dmseay

The blinds were open. Everyone could see their business. A young, shapely wife walking around in nothing but a tee-shirt. Some dude smoking a joint and cleaning his shot gun; always holding that gun. And when he wasn’t holding it, the thing sat in his lap while he watched television all day long. Talk shows about people cheating on one another. Chairs flying around stage. Women crying and clawing each other’s eyes out. Cat fight TV.

At night, when he went to work at the factory, she’d sit in front of the glass sliding door naked, polishing her nails firey red. Adding lipstick of a bright pink, and brush her hair out. Boys around the neighborhood would watch from behind shrubs. One boy claimed it was better than his dad’s Playboys. They’d sit in wonder the whole time.

Every evening, except the weekend,when the moon came up, an orange Charger would pull into their driveway. This tall black man with long twisted hair would get out and go inside. Car stayed there all night until early in the morning when he’d come out and drive away. Same time every Monday through Friday. They’d blow each other kisses as he pulled out of the gravel driveway. A sweet goodbye.

A gunshot was heard around midnight. The dude’s rusted pickup was behind the Charger. A boy said he saw him walk into his house with the shotgun. Said he got it from his rack on the back, cracked, window, and then slammed the door. The boy also said he saw her lover lying there on the back deck of the house. Morning revealed a pool of blood on the wood.

A light is on over the stove. Smeared grease. A cinnamon scented candle burns on the kitchen countertop. The dog sleeps under a metal table. He measures out coffee, one scoop at a time, adds water, and waits.

Out of the kitchen window, he sees the sun come up. It dances above the first frost. A squirrel scurries cross the backyard. Coffee is almost ready. The fat man puts sugar in a cup and adds creamer. He pours the dark liquid and stirs with an old spoon his mother gave him. She’s long since gone. Leaving behind the trailer, he lives in by himself. No wife, girlfriend, or children, just him alone doing what he does every morning. He blows out the candle.

Daylight is not kind to the lined face man from Fort Wayne. The shades are pulled down. He doesn’t want to see outside. And, he doesn’t want outside to see him. Cigarette burns on carpet. An ashtray over flowing. His hound kisses him and licks his ruddy face. Soon, it will be dark.

It is now night, and streetlights shine down on asphalt. Moms are yelling for their children to come home. Dinner time. The middle-aged man sits at the kitchen table eating a TV dinner consisting of fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes, and an apple cobbler. An Old Style sweats in his hand.

He listens to the local college radio station. Jazz is played by kids who are learning about Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Cannonball, and Bird. His roly polly fingers tap to the beat of Ray Brown’s bass line, feeding his dog scraps of bread by his side. The fat man has always shared with his fellow man.

Music continues to play. Eddie Gomez is playing with Jack Dejohnette and Keith Jarrett. Jarrett whines over keys hit by his bony fingers on the song Autumn In New York. The fat man laughs and claps to Jarrett’s howling. A squeaky young voice comes on and says, it is 3:00 a.m. The fat man rests. He closes his eyes for a couple of hours and dreams.

Trash burned out in the backyard. Pieces of black ash floated in dawn’s light. A dog tied to a pole barked as cars drove by. Gutters falling off the side of the house. Paint chipped. His rusted Ford pickup sat in the driveway on concrete blocks. The old man looked at all of this. What a lucky man I am, he said. Lucky.

The trashcan was overflowing. Cans of beer in a cooler on the front porch. A bottle of Wild Turkey hidden behind the toilet. His wife inside making dinner; pinto beans and cornbread. She looked at her husband swinging in a chair under a tree. What a lucky woman I am, she said. Lucky.

Years ago, the Harvester plant shut down. Assembly stopped. A lot of people moved on. Left town. He took a job at the local grocery store. She worked in the elementary school’s cafeteria. They put in their time; not much to show for it; two bad backs from lifting boxes of food, washing dishes, mopping floors; there is nobility in work. Is there not?

At night, they gave thanks before they ate. Asking for forgiveness and telling God how lucky they were. Lucky. Lucky.

He snuck out in the middle of the night. Quietly, he placed some clothes in a gym bag and walked out the back door. A streetlight cast light on the middle-aged man as he walked over frozen snow crunching under his boots. I’m done, he whispered. Time to leave yesterday behind.

And what was yesterday? A sexless marriage? Nagging wife? Ungrateful children? Work that was unrewarded? All of it, he muttered with a cigarette dangling from his lips. All of it.

The husband could not wait for a divorce. He didn’t tell her of his unhappiness. Money was left for them. That’s all they cared about, he laughed. Buy this, pay for that, he said, standing, waiting for the bus. They’re all children waiting to be changed.

Going downtown, he noticed all the shops and bars closed. Places he used to go to. The bookstore, where he bought Moby Dick had a light on inside. The owner often slept there. The middle-aged man would miss talking to him about literature, politics, and life. He waved at the store as the bus went past. The downtown diner was open. The fat man went there every Saturday to write in his journal over cups of coffee during his younger days. Now, he could write all the time if he chose; the freedom of being alone.

As he walked into the Greyhound station, he saw her there along with their two teenage children; the boy yawning and the girl looking at her phone.

And the wife? She had her arms outstretched. Saying, welcome home.

Christ Lives was spray painted on a brick wall facing the alley. Bums sat underneath the graffiti, drinking cheap bottles of red, proclaiming it to be the blood of Jesus. Old moldy bread chunks torn apart represented the savior’s body.

They read from the book of John. Prayed and crossed themselves. Sang Amazing Grace. Drank some more wine. Gave thanks.

The mission had nothing to do with their kind. Heads of the church said they were drunks. Uncleansed in the eyes of the Lord.

Whores walked by. Men fished in the dirty river. Vagabonds turned two fish into twelve. There was no bed for them to sleep in. A stone for a pillow.

And they begged just as preachers beg. Clothes in rags. Lice in hair. Prison tattoos. A life nearly over. Waiting. They were just waiting.

The two stood apart from each other; looking at one another across a room. Refrigerator hummed and colored pictures of naked women hung on the walls. Their eyes were focused. They did not make a move.

A gun was on the table next to the old man, and a butcher’s knife was held by the son. The radio played an old Tom T. Hall song. The father hummed along. It was a song that went, And I love you too….the boy’s hands were sweating.

Go on boy, dad said. Come at me. I’ll shoot you just like I did your cousin. Blood don’t mean a thing to me. Just as soon see you dead, he told him. The old man picked up the gun.

You had no right to kill that boy, the son said. Not even out of high school, he yelled.

Shhh, Pop said. That boy was stealing from me. He’d come over here and make nice, then rob me blind. Meth heads. All they do is ruin things. Families, communities. This trailer park was a lot different before they started cooking that shit up. Kids played on swingsets in the park. Now they don’t come out at all. Moms walk them to the bus stop.

He needed help.

Horse shit. That’s what they all say. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for them, the boy moved in closer to the old man. He could smell the beer on his breath.

Put the gun down dad.

Put that knife down, the boy shook his head. I guess what we got here is a real Mexican stand-off, the old man laughed.

You shot him in the back.

He was getting away.

I’m going to walk out of here. Are you going to shoot me in the back?

Have you stole from me? the boy shook his head. Then you got nothing to worry about.

The boy opened the door. Tossed the knife on the table. It bounced to the floor. The old man picked it up. His son looked at him. Asked, do you believe in forgiveness? the old man whispered no.

He shut the screen door behind him. Got in his Dodge. The old man watched him drive away.

I looked at him and saw nothing. No hair nor face, hands, and feet were missing, too. Just an outline was all that existed. But, I felt his presence. His warmth wrapped around me. A soul I could not deny.

How long? he asked. How long have you been waiting? the spirit looked right through me. An eternity? I nodded my head in silence. Has it been in fear or love? again, silence.

These days of waiting. Long days into night. Death insight. Looking through to the other side, but scared to make that jump. It is the leap of faith, he said to me. Letting go of this world and entering a final destination where troubles are cast aside and love abounds, invisible arms reached out to me. Make that jump, he cried. Do it.

Asleep for so long. Wanting to see. To walk again. Overcoming death in this life. These dark days. Where hour upon hour the flesh is toyed with. Evil lurks.

But in the valley, it is green. New beginnings, the ghost whispered. Your days of longing will be over.

Will they? I thought. Will they? If only I could take that leap of faith.

Quiet. Nothing said. Let this hour exist. Communicate telepathically. Thoughts bounce off each other. Lips not moving. Just looking. No crimes committed. Sins weigh heavy.

I had seen her before. Long ago in church, lighting a candle. Crossing herself. Praying. The beauty of that, I thought. Real solace. Peace.

Watched as she walked in sunlight. Her apple skin shining, glowing. Following her steps. Gliding above concrete. Ascending to the heavens. Her time was done.

Hear that? he asked the stranger in his bed. Train. Comes through here every night, she placed her head on his chest. Sometimes late. Other times early, he said. Always after midnight, a finger drew circles on his stomach.

You ever just wanna jump on it? the skinny blonde asked. Just leave town? her leg crossed over his.

I think about it, he played with her hair; twisting it. Then the alarm goes off. Another day starts. The train is long gone, she rolled over and lit a cigarette. I think about a lot of things, he whispered. About being with someone you love. Some kind of commitment. Tired of the same old, he stopped.

Why did you ask me to come home with you?

Didn’t want to be alone.

Me neither.

I’m glad you’re here.

Me too.

Listening to Bird play his plastic saxophone on an autumn day. I stroll through the park and watch squirrels collect acorns and boys kiss girls. Horse-drawn carriages carry couples, waving as they pass by; blowing kisses at peasants, laughing.

Bird blows How High The Moon, and I drink coffee from a paper cup. Count change in my pocket. Hum to the tune. How high the moon? Broke again. Broke again.

Do Not Feed The Pigeons, the sign says. Jim Carroll called them “rats with wings.” I watch them as they coo. Listening to their song as Bird hits his final note. They bob their heads, and I nod.

Trane comes on and preaches Central Park West. I walk over streams and look at fields covered in picnic blankets. Men and women feed each other strawberries and cream. Drinking cups of Champagne. Smiling.

You can never look back at the past. You have to be happy in the moment, she reminds me. Yes, happy in the moment. Taking in each moment.

It’s 8:24. Twenty-four past eight.