dmseay

There’s no truth in happiness, he said. It’s a facade. It’s something that we think is there, but it’s not,the old man lit a cigarette. Did you know that truth can only get you so far? You don’t see me walking around all chipper, he took a shot of whisky. This, the old man pointed at his beer. This is a lie, he said. But, I believe in it, his son smiled.

The two of them sat there on barstools side by side. Occasionally they’d look up at the television in the corner of the bar. An old war movie was on; The Green Berets, starring John Wayne. They’d watch a little, then go back to ordering drinks and talking. The old man was a bar room philospher. The kid, a listener. The son was there only to hear what his father had to say. He figured he owed it to him. All the grief he put him through in his younger days. The boy sat there. Going round after round with the old man. Drinking in silence.

Do you hear the birds outside? the old man asked. Hear em? They’re the last of the dinosaurs. Hmm. Flying dinosaurs, he motioned for two more. Soon, they’ll be going south for the winter, the son nodded. I think about going south for the winter, he lit another Marlboro. Someplace warm; Florida, Tennessee, maybe Arkansas. Or, Texas. They have a different perception of life down there, he said. The son looked up at John Wayne, then back at his father. Dad slapped him on the cheek. Are you listening to me? I said they have a different perception. A different way of life. It’s easier down there. Not as much pressure, he put out his cigarette. Maybe Joplin, Missouri.

Would you take me with you? the son asked. The father shook his head. Took another drink from his short beer. Looked at the boy then up at the TV.

There’s no truth in happiness, the old man said. Nope. No truth.

The Mexican sat quietly on the bus going east. By midnight the old man would be in Columbus, Ohio. That’s what the ticket said.

His wife slept next to him near the window. Evening sun shined down on her. She’d lift her head every once in awhile, then lean up against the cold glass. Headlights were starting to come on.

He looked at cars on his phone. Ford, Chevy, Dodge, SUVs, pickup trucks, he dreamed of being able to drive again.

Throughout the trip he’d blow his nose on the collar of his flannel shirt. Then it was back to looking at vehicles. He leaned over in the aisle and looked out at the road ahead. The old man looked over at me and smiled. I nodded my head. He spoke in Spanish. I couldn’t understand him. Again he spoke in Spanish. I shook my head, no.

The Mexican continued looking out the front windshield; pointing. Luna, he said. Luna. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I awoke, he and his wife were gone.

Scraps. I get what’s left-over, he said. Nothing new for me. Never there for the first meal. The one that counts, the old man lit a cigarette. A piece of chicken. Some potatoes with wilted parsley. Carrots with grease on them. I’ll eat mine cold thank you very much, he turned on the television. There was static. Lines ran across the screen. He adjusted the antenna on top. He’d move the rabbit ears east and west. Trying to get in a picture. It was cloudy outside.

He gave up. Quit messing around with the TV. Turned the sound down and ate from a paper plate while watching blue lines cross faces trying to sneak through. He popped open a beer.

Salt, he whispered. This meal needs salt. There’s enough pepper on it, but, there’s no salt, he got up and looked through the kitchen cabinets. Where does she keep the salt? It was here yesterday, he started moving items. Thyme, rosemary, sage, paprika, all this stuff you don’t need. All you need is salt, his voice got louder.

She came from the bedroom down the hall. Walked in on him. The younger woman saw her dad talking to himself. Speaking out loud as if he was conversing with someone. The old man moved from cabinet to cabinet rummaging through plates, potato chips, Tupperware, glasses, bottles of half empty liquor, Pyrex pans. Dad, she said. What are you doing? It’s three in the morning, she moved towards him.

I’m trying to eat my supper, he turned and told her. I come home from working all day and there’s no salt for my meal, he said.

Come on dad. Let’s go to bed. The doctor doesn’t want you to have salt, she wiped her eyes. Come on now. Turn off the TV and get some sleep.

He looked at her. What day is it?

It’s Saturday morning.

I don’t work on Saturdays do I?

No dad. No.

Do I work?

No dad.

He took one more drink of beer. Started to place items back on the shelves. The daughter grabbed his hands. Come on now. I’ll clean this up in the morning, he nodded his head. The two of them walked down the hall.

Clouds moved in as they drove across Ohio. The sun had followed them from Pennsylvania. Now in Youngstown, nothing but rain would hit their windshield. Wipers kept time to music on FM stations. The boy hummed along to songs from the ’60’s and ’70’s. Would ask his dad questions periodically.

When did you and mom meet? the kid asked. And where? the father looked at him; keeping one eye on the road.

We met a long time ago in Osceola, Indiana, he smiled. We weren’t even thinking of you back then, he said. Used to go on hay rides and to dances at the VFW hall, the rain picked up harder. Next rest stop we’re pulling over, the boy nodded yes.

You ever miss her?

Sometimes.

You think this is the right thing?

Letting her raise you? I guess. I’m on the road all the time. You’re closer to family. Grandma and Uncle Jack. I’ll see you on holidays. Summertime, they pulled into the rest stop. Parked close to the bathroom. You gotta go? he pointed to the men’s room. The boy shook his head. It’s a long way there still, the boy grabbed a bologna sandwich from the cooler between them.

I’ll miss you dad.

I’ll miss you too.

Dad moved the cooler to the floor of the pickup. Stretched his arm out and the boy felt dad’s jean jacket on his face. They waited out the storm.

Did you hear what the old man said this morning? the older brother asked his younger brother. He was talking about being on Mars. Talking about walking on Mars. Where does he get this stuff? the older son asked. These stories. Out and out lies, he said.

He’s not well, the younger man said. Dad is not dad anymore. He’s some guy who used to know us. Now we have to remind him. Tell him who we are. Who he is.

But, the stories. These far-fetched stories. He told a nurse the other day he slept with Marilyn Monroe. Said he killed the Kennedys too.

What did the nurse say? the younger one asked. They both laughed. Come on, he said. What’d she say?

She asked if it was true, both boys howled. The older son got a beer from the refrigerator. Pointed at it. The young son nodded yes.

Was it that black nurse with the real pretty eyes? the young one nodded yes again. She’s really good to dad. Treats him real nice, the eldest said.

When we were kids we went to Mars. Remember? We used to play like we were astronauts. We’d get in cardboard boxes and pretend they were capsules, both took a swig of beer.

We were kids. Pretending, the older one said. Now dad’s pretending.

No, he shook his head. It’s all real to him. As real as that cardboard box was to us.

Yeah. We were pretty serious about going to Mars, they toasted each other. Our giant sandbox became one big planet.

Whatever happened to that sandbox?

It went away. Just like everything does.

Where have you been, he asked his younger brother. We’ve been worried about you, the younger boy looked at him. Wondering when you were going to show up. If you were going to show up, the older sibling sipped his coffee. And now, here you are. Here’s Johnny, the younger brother smiled. You got any money? Are you broke? the older brother thumbed through his wallet. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Placed it on the table. Don’t spend it all in one place, the older son said. I can get you more than that. I don’t expect you to start all over again on just a hundred, he said. The other man looked at the bill then out the window of the diner.

I’m having scrambled eggs and bacon, the older man said. Maybe some buttered toast. You want something? he continued looking out the window. I said, would you like something? Breakfast? You always liked pancakes when we were kids. Bunch of syrup all over the place, he laughed.

When were you going to tell me she died? the younger boy asked.

We had no way of getting a hold of you.

Paul got a hold of me.

I know.

Did you tell Paul to call me?

I did.

Why didn’t you ask him for the number?

Number where?

At the shelter. In Joplin.

You could’ve called me a few times, the older boy said. Could’ve called your own brother. I told Paul to call you and tell you about mom. So, in a way. I did call you.

Paul would’ve called anyway, the waitress came over. Poured two more coffees. The older man gave her his order. Nothing for me,the younger one said.

You’re always starting trouble. Always taking off. Walking around America. Got nothing but the clothes on you. Don’t you want more? More out of life?

The younger brother looked at his older brother. Slid the bill back towards him and walked out of the diner. The older brother watched as he crossed the street.

Infectious. Some kind of disease. Maybe it was her heart. Not sure what the death certificate said. She took that fall back earlier in the year. Broke her hip. There was some kind of infection from that. But, then again, she wasn’t the healthiest of women. Didn’t exercise. Never ate right. Kind of did whatever she wanted to. Kind of. Never followed doctor’s orders.

And now he faced death. At sixty-five he had made a lifetime of mistakes; same as she had. Lined up medicine bottles every morning. Cholesterol, blood pressure, thyroid, diabetes, over-weight, smoker, drinker, sleep apnea, all these ailments, the pills could only do so much. It was a breaking down of the body. His temple. And no, the Lord did not live there.

He’d stay up all night watching cable news in his recliner. A bag of chips on the stand next to him. Sometimes a bag of little donuts sat there. But, always a cold one. A tall boy of Budweiser with sweat pouring down the can was his drink of choice for TV watching; in the mornings, it was a high ball.

His son warned him, told the man straight. You’re going to die an early death, he said. All this is going to catch up, he’d watch the old man light up another one. You’re going to go just like mom did, the son shook his head.

And you don’t have Jesus in your heart, the boy pointed out. You don’t believe in anything. You’re a sitting target for the devil, he said. Better change your ways.

That was the last conversation the young man had with his father. They didn’t talk about baseball, or, movies. Never spoke of books. He just scolded him as the dad sat there in silence; watching Burt Reynolds on television; some report on his life and many loves; Dinah Shore, Sally Field, Loni Anderson, the old man just sat there watching as words went in one ear and out there other.

Maybe he was on some kind of death wish trip, the boy told his minister. Maybe that’s all he ever wanted, the son said. You think there’s folks that just want to die from the get-go? he asked.

Perhaps, the preacher said. They don’t take in all the things around them. The good things. Too much bad. It’s a slow death, he placed his hand on the son’s shoulder.

The old man was cremated. His ashes kept safe in a vase by the television set.

There’s not a prayer in the world that could bring you back to me, he said. Long time ago it ended, the old man pondered. Must’ve been thirty years ago when we called it quits. Two best friends turning into individuals hating each other.

Humans are cruel, he lit a cigarette, popped open a beer. We lie to one another. Cheat each other out of what true love really is. We don’t really know what true love is. Do we? he looked out the window. We just guess and go along. Guess and go along. Making mistakes along the way, children were swinging on swingsets across the street.

The old man felt his belly. It was getting big, round. His chest drooped. Skin tags were starting to appear. He watched the children play. And, he remembered what that was like. To play until sundown. Having mom call him in for dinner. Learning how to craft a sentence at school. Dealing with heart-break for the first time.

You think you’re fine, he mumbled. Think you’re on top of the world. A kiss in the hallway by the lockers, movies on Friday nights, parking under trees, all part of the process, he laughed. And then one day it’s gone. She’s gone. They’re gone. All the loves you ever had; gone. He put out his cigarette and drank his last sip of beer. Closed the shades. And turned out the lights. Another night alone.

There’s no warmth in February. The sun shines sometimes, but, the cold air takes over. Temperatures get around zero degrees and stay there for days on end. Cars drive by and exhaust pours out of their tailpipes. Snow lays frozen on the streets, turning gray and then into black; sidewalks have salt lines marked on them.

Little kids still hold hands in a line on their way to school; coats zipped up, hats stand tall with fury balls on top. Sports teams patches on the front of them; Bears, Eagles, Colts, some with Hoosiers knitted on in big red letters. They yell and laugh outside my window at seven in the morning as the light makes it’s way through. I wonder if my Christmas cactus is getting enough sun? It droops and there are leaves falling off. Some of the kids point at it as they stroll on by, looking inside my apartment; I say boo. They giggle and run along. Little feet in brown boots tied up with red laces. The Catholic church bell rings. Another day has officially begun.

The weather man says it will continue cold. No snow. Just cold. An Arctic burst of air coming down on the town we live in, covering the whole state. There is no warmth in February.

The couple stood in front of the bright shiny sculpture piece in Millennium Park on a cold winter’s day looking at themselves in various poses. They laughed and like so many Chicogoans took selfies in front of the piece everyone calls, “The Bean.” However, the actual name for the mirrored piece is, Cloud Gate, named by the artist Anish Kapoor.

This young couple was joined by many other people taking pictures and looking at themselves in the mirror. There was a diversity of folks admiring the piece, or , admiring themselves, but, the one thing that stood out was they were all American. At least the majority of them confessed to be when asked.

American. Yes, very American. We as a nation are obsessed with looking at ourselves. We pose, we smile, we cry, we look sexy in front of our phones, and we see ourselves for what we really are; self-absorbed fools. And, we can’t wait to send out pictures of ourselves to the world -wide audience we’ve created on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram and so on.

But, is this Kapoor’s fault? Did he want to show us for what we really are? Or, did he want to create a piece of art that reflects the various personalities that make up a city? Not sure. All I can say is, is this art? Yes. Do I have to like it? No.