dmseay

By some strange chance, maybe I’ll run into you someday. Could be our paths will cross, he said to her. What would you do if you saw me? he softly spoke through the phone. There was silence. Neither said anything. They could hear each other breathing.

I don’t know what I’d do, she said. Maybe I would jump in your arms. Maybe run away from you, she said. You never know. Never tell how these things work out.

We were together a long time. That’s gotta count for something.

We screwed it all up, she said. Me, lying all the time. You, always drunk. It’s hard to say. Part of me misses you. And then part of me is glad it’s over, she said.

It’s been a long time. Haven’t seen you in twenty years. I’ll bet you’ve changed, he told her. We all do. Lose some hair. A belly. Sore hips when we walk. People change over time. You and I are no different.

I’m still thin, she said. Too thin, maybe. My hair is turning gray. Still long. You? How have you changed?

Fat and bald, he laughed. I wear a hat to cover my head. I stopped drinking.

That’s great. Can you tell a difference?

I’ve been sober now for nine years….I’m miserable.

Really?

Yeah.

Sorry.

I’m homesick.

Did you think this would work?

Wasn’t sure. Nobody ever is. We take chances. That’s what people do. There’s always a risk involved, he told him. Can’t fault a guy for trying. I mean, we all fall short the first time. And the second and the third. We take these chances. If you’re smart. You’ll see it through. Dumb. Weak. You’ll give up. No confidence in yourself, he smiled.

This is true. These things you’re saying are true. Makes me wonder who the brave ones are? The smart ones, as you say. You can only bang your head against a wall so many times, he lit a cigarette. And then you give up.

Not me. I’ll try a million times and never give up. That’s just what I do, he laughed. I fall off the ledge too many times. I never learn.

Was life ever normal?

What do you call normal?

Wife. Kids. A car. A home. Mom and dad. These normal things. Things people take for granted. Did you ever have that? The good life?

I’m living it now, he took a book out of his backpack. It was Moby Dick. He tossed Melville to his young friend.

What’s this?

Here’s to never giving up.

Would you be quiet?

But I…

Shhhh. Don’t talk. It’s enough that I have to be here with you in this. This room. This trap.

You could be quiet as well. No one wants to hear you talk, he looked at his cell mate. We used to discuss. Talked all the time. Now you want quiet?

Yes.

I’ll give you quiet, he sat on his bed. Sheets were tight. Blanket tucked. Both were silent for a while. No sound. Nothing could be heard. No screams. No cries. Just silence. And dark. Very little light.

He started to stretch. Then did push-ups. Sit-ups. A whole calisthenic routine. Touched his toes. Bent side to side. The fat one still laid in his bed. Mumbling to himself. Bodhisattva, agape, lord lead me home. A prayer for peace. Bodhisattva, agape.

Who are you talking to?

Shhhh.

Don’t shhhh me. I said, who are you talking to?

When I quit my habits, I used to meditate. Prayer.

Who are you? Allen Ginsberg? Kerouac? Some beat poet imprisoned? You’re a con like the rest of us. Even your prayer is fake. Bodhisattva? Agape? Just pray to Jesus like the rest of us you fuck.

Shhhh. I’m focused.

You’re a scam.

Bodhisattva….agape….hear my words….cleanse my soul…

You stupid man. You stupid fat man.

Bodhisattva….agape….

The lights came up. Night was over. Soon, they’d both be in the sun, the light. Darkness would cease.

What’s that noise?

Kids.

Sounds like guns.

Kids. Out past curfew. Are there curfews anymore? We used to have them, he sat up, lit a cigarette. Remember? she rolled over and looked out the window. No stars out. Just black. Booming noises sounded again.

What is that?

Bottle rockets. A dad’s shotgun. I don’t know.

Those two don’t sound the same, she said. I’m guessing they’re guns.

Probably.

Then why did you say fireworks?

I don’t know. It’ll be over soon, he put out his smoke and walked to the kitchen. Turned the lights on. Clock said 2:40. He poured himself a whiskey. Sat at the table. Reflecting. She walked in.

It’ll help me, he said.

Sleep?

Yeah, more shots were heard.

That sounds close.

Could be down the street. In someone’s backyard, she peeked out the kitchen window. You’re never up this late, he said. Usually asleep. I come out here and drink alone. Want a shot? she shook her head. Placed her finger on her lips. Made the shhh sound.

I’m telling you, it’s kids playing with a gun.

That doesn’t scare you?

Nothing scares me, he laughed. Except you. You frighten me.

How so?

All these years. Still scared you’re going to leave me.

She wrapped her arms around him. I’m never going to do that, she told him. Never.

Guns shot off again.

I didn’t tell him about it.

Why?

Thought you would.

No.

You’re the one with the big mouth. Always telling secrets. Always revealing information you got on this guy or that girl. Men and women are scared to talk to you. You just blab all the time, he said. Tell you what. He ain’t gonna be happy. Whether you tell him or me, it doesn’t matter. He’s gonna be madder than a hornets nest, he took a shot of whiskey.

Suppose so, she rolled her eyes. What’s all this talk of people being scared to speak around me?

You got a big mouth.

Well. I ain’t saying nothing. Nothing to be said. It’s her business. I just know that if someone was leaving me, I’d want to know about it, she took her shot.

This is all talk. Ain’t no one gonna say a word. He’s just gonna wake up to an empty bed one morning. That’s the way she’d want it.

I know.

She doesn’t want to stick around for sympathy or have folks feeling sorry for her. She just wants to be alone with it. Die by herself.

How sad.

What she wants.

Pop is gonna be mad if he found out we knew.

He’ll get over it. Till death do we part was over a long time ago. That vow was never taken seriously by either one of them, he ordered two more shots of Wild Turkey. Two more beers on tap. I don’t think he’ll care, to be honest with you. No more alimony, they both laughed.

Promise me you’ll never leave me.

I promise.

That’s the point, he said. You can’t go around here telling lies. They catch up with you. Not in the beginning. But eventually. Someone discovers the truth, he threw coffee out into the grass. A permanent brown spot in the yard. And you tell one lie, it’s followed by another. And then another, he laughed. Till it gets to the point that no one believes you. Your word is no longer any good. That’s what happened to your granddad. He was a storyteller. He lied to everybody. Mostly, he lied to your grandma. She took the brunt of his tales.

How so? he eased back and forth on the front porch swing.

How’s that?

I said, how so?

He made up these ficticious stories. He’d tell her he was going out for a pack of smokes and then not return for a while. Usually on payday.

Oh.

He’d cash the check at the local bar. Never had a bank account. Kept money under the mattress in a shoe box. Grandma never knew she was sleeping on top of money. Not till he died, and she was moving things around. He didn’t leave her much; a few hundred bucks.

Really?

Yeah. She never changed sheets. Had a bad back. Couldn’t get the corners. Anyway. He’d be gone for a few days. He wound up in places far away. New Orleans, Dallas. Spent a while in San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. He came home with just enough money for the bus ticket. Worked a while and then was gone again at the beginning of the month.

What was he doing in those towns?

Chasing women. Drinking. Pool hustling. One time, he stole a car in Los Angeles and drove it all the way to New York City. He used to tell that story in the bars.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. But, they were all lies. He never left the county. He’d get drunk and stay at this woman’s place out in New Haven. She was his mistress. That’s what he said on his death bed. Not sure if that was a lie or if that was the truth. Not sure about any of it. Some said he just slept under a bridge till he sobered up.

Which story do you believe?

I don’t.

You’re never sure of these things, he said. It could go either way. Just when you think you have it all figured out, boom, it hits you. And then life, as you know it, is never the same, he lit a cigarette and pushed the pack to his son. Go on. Take one, the old man walked over to the refrigerator and reached in the back for two beers. He held them in one hand. Want one? the young man nodded. The old man placed it in front of him on the kitchen table. A cat jumped up on the counter. Get down, the father said, then laughed. He never listens. No one in this house ever listened. Cautiously, the boy drank from the can of Old Style. His hand shook a little as he put the drink down.

And for a half hour, there was silence. No talking. A train whistle blew. Cars with loud radios drove by.

Are you going to miss her? the son asked. Can you honestly say you’re going to miss her? the old man tapped his fingers on the table. You two had problems, I know. I probably contributed to those. And for that, I’m sorry. But are you going to miss her?

Funny, you ask that question. Haven’t thought about it, he said. In the beginning, yes. And then, over time, no. I won’t remember her. I won’t remember you. Life does that. You get old, you forget, he told his son. She got lucky. Got out when she was young.

The two men drank their beers. Another train rolled through town.

An envelope was hidden in the back of the drawer. No name on it, just an address. Some PO box in Lubbock, Texas. The envelope was sealed with an Elvis stamp on it. Writing in cursive letters. And, no name from the sender; just a zip code.

He could feel the paper inside of it. Perhaps a letter, he thought. Wanted to open it. Wanted to see what was inside. Took out a pocket knife and ran it across the top of the envelope. Whatever secrets were in there would now be revealed.

On a long yellow sheet from a legal pad, a letter was written. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

Dear Sir, the letter started, I’m writing to you about your son who I’m married to. Sorry we’ve never met, but I’m now taking the time to reach out, she said. It’s important. I think you should know.

He comes home at night drunk, the letter continued. And passes out on the couch. Pete never wakes up before noon. He just lays there snoring until I pull back the shades and let in sunlight. Then he yells, kicks and screams. I throw water on him to get him to calm down. He mumbles about being in a war zone. Firing guns and having guns fire back at him. And then he just stares into space. He doesn’t eat much, asks for a beer from the refrigerator, and the bottle of whisky from the top of the cabinet. Before sundown, I have to go fetch him another bottle and a twelve pack of Old Style, an exclamation point was used at the end of the sentence.

I know you don’t know me. And, I feel terrible about there never being a proper wedding, but I feel this need to reach out and tell you that I can not do this anymore, she wrote. I’m leaving your boy. I’m sorry, but he’s gotten too much for me to deal with. I’m asking you to take him in and give him the love he needs. I can no longer do it. She signed it, All my best, Tracy.

The old man folded it and placed the letter back in the envelope. He then returned it to the back of the drawer, opened a beer, and stared out the window at the sunlight coming through the shades.

I never believed him. He’d make up these stories, wild tales. Out and out lies. Real whoppers, he said. What do you do with a guy like that? Caught up in his own fantasy world, he lit a cigarette.

Shhh. It’s not nice to talk about someone when they’re dead. You know that, his wife told him. He just lived a different life than most of us. Was a different way, she said, putting on Chapstick.

The wind grew cold and swept through their bodies. They inhaled the cold air and blew out smoke like dragons. Shuffling feet. Moving side to side to keep warm.

If he were alive, he’d say he created that wind. That coldness. He’d say he was in charge, her husband told her.

What makes you think he’s not?

And on the third day, he arose. Pushed the stone aside in front of the tomb. You’re comparing him to Jesus Christ?

Well. He would. Christ said some pretty crazy things as well.

But he was the son of God.

So was Charlie. So was Charlie.

Now I’ve heard everything.

Maybe he wasn’t a liar after all. Maybe none of us are.

Come on now. You know the difference between truth and lies. And if you don’t, then it’s time to get wise.

So. Christ told the truth?

Yes.

So did Charlie.

He was a third-rate conman who sold used cars and preached on Sundays. You tell me what’s the difference?

He sold cars and Christ.

He sold his soul for a little bit of dough. So be it. So be it.

They walked swiftly back into the funeral home. Stepping on their cigarette butts. A hole had burned through his glove. He looked up at heaven and shook his fist.

Damn you, Charlie. Damn you.

Did you see that?

What?

A cat crossing the street. A black cat dodging cars. Running to the other side. He’s up in that tree now. He’ll be safe.

Safe from what?

Cars.

Yeah. I guess so. Eventually, he’ll come down. Then what. He’s back to running in the streets again. Going through garbage. Choking on chicken bones. That cat’s going to die.

We’re all going to die.

Not like that. Not like some alley cat. He hisses every time I pass him. The thing looks me square in the eye. He speaks to me. I tell him, I don’t know where you’re going with this. This hissing. This madness. Then he just runs off. Like my words have no effect on him.

He’s baiting you. Waiting for the next time. I’d walk around with treats in my pocket if I were you. Gratuity is all he understands.

Gratuity?

Yes. He believes he’s entertaining you. Like buskers. Some kind of a sidewalk show. Like he’s walking a tightrope. He wants compensation.

This is a cat.

Yes. This is a cat.