dmseay

These noises in the night; clock ticking, refrigerator humming, hot water heater kicking and coughing. He sat in darkness taking it all in. The combination of sounds was like a symphony; some kind of strange music. It put him to sleep. Dreaming of his past. Movies in full color. Every night a different story. Memories from his many stages in life to where he was now. Sometimes he’d smile in his sleep while other nights he would cry. Different stories. Different dreams.

The heat kicked on blowing warm air through the vents. Outside a coating of snow was on the ground. The old man slept in blankets covering his frail body. He’d shake a little. Then warmth would go through him like an old ghost. A spirit from the past maybe. Visiting him to tell him about his life; where it’d been, where it was going. His eyelids shuttered a million times.

He dreamt of his childhood sometimes. About playing with Tonka trucks in the sandbox. The heat from a Texas sun making his body brown. His mom called him her little brown bear. He laughed, holding his pillow tightly in the middle. The way he would hug his mother.

A drip from the kitchen faucet kept a beat as he continued dreaming. His stomach growled; lived off Ramen noodles and Pepsi. His dreams went onto when he was a teenager and he no longer hugged his mom. He would turn her away when she reached out for him. In his dreams she’d stretch her fat arms out to catch him, but, was never able to. The boy just kept falling. Never landing. Just falling. His back to her. Never turning ’round to see she was crying.

His cat would wake the old man. Calling out for food at midnight. He wiped sleep from his eyes and stumble down the hall way. Placed food in the dish along with water. He was alone. Just him and his cat. He thought about his mother for a second or two. Then stroked his pet. Remembered leaving long ago. Taking off on a Greyhound for Chicago. Leaving her behind. She waved at him. Waved goodbye. He never waved back.

In a dream came the night she died. He didn’t go to the funeral. Lit a candle in a Catholic church. Said a prayer. Then went about his day. He said goodbye to her in his dreams. Waking up. Regretting he never did. These things we never do.

Heat came back on. He stood over a vent letting warm air blow on him. His cat curled around his ankles. Morning would come soon.

He was scared of the unknown. Frightened of death. Read the Bible everyday, but, took no solace in it; just stories to him. Nothing devinely inspired. Although he liked Paul. Thought he was a tough guy. Like Lee Marvin.

There was dust on his mantle. Burnt wood in the fireplace. He hadn’t moved anything for years. No cleaning; ate off of paper plates, or, right out of the can. Cold chilli, cans of tuna, sardines in mustard with Saltine crackers, was all that he ate. Always had a six pack of Old Style in the refrigerator ; a bottle of whiskey on his coffee table; a cat that shit on the floor. The whole trailer smelled of urine. Milk jugs of piss.

The old man was nearing the end, he thought. Had these wild conversations with himself. Spoke of missed opportunities, girls that got away, never finishing anything in his life. Said he’d never finished a task handed to him. Always left midstream. Went from job to job to job. Traveled around the country on a Greyhound bus. Sleeping under bridges, in homeless shelters, rented rooms. Living off of Supplemental Security Income. Never having a buck in his pocket.

Had a son out in New Mexico. Went forty-two years without knowing him; some one night stand when he was living in Pueblo. Turns out the son moved around a lot too. They had that in common. The two of them wrote letters to each other. Talked about the weather, his mom, stories from the road.

The boy was missing a leg. Got ran over by a truck in the middle of the night while he was hitchhiking along 41. The old man asked him what he was doing up that way? close to Chicago. The kid said he was trying to find him. Went on a hike cross country to find the old man. Wound up in a hospital with his leg cut off. Figured it was never meant to be.

They never saw each other in person. The son tracked the old man down through police records and old addresses. Traced him all the way to Hammond, Indiana. The mom thought he might be in the Midwest. That’s where the old man was from. Said he talked about Hammond, Indiana.

Some how we all return to where we came from. That’s just what we do as Americans. We wander around for years then return to our roots, whether that’s physically or spiritually; we all return home.

He sat in his recliner watching television; feet up, eating popcorn and drinking beer. An overfilled ashtray was by his side. He pulled out butts every once in awhile just to get a final drag; too lazy to go to the gas station. Too broke to afford another pack.

There was a dog barking outside. Chained up next door. He heard the neighbor yell at him now and then to shut up. The pitt bull kept on barking. The old man turned the sound up on the TV. Tom Snyder was on. Smoking cigarettes and talking to attorneys about the Charles Manson case. The old man watched and popped open another Old Style. Soon he’d reach for the whiskey.

Evan Williams was on the counter. He made his way over to the bottle. Poured in three fingers. Sipped on it while Tom continued talking to his guests. That damn dog kept barking. The old man walked over to the window and opened it. Be quiet, he yelled. Shut that dog up, or, I’ll shut it up…permanently. The dog continued to bark.

The old man got his shot gun from the closet and made sure there was a bullet inside. He pulled up a chair by the window and pointed the rifle at the dog. Shut up you mutt, he said. I’m warning you, he spoke louder. I know you’re of the devil, the dog began pacing, dragging his chain on the frozen ground. You son of a bitch…shut up now, the old man’s hands were shaking. The dog growled. I’ll show you, he fired the gun, missing by a counrty mile. He could hear the bullet hit the window in the trailer next to his. Glass shattered and lights came on. The old man retreated back to his recliner. There was a knock at the door.

You shooting at my house old man? the young neighbor asked. It’s two o’clock in the morning God damn it. What’re you? Crazy? Drunk? Both? You’re gonna replace that window. I ain’t paying for that, the kid said, his blonde wife came over in a short robe with slippers on.

What the hell is going on here? she asked.

The old man’s gone crazy. Shooting holes in our home.

What the hell? she lit up a smoke, folded her skinny arms.

Can I have one of those? the old man asked.

You tried killing us. I ain’t giving you no cigarette, she said. Her husband laughed. I’m calling the cops. Get a police report on this. They’re gonna haul you in old man, she said. That’ll show you.

The dog kept barking in the background. Shush now, the blonde said. And the dog stopped. The three of them stood there waiting on the cops. Waiting to tell their sides of the story.

Now the dog sat there in silence. They all did. Waiting. Just waiting.

There is nothing worse than the Flashdance theme loudly playing in a psych ward.

“Take your passion. And make it happen.”

What if your passion is to kill somebody?

Goodnight, Mr. Simic.

I don’t know, he said. It’s been so long. Fifty years. I don’t even remember myself, the old man looked in the mirror. There were lines on his gray face. Salt and pepper razor stubble. He placed his frail hand on his cheek and squeezed to try and bring a redness to it. But, no color appeared. Just stayed gray. His nose had turned purple.

He tried to think about old times. High school years. Girls in the back seat of his Ford. One leg lying still. The other up and over the front seat. Awkward positions.

The old man thought about being on the football team. Playing left guard. Trying to make room for his running back to run through a hole only to be confronted by a linebacker. Seemed like there were never enough men. Boys playing games. Big dreams of being something. Most of em joined the Army. One guy still pumps gas on the corner; giving back change and making coffee. There wasn’t much expected of him anyway, the old man mumbled. Guess there wasn’t much expected of me either, he whispered.

But, I saw the world, he said as he continued looking in the mirror. At least part of it. Saw a lot of dead bodies too, he thought. And I’m still alive, he said. Still alive.

Reunion, he said. That’s where everybody gets together and brags about what a success they’ve made of their lives. How popular they were in high school. Kissing each other’s asses. Yelling out, We made it. Made what? he asked.

Why go? The blondes have turned gray. The thin turned fat, he laughed. Might as well stay home and watch TV, drink beer and thank God that I’m still alive.

I guess it’d be nice to see some folks, he said. Then he rolled himself out to the front porch and placed the brakes on his wheelchair. He sat there in the evening sun.

What the hell, he whispered. No one would remember me anyway.

There wasn’t any light. No sound. People just stood still. Looking up at the black sky. The glow from the moon was gone. Stars did not sparkle. Street lights out. You couldn’t see your hand in front of you. Couldn’t see the person you were talking to. Nor hear them. Just mouths moving with no sound. Cars made no noises. Factories had been shut down. The old man mumbled to himself, Never seen it this bad.

It was as if people had woke from a terrible dream; a nightmare. Except the nightmare kept on going. Were they still asleep? Hard to say. We had dreamed for over two hundred years. Big dreams. Lofty goals. Bigger than the Roman Empire. Now all that was gone. Folks were wasted in culture wars and financial hardships. The world economy had collapsed. Now men and women stood around waiting for the darkness to subside. They waited and they waited.

The doors on banks were locked. Financial institutions closed. Money was there, just no one could get to it. Plastic cards didn’t matter anymore. Nor did dollar bills. Everything was vacant. Nothing made sense.

And the old man would walk all the time around the neighborhood. Not knowing if it was night or day. He walked by used car lots. Remembered driving across America with a fantastic blonde. Money in the bank and gas in the tank. He walked past movie theaters. The Rialto where he saw movie stars up on the screen. Robert Deniro, Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, all of em years ago up on the silver screen making movements and voices came from their mouths. Way before everybody was told to shut up. It’s amazing what court orders can do. The laws of the land in a land that had become lawless.

People thought all this was a sign that Jesus was coming back. Riding into town on a white horse. Proclaiming that evil was done. Now a thousand years peace. But, he never came. Can you blame him?

This thing.

Yes.

This thing you have. Is it deadly? Can you die from it? I mean, I’d hate to see you die. But, I guess we all die sometime. Right? The old man nodded his gray head. Where do you think you caught it?

Don’t know. Might’ve been it came from inside. Could be it’s always been there, he said. Some kind of growth. Something growing inside my body all these years. Might’ve been a toilet seat, they laughed. Not sure. Neither are the doctors.

You never smoked? the old man shook his head. Wasn’t much of a drinker either were you? again he shoook his head. How’d you wind up here? In this place. We’re surrounded by death. Every day someone is dying from something. Like I said. We all gotta go sometime, he took a sip of coffee.

The two old men looked out the window at the busy street in front. Cars and trucks going places. Mothers taking sons to baseball practice, men and women driving to business meetings, truckers delivering goods, lovers checking into hotels. They sat there for awhile in silence. Just watching the traffic go back and forth.

I wanna go some place.

You wanna leave?

Yes. Before I die I want to go someplace, he said.

How much time do they say you got?

Not sure. Couple of months. Don’t know.

Yeah.

I’ve never been anywhere, he said. Never left Ohio. Never been to Cleveland. Or, Dayton for that matter. Just been here all my life.

Should’ve joined the Army. Could’ve seen the world.

Yeah. I was too much of a coward. Besides, never liked people telling me what to do. When to do it. How.

I was in the Navy.

Like it?

It was alright. Good for me back then. Whipped me into shape. Made me a man.

Yeah?

Yep. So. You’re going to die soon. Sorry to hear that, the two continued looking out the window. Just kept looking at traffic. People going somewhere.

He never wanted it to change; the way things were. Completely content. As pleased as a man can be. He just wanted to live out the rest of his years in quiet. The sound of nothing except classical music playing on the radio. Maybe the sound of his own voice once in awhile. The old man liked to talk to himself. Carried on conversations constantly. He’d talk about old times with women he had dated over the years. The blondes, brunettes, all of them from boy hood crushes to full-on-affairs in the cities across America. There was that Japanese girl in Toledo, he said to himself. She was really something, he smiled. And that Dutch woman in Chicago, he sipped his weak coffee. She was fun.

The old man spent afternoons counting up all the women he’d been with. There were several. But, he could never place that ring on his finger. Came close with an Irish woman who wound up breaking his heart. That was in New York City. Years ago when Manhattan wasn’t so safe. I guess it’s not that safe now, he said, staring out the window at a parking lot. Things change then they change back again. Just the nature of life, the old man said.

Look at all those cars, he whispered. I wish I could get my hands on one of them. That and a good credit card I could run up before I die, he laughed. I’d be out of this place in a second, he smiled.

It’s time for your pills Mr. Samuel, the nurse said. He wheeled himself over to her in his chair. His frail hands pushed against the wheels. Make sure you take them all, she said. Make sure you swallow them, he nodded.

Darkness was coming. The sun was going down. Parking lot lights shined on the cars as they left the nursing home. No one visited him that day. No one ever visited. He just sat alone talking to himself about old times. He never wanted things to change. He was perfectly content. It goes by so quickly.

It’s five in the morning and the cats are calling. Running around the house. Spraying their scent that smells like a piece of urine soaked wood. They cry out and chase each other. Doing unspeakable things to one another that you’d only find in a Turkish prison. I wish they’d be quiet.

They jump in bed with me. Carrying on like two criminals about to make a steal. At first they’re quiet. Then the crying begins again. What do they want? Yes, I tell them. Yes. I’ll feed you, they spring off the bed, soaring in mid-air before landing and skidding on the hardwood.

They run to the kitchen and jockey for position at the food bowl. I pour in the dry mix; one stays, the other decides he’ll wait; wait by the vent to keep his white coat warm. He keeps looking over at the gray cat to see if he’s done. He is. He has savored every bite. Whitey takes his turn. Slowly he eats too. Mr. Gray watches. He meows. Telling him to hurry. Whitey tells him to go to hell.

They are both napping now. Sleeping till dinner time. That smell of urine will not go away. It will not. They both smile as they lay there.

She slept in her room down the hall. He watched television up front with the sound down. The Weather Channel was showing all this arctic air moving in from Canada. Five day forecast didn’t have a day above freezing. A blue color on the map indicated that snow was coming. Strong winds. Blizzard like conditions. The old man looked at all this with the wonder of a child. New Haven hadn’t had a good snow storm in years. He was ready for one. And she, she’d just sleep through it.

The old man stayed up all night waiting for the first flake to fall. He had the porch light on and the curtains open. He walked over to the sliding glass door and put his frail hand against it. Cold, he said. That’s cold, he mumbled. He went back to watching the TV. It seemed as though the blue swaths of color were moving to the south of his state now. The arctic air was blowing the blue band farther and farther away. It was announced there would be no blizzard. Less than an inch would fall in his area. The old man was not amused.

No snow, he said out loud. Damn. Can’t have anything go my way, he yelled. The old man turned off the television and poured himself a whiskey. Sitting in the dark he could hear his wife snoring down the hall. She’d be up in a little while, he thought. Have to break the news to her, he lit a cigarette. He then walked over to the curtains to close them and turn off the light. He sipped his drink. And looked up at the sky. Clear as a bell, he whispered. Clear as a bell. The old man went to sleep in his recliner, dreaming of fluffy white stuff. He had a smile on his face. It was New Year’s Day.