dmseay

Once you’re dead, that’s it, he said. They stick you in a box, or they place you in a jar, but that’s it; you’re gone, the old man told his son. The two of them sat there looking at each other. The boy got up and got two more beers from the refrigerator. Walked back and sat in the middle of a sagging couch. The boy and the old man looked out the window at the trailer next door and saw strange men coming and going every hour on the hour. Broad daylight. She’d answer the door wearing a slip. Invited them in. The two of them just laughed at this.

Yeah. Once you’re gone, where do you go to? the son asked. I mean, are you saying we just stay put in the ground? Or, burned to ashes? I’m not quite sure I like the way that sounds, he said.

It was getting close to evening time. Five cars had pulled up into her driveway throughout the day. All kinds of cars. Fords, Chevys, a BMW, a RAM truck. They saw her turn out the light in her trailer. I guess she had a long day, the boy said. The old man nodded his head, yes.

Will where else would you go? the old man asked.

Heaven. Hell. Depending on what you did in this life. Maybe based on the sweet love of Jesus. Maybe God’s wrath.

Nah. I’ll just stay in my pine box, the old man said.

The porch light next door came on. She was standing out there with the wind swaying her black slip around. She was smoking a cigarette and singing a song. Some old Joni Mitchell song. Then she went inside. A car pulled up after that. A man got out. He stayed awhile.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was April. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas? He asked where all the snow was?

The grass was green, I pointed out. Blossoms were on trees. Dogwoods and Japanese maples were turning from death to life. But, he still asked what I wanted for Christmas?

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him the birth of Christ celebration was months away. Now was the time to praise him for conquering death. I wanted to tell him that. But, he wouldn’t understand. His was a world of imagination. The mindset of a five year old. A forty-five year old man with Sesame Street characters pinned to his walls.

If he wanted Christmas in April, then I’d give him Christmas in April. Why not?

The next weekend, I saw him at the nursing home. A fake, small tree fully decorated was standing in the window of his room. He had cards he’d made from construction paper in red, green, and gold. He signed his name in big letters on each one. He asked me again what I wanted for Christmas? I told him, a coffee mug. Just a coffee mug.

He grabbed his mug from the shelf. Asked if I would help wrap it for him. I did. Then he turned to me and smiled. He said, open it. I tore the paper off that we had just placed on the mug. Merry Christmas, he said. Merry Christmas. I thought I saw a snowflake.

He looked over old notes written from the road. Letters intended to be sent to her. Placed in envelopes. There was even a stamp on them. Ones with Elvis on em. She liked those.

But, he never could get the courage to send the letters out. He’d throw them in the trunk of his car; piled high, a mountain of white envelopes with the address in blue. He wasn’t even sure if she lived in the same place.

The middle-aged man sat in a rest area off 80 in Iowa. He opened the letters one at a time. Reading them while the radio was on. Some song about El Paso was playing, followed by Patsy Cline singing Crazy. The letters were written in red ink. Red was her favorite color. He drew hearts with arrows through them. Little cupids on the lined white paper. At the end ,he always wrote, Love, Jimmy, with an exclamation point.

He’d been everywhere. Vermont, where the mountains were green in spring time and New York, where they were golden in fall. Drove through Pennsylvania Dutch country amongst the horse-drawn carriages. Men wearing hats and women wearing dresses down to their ankles. Drove into Ohio. Stopped in Cleveland to collect his thoughts. He was thinking of heading south, but instead pushed on through to the West. Was bound and determined to see the ocean. He settled on Iowa.

No more money for gas or food. Sat there reading letters never sent. Letters professing love. Asking the question, why did I leave?

He lit a cigarette and threw the burning match into the trunk of the car and watched as the letters burned. Wallked away with nothing. Leaving his past behind. Orange and blue flames burned, lifting up into the sky like an offering to God. Some things are best left unsaid.

Dostoyevsky sits on the table top. A lamp glows. Black and white photos nailed to walls. Even without color, you can tell she’s a blonde.

Joyce, Mailer, and Kerouac stand on a bookshelf. They look down at albums by Bill Evans, Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, and Miles Davis. A cactus is dying in the window. Too much love. Maybe, not enough.

Simic lies on the bed. He’s been read a hundred times. Still, nobody knows what he’s up to. His sentences are short, to the point. There are sweat stains on the pillow.

I sit in my easy chair, listening to a man read Bukowski. A poem about cats. Soon, it will be dark. And this world is never at peace.

I hear yelling outside. Some guy screaming at his wife or girlfriend. She yells back at him. There is not much love there; just arguing.

A child is crying. I look out my window and see the woman holding the child. She’s waving a finger in her man’s face. The man grabs her hand and swats it down to her side. She raises her hand, and he grabs her wrist. The child is squirming. She places the baby on the concrete sidewalk and then pushes the man with both arms fully extended. The child screams louder. He picks the kid up, and she tells the kid to shut up. He walks away with the child. The mother hits him in the back. He keeps walking. She follows them down the street. In the distance, you can hear nothing. Just three people walking away. Crossing at the corner. A dog barks.

The sun is going down. Remnants of snow are melting. A cop car passes by.

We ate pumpkin pie ice cream in the spring. It felt like fall. Other couples at the parlor had rocky road, pistachio, moose tracks, blueberry cheesecake.

We wanted chilled winds to blow through our town one more time. Leaves to rake. Ripples in the river. Sweaters worn.

She said, I’m not ready for summer. The heat. The violence, I nodded yes. Every summer there’s always a tragedy. Someone is killed for a stupid mistake, tornadoes rip apart towns, the war marches on, she told me. What will this season bring this year? she asked. I shrugged my shoulders.

I got a blanket from the car. We sat on a park bench, looking at cherry blossoms on trees. She placed her head on my shoulder. Let’s enjoy it while we still can, I said to her. This weather. This life. Take it in one more time, we sipped on pumpkin flavored coffee. The wind felt good.

Questions were asked. A few answers given. Really not answers. More like a response. Said something just to be saying it. Most of the time, he sat there quietly. Maybe he was plotting. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to get out of it. They’re always thinking of a way to get out of it.

Where’s your license? the detective asked. The suspect sat with his hands on the table. Don’t you have a state id? He shook his head no. No documents?

Mr. I ain’t got nothing but the clothes on my back, he told the officer. What’s all this about anyway? Have I done something wrong?

We just want to ask a few questions.

Questions?

Yeah. You know. Get to know you, the suspect went back to silence. How long you been living in that condemned house over on 85th Street?

Don’t know. Time slips by me.

Could you tell me what day it is?

Nope. I could not. They all mingle together. All of em mixed up. Saturday’s Monday and Wednesdays are Fridays. I’m very confused most of the time.

You know how old you are?

I don’t know. Forty? Forty-five? I quit counting.

Tell me how you tore your shirt. Get in a fight?

No sir. I ripped it on a nail in the house.

Is that where the blood came from? the detective pointed to the dried black stream lining his arm. I’m going to show you some pictures. You tell me if you know any of these guys. OK? he nodded his head. Brushed his red hair out of his face. He looked at the photos, mug shots. Any of them? he shook his head, no.

You ever hurt anybody?

Don’t know.

Your record says you have. Assault. That’s been a couple of times. Bar fights?

Can’t remember.

No id, huh? Just walk around New York like a ghost? he laughed. Are you a ghost? None traceable? Something that can’t be seen?

I suppose so. I suppose so.

How long you been homeless?

Not sure.

Where are you from?

I forgot. I came here on a bus. Used to sleep at The Port Authority.

That place can be a real shit hole.

Yes sir. Yes, it can.

Do you want to go back to Bellevue? Stay there till we get all this cleared up?

I guess, he said. Sir? Did you ever think you were losing your mind?

Every day. Every day.

I don’t sleep much, he told her. Dreams wake me up, he sat on the side of the bed. I close my eyes with good intentions, and then the movies start, he lit a cigarette.

What kind of movies? she asked.

All kinds. Different kinds. But, they’re all the same theme, he told her. She sat up in bed and lit a cigarette herself. They sat in the dark. Talking.

Sometimes they’re black and white. Other times in color. Vivid colors. Like a Disney movie, they laughed. In all these dreams, there’s a sense of being unprepared. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m on stage and I don’t know my lines, he blew out blue smoke into the black. It scares me. And then I realize. It’s only a dream, she placed her hand on his arm.

That’s what you dream about?

Yeah. Every night. Not knowing what to say or where to go. Lost. A sense of being lost. Always lost.

And these thoughts, dreams, wake you up?

Yeah. And my pillow is soaked like I’ve been running, he crushed his butt. Some kind of race. Running from something or to something. But, never ready. Never prepared.

She looked over at the clock. The red numerals read 3:00. Do you want some coffee?

No thanks. I’m going to go sleep on the couch till morning. You try and get some sleep.

OK. You gonna be alright?

Yeah. I’ll sleep eventually.

Goodnight.

Goodnight.

He watched her pull out of the driveway that morning. The truck stopped and turned left at the stop sign going towards the highway. From there, it was anybody’s guess.

She always said if he kept it up, she’d be gone. The young lady promised him that. Said she wouldn’t put up with his antics. The drinking, unemployment, sitting around the house while she did all the work. The skinny blonde often thanked God there weren’t any children. She prayed while they were in bed together, silently, not to let her go through that. Those prayers were answered.

It was five in the morning when he heard the truck start. He laid there for a minute, listening to the motor hum. Got up and went straight to the refrigerator where he grabbed a beer. Lit a cigarette. And watched her drive away. Bye-bye, he whispered. Bye-bye.

The young man went to his easy chair. Sat in the dark. Took another swig of beer and fell asleep. And, when he woke up, he called out her name. Mary Lynn, he yelled. Mary Lynn. There was no response. Just silence. All he could hear was his own breathing and semis running across the road. She’s gone, he mumbled. Gone. Oh, well. Here’s to being alone.

Silence. There was no sound at all. Nothing made a noise. The refrigerator did not hum. No sign that the heat was on. No air blew up from the vents. Just quiet.

The old man sat in the darkness. His eyes closed for a minute or two, then open to pitch black. The blinds were closed. The shine from the streetlights did not come through. A half moon glow laid dormant.

He walked over to the kitchen. Felt around. Opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. Kept the door on the refrigerator open and saw there were cigarettes on the metal table. The old man closed the door and took a Kool from the opened pack; stumbled around the room and felt the stove handles. He turned one to the left, and a great flame synged his gray hair. He smiled and turned the knob back to the right.

At the table, he sat. In the dark. Alone. He thought of turning on the light. But why bother? It’s in the dark that our imaginations run free, he thought. Silence let’s us hear things, he said.

The heater kicked on. Noise came through the vents. Only for a short time. Then it was back to quiet. It had been silent for a long time.