigarette.

We could make toast, the other man said. Pick out the ones that aren’t green yet. Put butter on it. Bring it back to life, he laughed.

Nah. It’ll make you sick, he said. Just throw it away.

My mom used to tear around the mold, then serve it. That’s how poor we were; nothing wasted.

I guess I come from a different class. We threw that stuff out. The birds loved it. Why not share?

All I’m saying is maybe this is all we got, and we can’t get anymore. Not now. Not till payday, he looked in the refrigerator. Moved items around. Old jars of grape and strawberry jellies. Quarter stick of butter. A can of Spam. We got things to put on the bread, he said.

Check the dates.

He looked underneath and on the sides. There’s no dates. But, Spam and jelly last forever.

Are you out of your mind? Nothing lasts forever. Everything expires. Bread expires. Jelly expires. Butter, Spam, us, it all comes to an end. It dies. Keep that in mind.

The other man took a bite out of the old wheat bread. He swallowed it. Smiled. Tore off some more and placed grape jelly on it. Ate that. The Spam stood there in the refrigerator’s door. He opened the can and plopped the whole mass on a paper plate. Smeared it on a slice of bread. Looked at his friend and continued eating. Washed it all down with water from the faucet that he cupped in his hands. Smiled. Laughed.

I hope you’re happy.

Bank statements. Two coffee mugs. Three candles have yet to be burned. Sunlight comes through shades. Dust on the desk is getting whiter. An extension cord runs from the socket to the lamp. Nothing has changed in twenty-five years. Only the rent.

Every day, he sits at his desk in front of a typewriter. Papers are stacked on the side. Unopened packages of medicine in his drawers; maybe he’ll open them one day. Maybe not. He likes being in bad health. Prays for it to all be over with. He has faith in death.

And on the door hangs a rosary with a silver cross on it. Wooden beads that used to run through his fingers as he prayed to Mary. A thousand year old prayer to the savior’s mother. It just hangs there.

The old man looks at it every once in a while. Thinks of his youth. Thoughts of grace run through his head. The walls are blank.

This is not what he wanted for his life. The fat man had different ideas. He never followed logic. Nor was there a path of discipline. He just roamed from one day to the next, writing poems, reading novels, listening to Coltrane. Always hearing garbage trucks outside. Men in Mexican voices speaking to one another. He stared at the white page.

The old man would write and write till he could write no more, then read just a bit, enough to know it was no good. Black letters thrown away. Words tossed aside.

In his sleep, he dreamt of past loves. Women in and out of his life. He would wake and try to write about those dreams about those women. Again, he’d write till the wee morning hours. Again, the sun came through blinds. He looked at the rosary and threw the pages away. Prayed that just one sentence would satisfy him. But they were just words. Just words, unlike Coltrane’s notes ,which were more than just notes. To be that good, he thought. To be that good. I wonder if he ever threw anything away.

It’s not up to you, he said. You don’t make these decisions. I think you’d be far better off if you would just keep your mouth shut, he told him. He lit a cigarette and fooled around with the lock some more.

Who put you in charge? Jr. asked him. What makes you the boss?

I’m the one with the gun, he told him. In case something goes wrong, I’m the one with the gun.

What could go wrong? Jr. asked.

Lots of things. Just point the flashlight.

It’s cold out here, the kid said. Too cold.

Quit your bitching. I can’t see. Put the light right in there. Point it. Do it. Not much time.

Some locksmith you are, Jr. said. This should’ve been done a half hour ago. That’s stretching it. We’re going to get caught. I’m out of here, he told him.

A gun was pointed at Jr. You’re not going anywhere, he said. You move one step, and I’ll kill you. Dead on the spot. Now shut up and point the flashlight.

The door opened. No alarm sounded. No lights came on. In the dark, a gunshot went off. Jr. fell to the floor. Blood ran from his head.The money was collected from the safe. Walking out in the dark, he tip-toed around Jr. He shook his head. Whispered, I told you to shut up.

It’s dark in here.

Yeah

I can’t see.

Nope.

Could you help?

How?

A flashlight. Candles. Something.

I haven’t got any.

Nothing?

I do not.

What time is it?

Not sure. Maybe midnight. Maybe four in the morning. Put your hand to your face. Do you see it?

No. It’s too dark. I’m scared. Like when I was a child, and mom turned out the lights at bedtime. Or underneath covers at night. Trapped in a closet. I always wondered what was under the bed. Some kind of monster. A spirit. Ghosts.

Soon, there will be light. Keep believing that. Light is on the way.

Right.

The darkness will be gone. You’ll be able to see.

I hope so.

Hope is all we have.

It’s dark in here.

A candle smelling like a Mr. Goodbar burns in the window. Another one with the fragrance of Tennessee pines holds a flame as well. This reminds him of his childhood in the South. Cool autumn mornings walking through the woods. Deer and squirrels crossed his path. Candy wrappers mixed in with fallen brown needles. A stream flowed in the distance.

It was in the forest where he questioned God. A superior being creating all of mankind; the good and the bad. Those that would help and those that would hinder. People who caused wars and folks who fought against injustice. These thoughts would be left behind in being a man. Mortgages , life insurance, car payments, medical bills, student loans would take over his train of thought. He left philosophy behind years ago. The questioning of God. The purpose of man.

These wicks burned as he sat there in his home. An old man now. His life spent on a marriage, kids, family. He has regrets.

Why didn’t he go to Tibet? Travel to India? Take a journey? And then he thought, Maybe I did. Perhaps my time amongst nature was my spiritual trip.

It’s funny how we always return to childhood. Candles burning. Alone and at peace with ourselves. The constant questioning of God. And then the acceptance of a greater power. That is when the journey begins.

He got home at five in the morning. Birds chirped, dark sky broke. She put on a pot of coffee. Grass wet from dew.

She asked him where he’d been all night? Said she waited up for him. He told her he was thinking. Smelled like a distillery. Thinking and drinking, she said. Thinking and drinking.

A metal chair was pulled out from under the table. He took a seat. His wife placed a cup in front of him and poured out a jet-black liquid. A couple of scoops of sugar were added. The young man lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. The heels of his boots dug into the linoleum. He tried to talk but wasn’t making any sense. Said he loved her. And, he didn’t know why he did the things he done. She reached for his hand.

You wanna talk about it? she asked. I can handle anything.

I don’t know, he told her. That’s asking a lot.

For me or for you, she smiled. He let go of her hand. Took in a cloud of smoke. Blew rings out into the air. They traveled to the ceiling and then disappeared. Look at me, she grabbed his hand again. Where have you been?

Can’t tell you. Tell you then you’re involved. You don’t want that, he stood up, wobbling, took a sip of coffee. I’m going to miss that, he pointed at the cup. They give you brown water where I’m heading, she looked at him.

Where’s that?

Huh?

I said, where’s that? they both smiled.

I gotta get going.

Stay here and sleep it off, she said.

They’ll be here soon.

There was a knock on the door.

There was a weather emergency for Jasper County. High winds, hail, rain, and possible tornadoes were expected throughout the night. Thunder boomed from the west.

Nobody knew what he was thinking. Neighbors looked on as the old man carried a lawn chair out to his front yard along with a six pack of Old Style; talking to himself. Speaking in tongues. Telling God to come get him. Said he was ready.

Rain came in at an angle. Hard. Slapping the old man in the face. Hail fell as well. Made a noise as it hit the aluminum cans. His gray eyes squinted. Looked up at the sky. Shook his fist at the devil. The winds picked up.

In the south, a funnel cloud formed. Sounded like war. It came up behind him. The old man did not flinch. He rode the wind; yelling and singing, Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Lord, take me home. And, the Lord did.

The old man was born in Jasper County. And, he died there. His body was found on up the road amongst bricks and shingles. It laid there. Still. Life had left it years ago.

He was buried with the paupers of Jasper County. No tombstone. No marker saying Rest In Peace. His body returned to the earth. His soul far, far away.