dmseay

It’s cold in this house, he said. Freezing. The thermostat is at fiftyty-eight. You trying to kill us? he asked. He turned the heat up to seventy-two. There. That’s where it should always stay. I don’t want it any colder than that. You hear me? Think we’re a couple of polar bears? Penguins? Look. There’s frost on the windows for Christ’s sake.

I like it cold, she said. It makes me feel things. The cold puts me in a mood. I feel at peace under a blanket. I like sipping on hot tea when it’s cold, she turned on the television. Some talk show was on. A man and a woman talking about nothing. Saying words and smiling. Drinking coffee from big mugs. Sitting up right and nice. The woman had perfect blonde hair. The man looked like a child.

Why do you watch that?

There’s nothing else on, she handed him the remote. Go ahead. Flip it around. You’ll see. There’s nothing on.

Then why have it on? he turned it off.

Hey…

You’re wasting your mind. If it’s not frozen to begin with. Don’t you read? Books. Read books, he said. That’s what you need to do. When you get older, you’ll thank me. It helps your memory.

Dad read. Didn’t help him. The old man lost his mind. Thought he was an astronaut. Thought he was something special. He always did.

What?

Think he was something special.

Your father died, and that’s how you remember him? Some old crazy man.

He said he went to Mars.

Well, maybe he did. Maybe in his mind, he went to Mars. Maybe he saw those craters and that red dust inside his brain. Maybe he transported himself there. Had an out of body experience. You don’t know what humans are capable of. Do you? Or, maybe he was there in another life. Did you ask him?

This is silly. It’s getting hot in here.

Don’t touch that thermostat.

What are you going to do?

Shoot ya, they both laughed.

You’re going to shoot me if I turn down the heat?

Yes. I will.

Have you lost your mind?

No. I have not. My mind is fine. It’s my body that is losing the battle. Don’t touch that thermostat.

She got out of her chair and waddled over to the thermostat. On the count of three, I’m going to turn it down. One…

Don’t you touch it.

Two…

I mean it.

Three…

Not a word written. Thoughts inside my head, sentences, paragraphs, but nothing put on the page.

I look through books for inspiration. The cactus in my window is drooping, dying. That, along with Mishima, makes me think of death. Another poem on death. That’s just what the world needs.

So bright outside. The sun casts shadows. Grass is actually green today; there is life after winter. All these thoughts and nothing on the page. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Maybe this is an exercise in futility. Thinking out loud. Waiting for the perfect combination of words to start with. And then the mind goes blank.

My greatest fear is to never be able to write again. To not think clearly. Everything in a haze. This is my greatest fear.

There’s no peace in this, he said to her. No solace. It’s just you and me, arguing all the time. Fighting like two dogs. You say one thing, and then I say another, then we’re off to the races, he lit a cigarette. There’s nothing I can say that’ll make it better. It’s best you go your own way and I go mine. Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll hitch up again, he laughed. I suppose you’re going back to your parents.

Hmm hmm. I suppose so, she said. The young woman got out a gym bag and started stuffing it with clothes; jeans, tee-shirts, bras, a couple of pairs of panties, the pink ones, the ones he liked.

I’m heading out west, he said. Going to San Diego, or Bakersfield, maybe Indio.

You don’t know where you’re going, she threw in a pack of gum, some lipstick, a little blush. You’ve never known where you were going. Always just taking off . I was a fool to take off with you, they looked at each other. You get these crazy ideas from movies and songs, she told him. Bakersfield? You never heard of Bakersfield till Buck Owens sang about it. And Indio? That just sounds like some place where crazy people go.

It smells good out there, he said. I like the way it smells.

When have you ever been to Indio, California?

When I was a kid. ‘Bout sixteen. Ran away from home and wound up there. The bus stopped at three in the morning, and I could smell this alfalfa smell. This rich farm smell of crops growing. It smelled fresh, he lit another cigarette. And, it was pitch black out there. You couldn’t see anything. Walked through town, and everything was closed; people were asleep. It seemed peaceful.

Why’d you leave?

I was a fool. Young. Went into Los Angeles. That was too much. All these homeless people asking for money all the time. All these hookers and teenagers just like me. Hopeless, he said. I thought I could be some kind of movie star, he smiled. I didn’t even know how to go about it. Figured somebody would discover me. Just walk up to me one day and ask if I’d like to be in a movie.

Ha.

We all have dreams. We all have dreams.

Yep. I suppose we do.

He slit his throat. The old man no longer saw the beauty in life; youth had faded. There was blood all over the garage; a real mess left for someone to clean up. A wife, his son, sat in the living room watching Good Morning America, sipping on coffee, eating pastry he’d bought the night before; cherry turnovers. They didn’t hear any screams or yells. It was done in silence; like a Japanese warrior. A neck dangling. A butcher knife dropped to the concrete floor amongst oil and anti-freeze. Some say he killed himself. Others said it was America that did it to him.

A loss of a job. Financial ruin. Your wife’s cheating with the paper boy. The killing of the middle class. Walmart has become the temple. We flock there on Saturdays to buy goods and support the economy of foreign lands complete with self checkout; cut out the middle man. Sales, sales, sales, everything must go. It’s what we thrived on until there was nothing left; goodbye dollars, so long credit, adios to lay away. These are the things that killed him.

Mom had a ham in the oven she was preparing for Easter Sunday. The day Christ rose from the dead. Families used to believe that story. They believed salvation was possible. Not anymore. We put our faith in politics, symbols, flags, signs, catchy sayings and commercials. Soon, we’ll all have a chip in our hands, We’ll be traced where ever we go; whatever we think. All done so the rich can get richer and the poor stay poor. Maybe the old man knew this. Maybe that’s why he ended it next to a lawnmower and Glad trash bags.

He did it. And, no one noticed till days later. The death of an American male. Coming to a suburb near you.

He’s watching you. In your bedrooms, bathrooms, dens, your hidden, most secret places. All your desires he knows.

In the car at night, smoking your last cigarette before pulling into the driveway; he knows. He sees you plain as day. Your lies, misgivings, affairs, nothing is closed off; sealed. There are no secrets.

At meetings in boardrooms across international waters where you lie, cheat, and steal; he knows. You think you are hiding something. It’s been a secret for so long. It eats away at you. He knows. He picks at the scab. Blood runs a little, then a lot. Soon, everyone knows of your fraudulent behavior. You go down a path by yourself. Alone. He knew the whole time you would wind up this way. You never asked for his help.

And now you stand there, waiting for a reason to live. A wife, child, career, a mistress, you need a reason to exist. He’s been there the whole time. He knows.

I hear the rumblings of garbage trucks. Picking up canisters and dumping the contents into the back amongst the bad fish that Mrs. Yablamowitz threw out. The empty milk containers with the expired dates on them. Banana peels all black and bruised with stickers saying Chiquita. Dog shit that yuppies downtown pick up in plastic lunch baggies. Q-Tips with wax on the ends. Old prescription bottles of meds emptied and flushed down the toilet. All kinds of notes and letters to former lovers letting them know just what bastards they truly are. Pens out of ink. Fried liver, Ms. Smith’s kid didn’t eat. And, pieces of cloth with blood dried on them. Cotton balls, cotton balls, cotton balls. And beer bottles broken with labels peeling off.

All this noise. My head aches as I lie in bed ,staring at the copy of Brothers Karamazov on my nightstand. Too loud, too early to take in Dostoyevsky. The Russians would understand. Fyodor is to be savored, adhered to, read out loud with coffee stains on the pages. A bottle of aspirin is next to it. Russian literature and pain killers. It’s that kind of morning.

The garbage trucks have left my neighborhood. They’ve gone on to disrupt others. Lawyers cheating on their wives. Mechanics hungover. Grocery clerks crawling into bed. Cops counting the days till retirement. Criminals counting too; one more job, and I’m done, they say. Folks in diners eating bisquits and gravy. All of them awake on this planet. And, the snow falls. blankets are kicked off my bed. I am naked.

The mirror does not lie. Some say it makes you look bigger, but that’s not true. It shows you your true reflection. What you are. I stand before it and pledge allegiance to the common man. The ones on the back of the garbage truck. The ones without student loans to pay back. Those that find themselves in a hell called marriage. My hand is on my heart for you.

It is morning. Go get ’em boys.

The candle burned brightly as he wrote down notes for the day ahead. Go grocery shopping, he wrote. Pick up some Grape Nuts, he continued. Milk, grapes, chicken, cigarettes, was added to the list. He wrote down that he needed beer; he was in constant need of beer. And, a jug of wine. Some dago red from Gallo Brothers. The kind with the screw top. A loaf of bread, he whispered. That would be nice. Something I can spread butter on to. A hearty rye with seeds, he smiled. A jug of wine with rye bread and butter, he said out loud. Living like a king.

There were a few items in the refrigerator . Strawberries growing mold on them. Bananas turning black. A quarter of a jar of grape jelly. The beer was gone. The trash can overflowed with cans of Old Style, Black Label, Miller High Life. Empty cartons of cigarettes laid beside the food bowl for the cat. The whole trailer was in disarray. The old man lit a butt and finished his list.

Pineapple, he said. I want pineapple in a can with the syrup, he wrote down. And cling peaches, he licked his lips. He would often sit in the dark and drink the cold sugary syrup as he watched television late at night. Three o’clock in the morning and he was watching television. Old westerns with Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood. He’d get up during commercials and grab a beer or two. These were his nights; alone. Making promises to himself till morning broke. Saying things like, one of these days, I’m going to leave this earth just as I came into it; naked and afraid. Screaming at the top of my lungs. But, I won’ have a woman to comfort me, he thought. No breast to cling to.

The old man went back to writing his list. Ramen Noodles, he wrote. The spicy flavored ones, he said. Oreo cookies, a Twix bar, get some Q-Tips and clean out the wax in my ears, he wrote down in a hurry. Maybe a bottle of Wild Turkey, he told himself. Come home and slowly, slowly pass out.

He read over the list. Made sure there was nothing he forgot. He blew out the candle and went to bed on his twin mattress. The TV was left on. Clint Eastwood was spitting in the dirt.

I watched a water bug crawl out of my coffee cup this morning. I was reading Henry Miller. Reading his take on the death of Mishima. I thought of killing the bug. But, then I thought, maybe he has a right to live; just as I do.

Mishima killed himself. The death of an artist. I have had these thoughts to finalize the deal. And then, I think of sticking around a while longer.

The water bug crawled across my desk. I read more Miller. The thoughts of death went away.

Brown grass on the shoulders of Highway 30. Cornfields empty. Water on mud. Electric wires hang over farm houses, grain silos, and rusted sheds.

Semis pass by in the left lane. Skies are dark. A sign on a church reads, Jesus Is Lord. Pine trees bunched together.

The man seated in front of me speaks Spanish on his cellphone. He ruffles through a McDonald’s paper bag. Pulls a long, thin fry out. He eats it hungrily while looking out the window at bare trees, a yellow moon, headlights coming towards us.

The woman to my right has fake eyelashes that curl up exposing brown eyes. An overhead light shines on her brown skin. She’s wearing fake fur. She also looks out the window. Night has come.

The bus is mostly quiet. Whispers are barely heard. This is America. A stop light glows. We have come to a stop. The rain begins. Highway 30 sparkles.

Tree limbs waved in the wind. In the distance, dogs barked. A cat crossed the road. Semis shook as they carried their loads down 41. She watched the clouds from her back door.

In the driveway sat an old Ford pickup. Rust was around the bottom of the bed. The doors creaked when opened and closed. It’d been a while since she’d been in it.

The last time was a trip ‘cross country. She and her husband took I-80 through America. Traveled from Ohio to Oregon. Celebrated when they got to the end with a six pack of beer and Ritz Crackers; small pieces of trail bologna they picked up in Iowa were placed on top.

They thought about staying there. Had nothing tying them down. But, they wanted to see more of this great country. They drove to Nevada, Utah, Colorado, down south to Texas, Arkansas, and Tennessee.

They talked the whole time about why they never had kids. Their childhood, liverwurst sandwiches. They just talked; not a moment of silence. Except when they slept in back; stars above. He’d point out the big dipper; wished on shooting stars.

That was years ago, she thought. He’s gone now. Never coming back, she said to herself. Only one love in a lifetime like that, she lit a cigarette.

Tree limbs waved in the wind.