dmseay

She sat on the edge of the bed; the middle sagged. Blankets with blood spots were wrapped around her. A 60-watt bulb burned without a shade. She sat there. Looking at him sitting in a chair across the room. Wearing dirty boxers and an undershirt. Smoking a cigarette. A bottle of whiskey sat on the stand next to him.

You want some? he motioned towards the bottle. She shook her head. He took the bottle with the turkey on it and poured some into a glass that had lipstick stains. He smeared the faded red marks with his thumb. We need to keep a tidier ship around here, he said. She sat there quietly and nodded her head.

The bulb began to flicker. The man walked over to it and made an adjustment; screwing it tighter until it broke in his hand. Damn it, he swore. The glass cut his fingertips. He sat next to her and wrapped his hand with the brown stained sheet. Nothing is clean around here, he said. There’s blood everywhere. Dried blood. Fresh blood. Blood, he told her. It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, he walked back to his chair and poured another glass; covered his fingers with his tee-shirt. Weren’t you gonna be some kind of model? he asked. I mean. I’m nothing special. Just a broken down old man. But, you were gonna be somebody, he said. That’s how I remember it, she stared straight ahead in the dark. Sure you don’t want none? She shook her head. I can’t hear you.

Nope.

Why not? We got no place to be tomorrow.

No thank you.

Rent is due tomorrow, she nodded her head. There was silence. She laid back down in the bed. The pillow had drool marks on it.

He walked over to her and stood there in the dark. What? she asked, pulling the blankets up over her head.

Nothing. Nothing. You were supposed to be special. This ain’t how I planned it. He paused. Turned around and sat back down. Rent is due tomorrow.

Dark room. He didn’t dare turn on the light. Walking in darkness. Unable to make out his hand. Feeling the walls down the hallway. A black cat crosses his path. Like a blind man, he can not find a light switch. The refrigerator hums.

He stumbles to a chair. Breathes. His hands find a pack of cigarettes and matches. He lights one. Looks around as the flame diminishes. Briefly sees pots and pans piled up in the sink. Listens closely. A constant drip of water slowly hitting a plate is heard.

One of these days, I’ll get around to it, he says out loud. One of these days, I’ll clean this whole mess up, he says. A mouse runs across the floor. The cat chases him. He lights another match. Sitting there, he feels the flame close to his thumb and forefinger. The heat kicks on. The match goes out. It is dark again.

At one time, there were night lights plugged into the walls. They burned out; never replaced. Just burnt bulbs sticking out of walls. He had air-freshners, too. Now the whole place smells of cat piss. He lights another cigarette. The lit end burns down as he sucks on it, blowing out a blue smoke.

She doesn’t live here anymore, he thought out loud. She’s moved on. Why? he asked. Maybe things got out of control. Maybe she stopped caring. Maybe I did, he stomps out the cigarette on the linoleum tile.

Sitting there in the dark. In the present. Past memories are slipping. He places his gray head on the table and falls asleep.

Scribbling down notes to myself. Take a shower today; it’s been a while. Brush your teeth. Especially after you eat and before bedtime. Make coffee ahead of time. Wake up to a great smelling house. Read Dostoyevsky. Read Miller. Read Joyce. Read Beckett. Just read, you lazy bastard.

Buy more Ramen noodles. The cupboard is getting empty. Look at old photographs and remember. Take your medications. Every stinking one of them. God knows what it’s doing to my body and my brain. Maybe they’ve torn into the soul as well.

Check the obituaries. See who you’ve outlived. You’re running a good race. Watch what you eat. No more calf liver. No more tongue. I used to eat the hearts of chickens. She used to devour the hearts of men.

Go for a walk. Not too far. Take Tylenol. Baby aspirin. Drink orange juice. Swallow vitamin D. Look at life and count your blessings.You should’ve died a long time ago.

I’m not going anywhere, he told her. Staying put. Right here till the end, he lit a cigarette. I’ve been waiting a long time for this, he said. Waiting for you to pass on to the next life, the old man placed his wrinkled hand on her hand. He gripped it tightly. Her hand was limp.

She laid there quietly. The sound of the heart beat faintly as he put his ear to her chest. It was just as they’d planned it when she first learned of the sickness. The old broad wasn’t going to stick around for meds, and chemo, and throwing up, and all that came with it. The two had made a pact. He was going to live up to his end of the bargain. So was she.

Her eyes were closed. He wondered if she was in peace. Or, still in pain. The other night, he made her a final meal. Fried chicken with mashed potatoes. Some kind of gravy he’d whipped up with milk and grease. Bits of the fried skin were in it. She said she loved it, but he knew differently. He knew she could no longer taste. She didn’t finish the meal. He wiped the gravy from the corners of her mouth and called it a night. She fell asleep and never came back to say thank you. He kissed her forehead. Turned on some Bill Evans. And stayed there with her.

The old man listened to her heartbeat fading and fading till it was gone. Her trip had just begun.

He never saw it coming. Her left hook landed him on the floor. Bruised cheek, purple nose, swollen lips. She cursed his existence.

You fuck every women in town, she said. Then you come home and you want to fuck me, she threw a piece of China against the wall.

Where do you get your information from? he asked. These are all lies, the old man moved towards the freezer to grab a bag of frozen carrots and peas. He placed the bag of vegetables to the right side of his face. He hoped the swelling would go down. The old man had a date across town later that evening. He didn’t need any questions.

And your drinking, she said. All you do is drink all day and fuck all night. You’re like an animal. You never get enough, she shouted.

Shhh, baby. Let me tell you something. I worked for years to keep a roof over this house. To pay your bills. What have you contributed? he asked. What sacrifices have you made? she wadded her fist up again and knocked him to the ground. God damn you, he said. If I didn’t believe in hitting women, you’d have been knocked out a long time ago.

They looked at each other in silence. He started to smile. She started to laugh. She got down on the floor next to him. Her blonde hair in his face. The woman kissed him on his swollen lips. She kissed his purple nose. She said I love you. He said I love you too,

He didn’t go across town that night.

He died of a bad credit score. All alone in his rented room. Looking out the window at gray skies and leaves turning brown; he died.

There was no cash in his wallet. Not a dime in his coffee cup. His refrigerator had pieces of American cheese in it and a slice of bologna. There was no bread to make a sandwich. A used bag of tea sat on the counter. The smell of weed came through the vents. His antennae on the radio was broken.

At one time, he was in good standing; a real part of the community. Had a nine to five job in a nine to five country of a nine to five world. Did his part to pay taxes and paid into social security. Then, one day, he said the hell with it. The old man quit everything. He no longer paid bills. Quit all financial responsibilities. Some said he went crazy. They said he lost his mind. He listened to Bach.

He died of a bad credit score. It killed him. Alone in his rented room they found him. Lying on the floor. A letter from a bank was next to him. It read, We can help you rebuild your credit. A cigarette burned in an ash tray.

He walked in on her. She was sitting in the front room on the couch. The television was on. Some infomercial. A man selling pots and pans. Cooking food. The audience applauded.

She was talking to herself; a full-on conversation about nothing. Just drunken talk. There were empty beer cans on the coffee table. She’d let out a laugh every once in a while. Then she’d get real quiet. She would watch the man on the TV cook these amazing dishes. And, when he pulled them out of the oven, he said, Bam. The audience would clap louder. She clapped, too, then went back to her conversation with herself.

Her husband sat down in the recliner next to the torn couch. Cigarette burns exposed the foam under the fake leather. She kept on talking. As if he wasn’t there. He wanted to say something to her, but he just watched the television. He picked up the remote and started to change the channel. She stopped talking and looked at him. She said, Why you gotta come in here and ruin everything? We were getting along just fine before you showed up, she took a drink from a dented can.

Am I disturbing you? he asked. She brushed her hand in the air towards him. Who are you talking to? Every night you’re out here talking. Talking to nobody. Where’s your pills?

Don’t make me.

I said, where’s your pills?

Threw them away.

Why?

‘Cause I don’t need them, she said. I’m fine just the way I am, she lit a cigarette. Placed the lighter on the couch and watched as it slid between the two cushions. What does it matter to you who I’m talking to? We don’t talk anymore. Gotta talk to somebody, she blew out smoke. If it’s any of your business, I’m talking to my mom.

That woman has been dead for twenty years.

She visits me. Says she likes me the best. Better than the rest of the children. Says I was her angel.

You ain’t no angel honey. You’re just a drunk that talks to herself, he laughed.

You laughing at me? Think it’s funny that I talk to my dead mother? She’s more alive now than she ever was. And she’s got plans for you.

Oh, does she now. What kind of plans?

Huh?

I said, what kind of plans?

You’ll find out. One of these days you’re gonna find out. She’s going to come after you like the wrath of God.

That so?

Yeah. That’s so.

The two sat there watching the infomercial. The cook added garlic and white wine to the dish. He said, Bam. And the audience went wild.

He told the boy there were no promises. The old man said, You want something in this life? You have to earn it. Go out and work for it, he told him.

The father gave examples of his own life. I might’ve worked a hundred different jobs, but I was always working, scratching to keep our heads above water, he lit a cigarette.

We moved around a lot, the young man said. We were always on the move. Starting school here. Quitting school there. North, South, the Midwest, we lived everywhere. Why was that dad? Why was it that we kept moving?

They’re always trying to keep the working man down, the old man said. They’d fire you for dropping gum on the floor, he looked outside at the sun. It was peeking through the clouds. There was a cactus in the window. The old man looked to see if the sunlight was changing it, making it grow. It was winter. The plant was dormant.

We must’ve lived in eight different places, the boy said. It wasn’t easy dad.

Living is not easy. It takes a lot out of you. If you don’t mind me saying, you sound ungrateful. You sound like you expected more. What could I do? he popped open a beer from the refrigerator. It was my job to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. And I did that. Contrary to popular belief, I did that. You want a beer? the son shook his head. You never have a beer with the old man do you?

I don’t drink, dad.

So I have a few beers. I’m entitled.

Yes. You are entitled.

You think you’re smarter than me. Don’t you? the boy shook his head again. You don’t hardly work, the old man said. Your hands don’t get dirty.

It’s a different type of work, dad. I have to use my mind. I have to think.

Think? Yeah. Think. You do think you’re smarter than me. And, maybe you are. Your mom said you were the sweet one. Of all our kids, you were the nicest to her, I suppose. And now you’re going to tell me I wasn’t good to her. That she deserved better. I kept a roof over our heads.

Yeah. You did.

The two of them looked at each other. Then dad turned to the cactus. It had not changed.

Where you calling from? the old man asked. You gotta stop calling collect. It adds up. These short conversations add up, he looked outside at the trash blowing around in front of his trailer. There was no voice on the other line. Just silence. Breathing. A shortness of breath. Last time we talked you were in New York up around Plattsburgh. That’s where Lake Champlain is right? They were going to make that one of the Great Lakes, but they never did. Told me you took the ferry over from Vermont. That water’s deep.

You got a hundred you can wire me? the son said. I need a hudred pop, he told him. I haven’t eaten in a couple of days.

Borrowing money? Calling collect on payphones? What’s going on with you? dad asked.

I just can’t seem to get it right, the boy said. I’m always losing jobs. Or, they don’t hire me. It’s hard living in this Dodge. Haven’t had a shower in a couple of days now. Like to go to a truck stop and take care of that. Buy some deodorant. Get some food, he lit a cigarette.

What good is a hundred going to do you? Makes me think I’m throwing my money away. Your mom and I didn’t raise you to be like this. Running around the country like a chicken with his head cut off. I never know where you’re going to be. This has to come to an end.

Yessir.

How much gas you got?

On empty.

How you getting around?

Got the car parked over by the library. I walk everywhere. Just use the Dodge to sleep in.

Where you at again?

New Hampshire.

Real pretty country up there.

Yessir.

If I sent you a couple of hundred could you get back to Whiting on that? Probably take three or four tanks of gas. That Dodge doesn’t do too good does it?

No sir, the son crushed the cigarette out under his shoe.

You need gas and food huh?

Yessir.

You coming home?

Guess I’ll have to.

I’d say your little adventure is about over. I’ll send you three, but you got to pay me back. I live on social security. Can’t be doing this all the time.

I know that.

And by chance that you don’t come home. That you just take the money. Don’t ever call me again. Comprende?

Yessir.

Call me when you get the money. I’m going down to the liquor store and wiring it right now.

OK.

Have a safe drive. You’ll be coming through Pennsylvania and then shooting across into Ohio and Indiana.

Yessir. I know my way back home.

I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you do.

There was silence. Neither of them talked. Two men on the phone saying nothing.

Is he real? the son asked. You think he really exists? the father popped open another beer. He stared at the can. Took a drink and then lit a cigarette. When I was a kid, I used to believe he ruled the world. All these wars going on. Starvation in far away lands. Tornadoes knocking down houses, the old man rocked back and forth in his recliner. I think he’s real. I think sometimes he’s inside me, the boy said. These evil thoughts I have sometimes. I don’t know. Stealing, cheating, lying; the only thing I haven’t done is kill somebody. Not that I know of, the son grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

What makes you think you killed somebody? the old man asked. That’s something you’d know.

Yeah. I suppose. What if it wasn’t me that killed a man? What if it was the devil inside me? the old man smiled, let out a laugh. That devil. Once he gets a hold on you. It’s hard to shake him.

He’s a ghost. A spirit that roams this earth, dad put out his cigarette. There’s two ghosts that roam this world. The devil. And the Holy Spirit. It’s your choice which one you take, the father declared. There is good and there is bad. But, it’s up to you, he looked at his son. Have you killed somebody?

No. Not physically. Never shot anybody. Or, stabbed them. Pointed a gun at a man before and told him to give me his money.

Being poor will do that. You feel guilty? Feel like you sinned?

I feel like I sin every day. Maybe I’m filled with the devil.

Maybe you’re just human. Making mistakes as you go along, the old man reached for the remote. He started flipping through channels. Barbara Eden was on. Granting wishes. He turned the sound down. Confess these sins to God. Ask for forgiveness. Keep that devil at bay, lit another cigarette. Strange world we live in. Just strange.