dmseay

Death. I, we, sell death. A plot. Some hole in the ground. The final resting place. That’s what we do, he said to his co-worker. People come to us in their deepest time of need. A loved one has died. Heart attack, stroke, murdered on Austin Avenue. Something, he took a drink from his rocks glass. You can tell by the look on their faces if they loved the person or not. You get a real sense of how the relationship was. The worst is dealing with the parents. Some kid dies of cancer. A teenager killed in a car wreck, the salesman stirred his ice. And what do we do? We offer tissues. And a contract. Some financial agreement. You think that gives them solace? It does not give them solace.

For solace, they should go to a priest, the partner said. That’s not our job. I mean. I can only give so much, the other man nodded.

Right. You want comfort? Hire a hooker. Don’t come see me for that. Come to me to bury your dead. I’ll laugh with you. Cry. But, I will not comfort you. I will not get myself attached, they clinked their glasses together.

They looked up at the TV. The Cubs were losing again. An old man at the corner of the bar lit a cigarette. Coughed a little. Clapped his wrinkled hands. Let’s go, Cubbies, he yelled. Let’s go.

Probably be seeing him next week, the salseman said. Carry him out of here on a stretcher, the old man yelled at the TV again. Son of a bitch. He can’t die soon enough.

I’m on a bus heading east on 30. It is quiet. No noise. People are asleep or sitting in silence staring at their phones. Ninety-eight miles to go.

Semis pass by us. Minivans and SUVs heading out in search of America race each other; who’ll get to Florida first? Who knows where they’re heading.

They are families of four traveling over Midwestern landscape; bare corn fields, stalks chopped down, green grass in the median, blank trees staring at them. A kid on the side of the road throwing up. Mom pats his back.

Rusted railroad tracks run parallel to the highway. I wonder if Kerouac ever rode them. Wonder if he missed his home. Missed his brother, who died for his sins.

The sign says 81 miles to Fort Wayne. I miss my kid brother. Soon, I will see him alone in a room at the nursing home. I’ll bring him a chocolate bunny. Mom used to give us those when we were kids. Hopefully, he’ll smile when he bites its head off. A decapitated chocolate rabbit. It’ll be good to see him.

Soon, it will be dark.

Is there a heaven? he asked. I mean, when we die, do we go some place better? lit a cigarette. Cause I gotta tell you, after all this, you deserve something better. Don’t you?

Main Street was playing on the jukebox. The two men sat at the bar watching a baseball game. The older one did most of the listening; threw out a few words here and there. But, the young man kept talking, ordering shots of Hot Damn, and clapping when the Sox got a hit.

What I’m saying is, for all we have to endure here on earth, you’d think death, the after-life, would be comforting, he said to the old man. It should be a reward. A prize for getting through it all without killing someone, he took a drink from his Old Style can.

Well. I see that. And punishment if you violated the ten commandments, he laughed.

No. Not at all, the kid said. There is no hell.

Has to be. We’re born with this fear of it. This fear that if we don’t do good, then we go to hell. We burn forever with other sinners.

We’re not born with that. We’re taught that. In Sunday school. In church. On television. In books, the song Wichita Lineman came on. And, all I’m saying is maybe God wants all of us to be in one place. A paradise. A return to paradise. Where Adam and Eve started. With beautiful sunny days and lush fields to sit in and contemplate on life. A place where there’s only love.

You just made that story up. There ain’t no place like that.

Top of the sixth. Sox lead the Indians 3-2.

The trailer on lot 37 sat vacant for years. Trash began to build up around it. Dogs and cats roamed in the yard. Sometimes at night, you’d see an opossum scurrying around; eyes glowing in the darkness.

There was a married couple living in it for a while. Had two kids, a boy and a girl. High school age. Loud cars without mufflers would drive by every night. Playing heavy metal music; doors slamming, no regard for neighbors.

He used to sit outside with a shotgun in his hands. Every day, the dad would go between the two trailers and shoot beer cans lined up on a piece of wood. He was a terrible shot. Missed most of the time. Everybody knew to stay out of his way.

Never saw the wife much. Heard she had a job at the potato chip factory. She was gone for a good part of the day. Drove a truck. An old Ford. It was falling apart.

At night, you could hear them arguing. He threatened to kill her. She threatened to leave him. Something had to give.

And, one evening, there was no truck in the driveway. It got later and later, but no truck. He was cursing up a storm. Heard a gun shot go off. Just one. Then there was silence. A real eerie quiet.

They carried his body out on a stretcher. Don’t know what happened to the kids. Some say they lived with her mom out on Pine Road. Heard the daughter never finished high school; worked as a waitress at a bar out by the truck stop.

That trailer sits empty. Nobody wants any part of it. Heard they might tear it down.

I didn’t start this, he said. You’re looking for someone to blame. Look in the mirror, he told her. You’ll find the perpetrator, he poured a cup of coffee. Things got quiet. The television was on. Some guy in a suit talking real low; sound was down.

They’re always trying to sell you something, she said. This one here. Trying to sell reverse mortgages. They force things down your throat, she lit a cigarette. You’re telling me I’m paranoid. Saying I’m starting something with you. What? Out of spite? I just want things done right, the wife told him. Things done right. She pulled the blinds back. Saw the reflection of the TV in the window. A woman wearing a dress. A real pretty woman holding a frying pan. See, she took a drag, they’re always trying to sell you something.

What’s that got to do with anything? he asked. You’re crazy one minute then talking philosophy the next. You just like to hear yourself talk, he said. Crazy. Plumb crazy, he took another drink of coffee.

There’s a light on down the street, she pointed. They’re moving things into that van. In the middle of the night. How peculiar, she kept looking out the window.

Somebody can’t pay rent this month. Got behind on bills.

I remember when we slept in a van, she said. Both of us in the back under parking lot lights at Walmart. Using their bathrooms in the middle of the night. Got cold. Damn cold.

And this is the thanks I get, he looked at her. Put a roof over your head. A bathroom down the hall. Buy you things. And I come home to accusations. Crazy talk.

Things got quiet. There was a man on the TV trying to sell a used car.

There’s nothing out there, he said. Just darkness. Not even a star out. Pitch black, the old man lit a cigarette, threw the match out the window and watched the wind sweep it out. A semi passed them.

How fast you going? his grandson asked.

Speedometer says seventy. I think it’s broken.

Everything on this truck is broken.

When we get there we’ll save up and get another one, the old man looked at the boy.

Where are we going?

California.

Never been there before.

Neither have I.

The boy rolled down his window and stuck his head out in the cool breeze. Corn. The smell of corn mixed with manure got into his nose. He liked it.

Mom and dad never took me on trips like this, he said. We stayed in Decatur pretty much.

This ain’t no trip, the grandfather said. This is a destination. We’re going to stay there.

Where?

In California.

Where in California?

We’ll find a place.

The old man kept driving throughout the night until the sun came up over the mountains in Colorado. The boy was fast asleep. Morning light made towns glow. Streetlights faded out. A police car followed for a little bit, then passed him. He stopped at a flashing red light. Smelled donuts and coffee in the air. Or, was it his imagination.

I’m hungry, the boy said as he woke up. Where are we?

Colorado.

Home of the Rockies.

Yeah.

Two squad cars pulled up behind him. They turned their lights and sirens on. The old man pulled over to the side. Guns were drawn, and the officers told the old man to step out of the vehicle.

It’s been nice knowing you, he said to his grandson.

Do I have to go back to mom and dad’s? the old man nodded his head.

Yep. I imagine so.

They did a fist pump, and the old man got out of his truck. The boy waved as he was placed in the back of the cop car. They just kept looking at each other.

Once you’re dead, that’s it, he said. They stick you in a box, or they place you in a jar, but that’s it; you’re gone, the old man told his son. The two of them sat there looking at each other. The boy got up and got two more beers from the refrigerator. Walked back and sat in the middle of a sagging couch. The boy and the old man looked out the window at the trailer next door and saw strange men coming and going every hour on the hour. Broad daylight. She’d answer the door wearing a slip. Invited them in. The two of them just laughed at this.

Yeah. Once you’re gone, where do you go to? the son asked. I mean, are you saying we just stay put in the ground? Or, burned to ashes? I’m not quite sure I like the way that sounds, he said.

It was getting close to evening time. Five cars had pulled up into her driveway throughout the day. All kinds of cars. Fords, Chevys, a BMW, a RAM truck. They saw her turn out the light in her trailer. I guess she had a long day, the boy said. The old man nodded his head, yes.

Will where else would you go? the old man asked.

Heaven. Hell. Depending on what you did in this life. Maybe based on the sweet love of Jesus. Maybe God’s wrath.

Nah. I’ll just stay in my pine box, the old man said.

The porch light next door came on. She was standing out there with the wind swaying her black slip around. She was smoking a cigarette and singing a song. Some old Joni Mitchell song. Then she went inside. A car pulled up after that. A man got out. He stayed awhile.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was April. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas? He asked where all the snow was?

The grass was green, I pointed out. Blossoms were on trees. Dogwoods and Japanese maples were turning from death to life. But, he still asked what I wanted for Christmas?

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him the birth of Christ celebration was months away. Now was the time to praise him for conquering death. I wanted to tell him that. But, he wouldn’t understand. His was a world of imagination. The mindset of a five year old. A forty-five year old man with Sesame Street characters pinned to his walls.

If he wanted Christmas in April, then I’d give him Christmas in April. Why not?

The next weekend, I saw him at the nursing home. A fake, small tree fully decorated was standing in the window of his room. He had cards he’d made from construction paper in red, green, and gold. He signed his name in big letters on each one. He asked me again what I wanted for Christmas? I told him, a coffee mug. Just a coffee mug.

He grabbed his mug from the shelf. Asked if I would help wrap it for him. I did. Then he turned to me and smiled. He said, open it. I tore the paper off that we had just placed on the mug. Merry Christmas, he said. Merry Christmas. I thought I saw a snowflake.

He looked over old notes written from the road. Letters intended to be sent to her. Placed in envelopes. There was even a stamp on them. Ones with Elvis on em. She liked those.

But, he never could get the courage to send the letters out. He’d throw them in the trunk of his car; piled high, a mountain of white envelopes with the address in blue. He wasn’t even sure if she lived in the same place.

The middle-aged man sat in a rest area off 80 in Iowa. He opened the letters one at a time. Reading them while the radio was on. Some song about El Paso was playing, followed by Patsy Cline singing Crazy. The letters were written in red ink. Red was her favorite color. He drew hearts with arrows through them. Little cupids on the lined white paper. At the end ,he always wrote, Love, Jimmy, with an exclamation point.

He’d been everywhere. Vermont, where the mountains were green in spring time and New York, where they were golden in fall. Drove through Pennsylvania Dutch country amongst the horse-drawn carriages. Men wearing hats and women wearing dresses down to their ankles. Drove into Ohio. Stopped in Cleveland to collect his thoughts. He was thinking of heading south, but instead pushed on through to the West. Was bound and determined to see the ocean. He settled on Iowa.

No more money for gas or food. Sat there reading letters never sent. Letters professing love. Asking the question, why did I leave?

He lit a cigarette and threw the burning match into the trunk of the car and watched as the letters burned. Wallked away with nothing. Leaving his past behind. Orange and blue flames burned, lifting up into the sky like an offering to God. Some things are best left unsaid.

Dostoyevsky sits on the table top. A lamp glows. Black and white photos nailed to walls. Even without color, you can tell she’s a blonde.

Joyce, Mailer, and Kerouac stand on a bookshelf. They look down at albums by Bill Evans, Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, and Miles Davis. A cactus is dying in the window. Too much love. Maybe, not enough.

Simic lies on the bed. He’s been read a hundred times. Still, nobody knows what he’s up to. His sentences are short, to the point. There are sweat stains on the pillow.

I sit in my easy chair, listening to a man read Bukowski. A poem about cats. Soon, it will be dark. And this world is never at peace.