dmseay

The mirror in the corner showed his age. A little round in the midsection, lines on a ruddy face, gray hair disheveled.

I’m getting old, he said. My body hurts, and every day, I feel like I’m dying, the old man looked closer in the mirror. I should have taken better care of myself, he whispered. Should’ve quit smoking and drinking long ago, a pack sat on the kitchen table. Have my eyes changed? he asked. I think they’re still the same. Just more wrinkles, he laughed.

He took down a bottle of whiskey from the top of the refrigerator. Poured himself a glass and toasted, here’s to your health, he said. Let’s make it one more year.

What are we talking about here? he asked. Some kind of new law? A new rule for the house? he lit a cigarette, took a drink from a Styrofoam cup with stick figures drawn on it. Here’s the deal. You want something new? he poked him in the shoulder with his right forefinger. I’m in charge. I’m the commander and chief, he told him. Time for new blood. Out with the old. And in with me, five men circled around the two.

Look, the ranch hand told him. You want the reigns? You wanna be in charge? he spit on the dirt floor. You gotta take it. I’m not giving it up. Savvy? Get it? the young cowboy looked at him.

This is a strange place, the old geezer said. Oklahoma is a weird state. Missouri is crazy too. And here we are right on the border where really bizarre things happen. It’s where weird meets crazy, he took a swig of cold coffee. I know these parts. Been around a long time. I know the ropes, the circle of men got smaller. You kids are just passing through on your way somewhere. Maybe onto California or Idaho. Not really sure. But I know you won’t be here come winter time, he said. Me? I’ll be here long after you’re gone. This coup attempt is about to come to a close, the old man put up his dukes. New blood? I’m the old and the new. I am the light. I’m alpha and omega kid, the circle got tighter. Boys, give us some room, the old man said. But the circle of men wouldn’t budge. I said give us some room.

Look old man, the punk said. You’re not in charge of anything. I’ve had enough of you. Men. I say crucify him. Nail him to the cross, he walked away.

Stones were thrown at him. A bull whip was used on his back. They beat him till he was on his knees, begging for the world. A crown of sticks and weeds was placed on his head as they carried the old man out to the barn yard. Laughing at him. Calling him names. Mocking him. A death sentence was carried out.

And as the sun went down, the old man looked to the heavens and said, Father. Why have you forsaken me?

Crumbs on his shirt. Donut particles. A ring on the table where a coffee cup sat. No coasters. An empty pizza box on the linoleum floor. Pieces of cheese stuck to the bottom. It is dark. And quiet.

Shadows are cast on the ceiling from the oven light. An unlit candle tempts him. He plays with the black wick and lights it with his cigarette. It smells of pumpkin pie. Cinnamon and nutmeg. The flame dances a bit.

There is not much left for him. The old man has thrown most of his possessions away over the years. Old pictures of a past life. Telephone numbers and addresses. Objects from trips out West. An arrowhead he found in the desert. Nothing meant anything anymore. He wanted to erase all memories. Thoughts of her. This life was coming to a close.

There’s only one way to forget, he thought. Move on, the old man whispered. He took a drink from the whiskey bottle on top of the refrigerator. Old Paddy’s. Screwed the top back on and licked his thin lips, walked down the hall with bare walls, and entered his room where there was a shotgun under the bed. Life compared to death for him seemed worse. He sat on his bed watching the television in silence. Johnny Carson was talking to Angie Dickinson. He could tell they were flirting with each other. He knew that John had a crush on her as he did with all his women guests. He laughed. If only he could be Johnny Carson, he thought. Life would be easy. The old man pulled the trigger.

What time did you say it was?

It’s five.

What’re you doing up?

Couldn’t sleep. Up all night. Strange dreams. Uncomfortable in my skin, he said. There’s a lot of people up at this hour, he rolled a cigarette. Factory workers, waitresses, cops working on a homicide, ambulance drivers carting off corpses, he walked over to open the blinds.

You don’t have to be anywhere, she said. Those days are over, she touched his shoulder from behind. Your days of worrying are over. They should be, he shook his head.

It’s the little things that eat me up, he told her. Worry about little things growing into big things, he laughed. Like, what if I lose my mind? Go crazy? Start forgetting things. No longer able to drive through town or on pretty country roads in autumn. It all just scares me, she wrapped her arms around his waist, kissed the back of his shirt.

We’ll be fine, his wife said. We’ll be fine.

Clothes had piled up in the corner. Dishes unwashed. Carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in years. Cobwebs in corners. Tables with dust on them.

On the walls were spray painted stick figures in blue and red. One of the paintings was a man with a knife in his hand above his head. The other was a woman with a gun. Both taunting each other. No words written. Just man and woman threatening each other. No action. Just staring each other down. Waiting for the wrong move.

That’s how he remembered it. His wife with a gun and him with a knife he’d pulled from the drawer. He knew there was a bullet in the barrel. He put it there. Just one.

And he remembered the silence. Her creeping backward out the front door. She had the gun pointed the whole time. He saw her get in the truck and take off.

I loved that woman, he whispered. I loved that woman.

You alone?

Yes.

What are you doing?

Looking out the window at a tree across the street. Been watching it every day. Seeing colors change. Now they’re yellow. Maybe soon they’ll be red. Or maybe a pretty rust color before they turn brown and die, only to be raked into a pile by the curb.

You’ve put a lot of thought into this.

I like watching things change. Nature changes. People change. The culture of an entire nation changes. The old ways. Line them up and shoot them down. Bury them. Turn them into mulch. Yes. I like watching things change.

That’s quite a sweeping statement, she said. Have you changed? she asked. Or are you the same as you were back then? Back when we were married. You used to watch the trees change back then, too. We’d go for long drives in the country in that old pickup truck. I loved that truck. Old. Comfortable. The seats were worn in. Fit was perfect. And the windsheild wipers never worked, she laughed. It’s a wonder we never killed anybody, they both laughed. But those drives were special. We’d wind up at some country store where they sold scented candles, large colorful lollipops, apple butter, all this crap you didn’t need, but we bought it anyway.

I remember.

You used to point out the types of trees to me. Oaks, hickory, cherry, birch. We drove past apple orchards where you could pick your own. We never did. Too lazy. We just bought a basket.

Right.

Do you go on drives with her?

Sometimes. When the seasons change.

Just like us?

Yes.

Some things never change.

I imagined it. Saw you standing in the mist, breathing into your hands, a red stocking cap on. You said, I’m cold. Told me you were freezing. Snow covered the plaid coat you were wearing.

We walked through the forest. Pines shimered in white and green. Birches with chipped bark seemed like old friends. Our feet made paths.

Dogs howled in the distance. An owl sat in a tree. You took my hand. Nightfall came.

A fire was built. Brilliant colors of orange and blue rose in the flames from the chopped oaks and hickory. We sat side by side. You only coughed a little. Seemed like you were barely sick at all. A bottle of chianti was passed between us. Your body was warmed by it. This is what you wanted. A final goodbye. Just the two of us. The pills were taken, and a kiss was had. It was time.

Cancer sucks, you said. We laughed. You hugged me and fell asleep. Never to awake. Goodbye, my dear love. Goodbye.

Time ran swiftly through his fingers. The old man sat with his whiskey and pondered. Outside, kids dressed in costumes knocked on doors and yelled, trick or treat. He left the porchlight off. Spent time reflecting.

Some are too busy to think of the past. Their lives are constantly on go. Jobs, careers, social engagements, always looking for the next adventure. That was never the case with the old man. He spent a lifetime looking backward in the rear view mirror of an old Ford truck. The bed rusted out. Headlights on dim.

The ice in his glass melted. Kids had gone home to divy up their treasures of the night while the old man sat in darkness, waiting for memories to stop. Women who had come in and out of his life, being raised by mom while dad worked in the factory, taking trains across country, never settling down. Always a step behind normal. Seems to be the question in America: What is normal? He asked himself this and smiled.

Maybe in the next life, he whispered. Maybe in the next life. He walked down the hall of his trailer and crawled into bed. Dreamed of a night in Dallas, watching women dance and climb on poles. Glitter in the air. Neon lights blinking. A redhead whispering in his ear, it’ll be alright. It’ll be alright.

Her voice soothed him in his sleep. Time ran swiftly through his fingers. Morning was always around the corner. And that’s what he was scared of.

I watched as he pulled into your driveway; brushed his hair back, put out his cigarette. He checked his look in the mirror. Stretched his mouth out, picked his teeth.

He had roses. Red. The kind you give lovers, carried them in his left hand. A bottle of wine was held in the other. Some kind of chianti with the basket around it. After drinking, it would be made into a candle holder with wax dripping down. Something cliché like that.

His knock on your door was soft. Almost indecisive. Did he want to be there? He knocked again. This time, it was a little harder, put the wine down, and made one more sweep through his gray hair.

And then, you opened the door.

What did you do to him? she asked. He hasn’t spoken in three days. Almost a week, he continued looking out the front window at cars driving by. Fords, Chevys, a Dodge, some pickup trucks and old beaten down station wagons hauling garbage in the back, went by on a dimly lit street. He’s back in his room. Go talk to him, she told her husband. I don’t know what you said to him, but it’s had a profound impact on him, he lit a cigarette. You have to smoke so early in the morning?

It’s what I do. I go to bed, I light up. Wake up, I light up. Smoke whenever I damn well feel like it, he coughed.

Right, she nodded her head.

In the cabinet was a bottle of Paddy’s Whiskey. The old man poured himself a glass. It was about half full. The whiskey glistened in the flourescent light. The long bulb overhead in the kitchen flickered. He looked up at it and shook his head. One more thing to fix, he said. This trailer is falling apart. Little by little, things are coming undone. And does he help out? No. He does not. He’s old enough to do some things around here, the grand dad said. Ever since we took him in, he’s been nothing but a problem. Stays out late. Sleeps all day. It’s not what I said to him. He’s just stoned out of his mind all the time. Gone. As if he were on a different planet, he said.

He looks up to you. Always has.

That boy doesn’t look up to anybody. He’s just barely here.

You don’t think his mother leaving him had anything to do with it?

She left all of us. I won’t talk about it. Another druggie. He’s going to follow in her footsteps.

Down the hall, his door opened. A dissheveled kid in his teen years walked up to the kitchen where the old man and grandma were silent. The three looked at each other. The boy pulled the milk from the refrigerator and drank from the jug. Wiped his mouth. Looked at the old man. I am going to end up like her, he said. What that is, we don’t know, but I’ll end up like her, he leaned on the counter. Sooner or later, we all got to die. And that includes you too, old man, he said. That includes you, too.

The kid walked back down the hall and shut the door to his bedroom. The two grandparents looked at each other in disbelief. It was silent for a moment or two. Quiet.

No one’s going to tell me that I’m going to die, the old man said. No one. Who does he think he is? Delivering some sermon half-baked. And it’s not what he said, but the way he said it. Cocky.

He is right. We’re all going to die someday.

I suppose. I suppose.