dmseay

He sat in his car, looking at Christmas lights in April. Red, orange, green, yellow glowing in the pitch black of the trailer park.

Another beer was pulled from his six-pack. He felt the coldness in his hand as he drank. Sweat dripping off the can.

The old man noticed how the lights sparkled and flashed on and off. It gave him peace. He didn’t question why they hadn’t taken them down. He was thankful.

He crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it out the window amongst the other debris; candy bar wrappers, used condoms, burned out Roman candles that lay there. Put the car in drive and took off. Headed back home. It was two o’clock in the morning.

Waste of time. All this talk. Going back and forth over what? Opinions. That’s all there is. Just opinions. Most of the time, we don’t even know what we’re saying. Just talk to hear ourselves talk. Our own voices. No listening. Words. Babble, he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. What time is it?

There’s a clock above the bar, the young man told him.

I don’t want to look at the clock. I’m asking you. Why do you have to be such a smack?

It’s ten o’clock. Time for you to go home and go to bed, he took a drink of his beer. People don’t like you. I’ve seen you before in here. You start trouble. Patrons don’t like you. The bartender doesn’t like you. Nobody does. And yet, you come in here. Haven’t they thrown you out a couple of times? the old man looked at him. Yes, I’m talking to you. You come in here like you’re some kind of royalty. A king. Except you don’t have any followers. No country, the kid said. What are you in exile? the old man laughed.

You should respect your elders. one of these days we’ll all be gone. And you’ll be stuck with rainbow flags and cute transexuals selling beer. I’m out of here. I’m gone. You remember what I said, the old man took one last drink and walked out the door.

Who was that? the young man asked the bartender. I’ve seen him before, but who is that? Where does he get off? Just who does he think he is?

A dinosaur.

Did you mean to kill him?

I don’t know. It all happened so fast. He was coming at me with his arms outstretched. Like he was Frankenstein. He had some look in his eye. A mean look. But, he had his arms open. Maybe he wanted to give me a hug. I don’t know. It all happened really fast, she said to the cop.

You think maybe he was trying to hug you? Has he tried to hug you in the past like that?

How do you mean?

Coming at you. Arms outstretched. A mean look in his eye. Did he say anything?

No. He was silent. Breathing heavy. He was a smoker. Went through about two packs a day. He always had a gurgle in his throat. Made noises. But he wasn’t saying anything.

How’d it all start?

He came home late. Later than usual. I could tell he’d been drinking. Kind of dodged and weaved through the trailer. I was sitting in the front room watching TV. Some kind of show about animals. How they protect their young. Keep them safe. But then other animals come and try to kill them. Rape the mom. Declare themeslves king, the cop listened. Took a drink of coffee. Those animals are real headstrong. Wanting to kill. Wanting to protect, she said.

Did he come to you, or did you go to him?

He came over to me. Smelling of alcohol.

Where was the gun?

Had it beside me on the stand.

And you were waiting for him to come home?

Yeah.

Why’d you have the gun there?

Always have the gun next to me when he’s gone. Lots of crime in that part of town.

Yeah. I know.

Those animals killed those babies and raped that mother. That was hard to watch. But something made me want to watch it, she tapped her finger on the table. He got in between the TV and me, and he would not move. Just stood there with his arms outstretched. Like some animal, she tapped faster on the table. So. I killed him.

It’s not like I didn’t tell you it was going to happen, Frank lit a cigarette, loosened his tie. I mean. What do you expect? These are hard times. Everybody’s caught in the mix. You think you got it hard? Look at the guy next to you, the man drank from his beer glass. I’m not wishing anything on anybody. I’m not hoping for someone’s demise. I just got to look out for myself. Take care of me and mine’s. You know what I mean?

His friend looked at him. Took a drink that had been bought for him. Started to talk, then lit a cigarette. Put the Zippo back in his pocket.

Listen. I know you’re in a jam, Frank said. We all are. it’s the country we live in. Banks falling apart. Gas is always high. Groceries getting more and more expensive. Take this, he handed Jack a twenty. I’ll take care of the tab. Have another drink.

I’m short this month. I can’t take a piss standing up, Jack said. Everything is wrong. Upside down. This, he looked at the twenty. This’ll get me a cab ride home.

Yeah. I guess you better walk.

Death. I, we, sell death. A plot. Some hole in the ground. The final resting place. That’s what we do, he said to his co-worker. People come to us in their deepest time of need. A loved one has died. Heart attack, stroke, murdered on Austin Avenue. Something, he took a drink from his rocks glass. You can tell by the look on their faces if they loved the person or not. You get a real sense of how the relationship was. The worst is dealing with the parents. Some kid dies of cancer. A teenager killed in a car wreck, the salesman stirred his ice. And what do we do? We offer tissues. And a contract. Some financial agreement. You think that gives them solace? It does not give them solace.

For solace, they should go to a priest, the partner said. That’s not our job. I mean. I can only give so much, the other man nodded.

Right. You want comfort? Hire a hooker. Don’t come see me for that. Come to me to bury your dead. I’ll laugh with you. Cry. But, I will not comfort you. I will not get myself attached, they clinked their glasses together.

They looked up at the TV. The Cubs were losing again. An old man at the corner of the bar lit a cigarette. Coughed a little. Clapped his wrinkled hands. Let’s go, Cubbies, he yelled. Let’s go.

Probably be seeing him next week, the salseman said. Carry him out of here on a stretcher, the old man yelled at the TV again. Son of a bitch. He can’t die soon enough.

I’m on a bus heading east on 30. It is quiet. No noise. People are asleep or sitting in silence staring at their phones. Ninety-eight miles to go.

Semis pass by us. Minivans and SUVs heading out in search of America race each other; who’ll get to Florida first? Who knows where they’re heading.

They are families of four traveling over Midwestern landscape; bare corn fields, stalks chopped down, green grass in the median, blank trees staring at them. A kid on the side of the road throwing up. Mom pats his back.

Rusted railroad tracks run parallel to the highway. I wonder if Kerouac ever rode them. Wonder if he missed his home. Missed his brother, who died for his sins.

The sign says 81 miles to Fort Wayne. I miss my kid brother. Soon, I will see him alone in a room at the nursing home. I’ll bring him a chocolate bunny. Mom used to give us those when we were kids. Hopefully, he’ll smile when he bites its head off. A decapitated chocolate rabbit. It’ll be good to see him.

Soon, it will be dark.

Is there a heaven? he asked. I mean, when we die, do we go some place better? lit a cigarette. Cause I gotta tell you, after all this, you deserve something better. Don’t you?

Main Street was playing on the jukebox. The two men sat at the bar watching a baseball game. The older one did most of the listening; threw out a few words here and there. But, the young man kept talking, ordering shots of Hot Damn, and clapping when the Sox got a hit.

What I’m saying is, for all we have to endure here on earth, you’d think death, the after-life, would be comforting, he said to the old man. It should be a reward. A prize for getting through it all without killing someone, he took a drink from his Old Style can.

Well. I see that. And punishment if you violated the ten commandments, he laughed.

No. Not at all, the kid said. There is no hell.

Has to be. We’re born with this fear of it. This fear that if we don’t do good, then we go to hell. We burn forever with other sinners.

We’re not born with that. We’re taught that. In Sunday school. In church. On television. In books, the song Wichita Lineman came on. And, all I’m saying is maybe God wants all of us to be in one place. A paradise. A return to paradise. Where Adam and Eve started. With beautiful sunny days and lush fields to sit in and contemplate on life. A place where there’s only love.

You just made that story up. There ain’t no place like that.

Top of the sixth. Sox lead the Indians 3-2.

The trailer on lot 37 sat vacant for years. Trash began to build up around it. Dogs and cats roamed in the yard. Sometimes at night, you’d see an opossum scurrying around; eyes glowing in the darkness.

There was a married couple living in it for a while. Had two kids, a boy and a girl. High school age. Loud cars without mufflers would drive by every night. Playing heavy metal music; doors slamming, no regard for neighbors.

He used to sit outside with a shotgun in his hands. Every day, the dad would go between the two trailers and shoot beer cans lined up on a piece of wood. He was a terrible shot. Missed most of the time. Everybody knew to stay out of his way.

Never saw the wife much. Heard she had a job at the potato chip factory. She was gone for a good part of the day. Drove a truck. An old Ford. It was falling apart.

At night, you could hear them arguing. He threatened to kill her. She threatened to leave him. Something had to give.

And, one evening, there was no truck in the driveway. It got later and later, but no truck. He was cursing up a storm. Heard a gun shot go off. Just one. Then there was silence. A real eerie quiet.

They carried his body out on a stretcher. Don’t know what happened to the kids. Some say they lived with her mom out on Pine Road. Heard the daughter never finished high school; worked as a waitress at a bar out by the truck stop.

That trailer sits empty. Nobody wants any part of it. Heard they might tear it down.

I didn’t start this, he said. You’re looking for someone to blame. Look in the mirror, he told her. You’ll find the perpetrator, he poured a cup of coffee. Things got quiet. The television was on. Some guy in a suit talking real low; sound was down.

They’re always trying to sell you something, she said. This one here. Trying to sell reverse mortgages. They force things down your throat, she lit a cigarette. You’re telling me I’m paranoid. Saying I’m starting something with you. What? Out of spite? I just want things done right, the wife told him. Things done right. She pulled the blinds back. Saw the reflection of the TV in the window. A woman wearing a dress. A real pretty woman holding a frying pan. See, she took a drag, they’re always trying to sell you something.

What’s that got to do with anything? he asked. You’re crazy one minute then talking philosophy the next. You just like to hear yourself talk, he said. Crazy. Plumb crazy, he took another drink of coffee.

There’s a light on down the street, she pointed. They’re moving things into that van. In the middle of the night. How peculiar, she kept looking out the window.

Somebody can’t pay rent this month. Got behind on bills.

I remember when we slept in a van, she said. Both of us in the back under parking lot lights at Walmart. Using their bathrooms in the middle of the night. Got cold. Damn cold.

And this is the thanks I get, he looked at her. Put a roof over your head. A bathroom down the hall. Buy you things. And I come home to accusations. Crazy talk.

Things got quiet. There was a man on the TV trying to sell a used car.

There’s nothing out there, he said. Just darkness. Not even a star out. Pitch black, the old man lit a cigarette, threw the match out the window and watched the wind sweep it out. A semi passed them.

How fast you going? his grandson asked.

Speedometer says seventy. I think it’s broken.

Everything on this truck is broken.

When we get there we’ll save up and get another one, the old man looked at the boy.

Where are we going?

California.

Never been there before.

Neither have I.

The boy rolled down his window and stuck his head out in the cool breeze. Corn. The smell of corn mixed with manure got into his nose. He liked it.

Mom and dad never took me on trips like this, he said. We stayed in Decatur pretty much.

This ain’t no trip, the grandfather said. This is a destination. We’re going to stay there.

Where?

In California.

Where in California?

We’ll find a place.

The old man kept driving throughout the night until the sun came up over the mountains in Colorado. The boy was fast asleep. Morning light made towns glow. Streetlights faded out. A police car followed for a little bit, then passed him. He stopped at a flashing red light. Smelled donuts and coffee in the air. Or, was it his imagination.

I’m hungry, the boy said as he woke up. Where are we?

Colorado.

Home of the Rockies.

Yeah.

Two squad cars pulled up behind him. They turned their lights and sirens on. The old man pulled over to the side. Guns were drawn, and the officers told the old man to step out of the vehicle.

It’s been nice knowing you, he said to his grandson.

Do I have to go back to mom and dad’s? the old man nodded his head.

Yep. I imagine so.

They did a fist pump, and the old man got out of his truck. The boy waved as he was placed in the back of the cop car. They just kept looking at each other.