dmseay

Give me something to look forward to, he whispered. A surprise when I come home at night, smiled. It’s been a long time. Hasn’t it? she nodded. We don’t even hold hands anymore. Seldom do we kiss. We barely talk. Right? she looked away. What happens to people? They just get tired of each other. Don’t they? Forever and ever Amen, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Blew the gray smoke up in the air. Tilted his head toward her. Leaned in. I’m no longer in love, he said. We’re no longer in love.

She looked at him with those pretty green eyes. The kind of eyes that make a man do crazy things. Like climb trees in the middle of the night to sing to them. Buy rings and dresses. The kinds in those magazines. Makes you settle down. Staying home at night and give up control of the remote- control. Your only solace is a bar you hit on the way home from a job you hate, and it’s just for one beer. Telling your friends, I gotta go. Get home to the boss. She had become his boss.

There was no need for a word to be said by her. All she had to do was look at him. Her eyes said, you ain’t going no where. We got bills to pay. Kids to raise. You’ll leave when you’re told to. Try to and I’ll lasso you.

The price we pay, he said. There’s a cost to everything. How’d things get so crazy? he asked. She threw back her red hair and took a sip of wine.

Kids will be gone soon, she told him. They’ll be gone, and you can leave. Take your truck and just go. But, there’s a price for that too, she said. A big price. A payday. And I intend to get mine.

I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you do.

You were saying?

Nothing. If you’re not going to say anything important, why say anything at all?

No small talk, he said. Speaking about weather, work, some notion that’ll change the world, he spit in the dirt. Everybody thinks they have something to say. Something important. But it ain’t so, the campfire was burning down. People think, if I could just get my two cents in, they laughed. Always trying to get their two cents in.

I’m done with folks, he stoked the embers. An orange glow was all that was left. So petty. Self-involved. The worst are celebrities. Actors, news anchors. They think they’re changing the world. Curing cancer. Always talking their point of view. Hollywood. Hollyweird, he snickered. A bottle of whiskey was passed between them.

No, no, no. It’s the politicians. No matter which side they’re always talking about themselves. Saying things like, I work for the American people, he shook his head. Always working for the American people. Yet nothing gets done. Then they get caught with their hand in the till. Deny everything. Now that’s American, both men laughed.

The sounds of pops came from the ashes. Water was poured on the black wood. The sky was dark. Nothing shined. No stars. No light from the moon. Just two men sitting in silence. Drinking whiskey. Way off a dog barked. Maybe a wolf.

Yeah. I don’t think so, he said. You get to a point where there’s an understanding. A belief. Or lack of one, he coughed, cleared his throat. You believe? he asked. Think there’s something out there? Beyond us? Some kind of holy ghost? he ran his hand through his hair. I’ve never believed. Had faith in anything. I go to bed. I wake up. Go about my day, coughed again; wiped blood from his mouth. My wife says I’m going to Hell. You think I’m going to Hell?

I don’t know. At one point, I thought I knew. But I don’t, he thumbed through his Bible.

What does the good book say?

It says, He who believes in me shall have ever lasting life.

Uh huh.

I’m just telling you what it says. Is it true? What makes something true? Just because you say it doesn’t make it true.

Right.

We open our mouths, and things get more complex. Paul was complex. St. Augustine was complex. Men throughout history. Saying things. Gets down to who you believe, the preacher said. It used to mean something to me now it’s just a job. The only way I know how to make money. Saving souls, he shook his hands in the air playfully.

Are you a fake?

We all are.

But you saw him. Right? He was only a few feet away. Maybe a yard or two? he poured two cups of coffee. One for him and the other for his boy. Was it crowded? You had a clear shot. Yeah? the son nodded his head. Were you scared? What stopped you from pulling the trigger? he lit a cigarette and then handed the pack over. Look. Let’s just calm down, the old man said. Take a deep breath. Breath through your nose and let it out through your mouth, the boy followed directions. Go over how it went. Tell me.

I saw him at the football game.

Up at the high school? the boy nodded.

Then what?

We were in the bathroom. Two of us standing there, taking a piss. He finished and went over to wash his hands. Watched him in the mirror.

Say anything to him? Talk?

No. Not a word. Pulled my gun out. He just looked at me. Looked and laughed. Like I was some kind of joke. Pointed right at him. The bathroom cleared out. He said to me, are you going to shoot? Then he smiled. Said, I didn’t think so, and walked out.

That’s when you came here?

Ran to my car. Heard people saying, he’s got a gun. Just drove off.

Police, open the door, they barked. Another knock. Police. We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up. Up where we can see them, the cop yelled.

The old man looked at his son. You want to get that? Or, should I?

I’m not going anywhere, he said. I got nowhere to go, he pulled out a Camel. What is it about women? You’re always thinking we’re leaving. Taking off. No confidence in yourselves. Or, maybe all the confidence in the world. I dont know, he accidentally blew smoke in her face. She was used to it.

Some men do leave, she said. They just take off in the middle of the night, she ran her fingers through her brown hair and then placed them on his shoulders. Some men get tired…bored with the same woman. They begin to wish she was someone else. Something exotic. Something they aren’t. You wish I was someone else? he shook his head. Maybe you’re wishing I was a blonde? I could dye my hair. Color it. Real blonde like Marilyn Monroe, she laughed. Would you like that? he blew smoke up in the sky and laughed. Perhaps you want me to get a boob job. Big tits? she playfully pushed him. They smiled.

No, he whispered. I like you the way you are, he crushed his cigarette and kissed her. I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere.

His wasn’t a clean life. Pornography and crushed beer cans tossed in piles around the trailer. Pizza boxes littered the linoleum floor. Overflowing ashtrays and burn marks in easy chairs, an old color television picking up reception with rabbit ears, posters of naked women on the walls was the way he liked it. Why change now? he thought. Is Christ coming back? I don’t know, he muttered. I don’t know.

The old man would start his days with a pot of coffee and a cigarette. Lucky Strikes in a pack by his chair. He’d turn on the TV and watch Kelly Ripa in silence. He liked to look at her with her mouth shut. He thought that was the perfect woman; quiet. The old man watched she and her husband laugh at each other for an hour. He had thoughts of strangling him in a dark alley. This made him laugh.

But the reality was he’d never leave his trailer. He sat there all day drinking and dreaming of being with Kelly Ripa. He’d liked her since her soap opera days. Used to watch her on All My Children. He turned the volume down for that, too. The old man had never heard her speak. He just watched her.

And he started to cry because he knew he’d never have her. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He would be alone forever. Alone. Plotting. How could he win her heart? He’d shake his head. Open another Old Style. And curse at the television set. I love you, Kelly. I love you.

A book. Psychiatric medications on a desk. Typewriter is dusty. A coffee cup with pens in it. Notepads with scribblings on them. Scented candles; Tennessee pine, Mr. Goodbar chocolate, lavender. A rock I picked up on the side of a road in Iowa fits in the palm of my hand. Never tossed it or skipped on a lake; kept with me like a mystic’s crystal.

I sit and look around through windows, a small room, pictures on a bookshelf, a copper cup, and my New York City library card. A lamp that sometimes works.

Strange history.

Strange.

I listened to the rain for hours; hitting windows, bouncing off rooftops, shimmering in the blue haze of a streetlight.

Parked on College Street in Montpelier, Vermont. Watching couples kiss as they walk out of bars. Running in the rain. Taking cover under tweed sportcoats, slickers, blue jean jackets. I see them in the glow of neon signs; red, yellow, blue, green. They are laughing. Why can’t I?

Midnight gets lonely. Leonard Cohen sings Hallelujah on the local public radio. I listen, keeping my eyes on the rain. The music goes in and out as thunder claps in the Northeastern sky. Water falls harder. I am by myself.

My girlfriend loved rain. We made love to its rhythm. In the morning light, we slept. Funny how things change.

She left him long ago. Didn’t even say goodbye. Wore a red dress. Had a flower in her hair; a yellow sunflower. Shined off her brunette strands. She just got in the car and went. Hadn’t heard from her in years. Papers were never signed.

When a woman says goodbye, she means it. But what if they just leave? Are they keeping a door open? he asked himself these questions. He wondered if she’d return in the autumn when the seasons changed. If he’d see her again in a white sweater rolling in the leaves. Kissing on park benches.

People asked where she went. Some said they saw her tending bar down state. Others told him to move on. Cousins and kin folk said she was no good. Told him they’d seen this coming for a long time. He just smiled. She’ll be back, the old man said. She’ll come back. Maybe she’ll come again in summer when pines are filled in full. Green needles are prickly. She’ll take my hand, and we’ll walk through the woods amongst oaks and cut hickory for a fire at night. She’ll be back, he said.

Winter came, and death was all around. Frozen brown grass covered in ice. Bare trees and sickly people. He waited until spring when tulips bloomed. Year after year. Telling himself she’d be here any day now. The table was set long ago. Two plates and fancy silverware with wine glasses waited for her arrival. A bottle of red was never opened.

She’ll come back, he said. When the winds die down and there’s a calmness. Yeah, she’ll be back.

Cold in the apartment. Listening to Les McCann and Eddie Harris. Lamp’s on letting off a little light. Not too much light.

Blinds are closed. No one sees in, and I do not see out. Only shadows on the walls and floor. A cactus stands in the window. Tomorrow, it will breathe in sunshine. Night will be over.

No sleep. On WKCR, they’re playing twenty-four hours of Monk. I keep switching back and forth between the tribute/ birthday celebration and old albums I have lined up on my bookcase shelf. Porgy and Bess by Miles Davis, Blue World by Coltrane, Sunday at the Village Vanguard done by Bill Evans Trio. My thumbs are getting dusty. Some of these I haven’t heard for a while. Yet, they have always been there for me in times of need. Loves lost, friends who’ve died, blue days, broken heart, they have saved me. I will forever be grateful.

There is silence outside. Drunks have gone home. Cars parked along the avenue. Leaves fall from trees in the midnight breeze. I hear a train coming through town. It mixes well with Monk playing Straight No Chaser. I pour myself a whiskey. Too late for coffee. Maybe too early. A shot of whiskey cures all; straight, no chaser.