dmseay

They sat in the hotel room. Bed was made. Some floral design. A Gideons Bible was in the drawer along with an opened condom wrapper. The two sat in chairs facing one another. He turned on the television and set the volume down low. The young man flipped around the channels; talk shows, sitcoms, Law And Order, music videos. She picked up the remote and turned it off. The middle aged woman straddled his legs and placed her finger to his lips. Shhhh, she said, then kissed him.

He ran his fingers through her sandy blonde hair. She kissed him harder. The two of them fumbled their clothes off and jumped into bed; laughing, naked. She pulled the blanket up over them. They laid there till morning.

At seven o’clock the phone rang. Both were scared to pick it up. It kept ringing. They both looked at the phone, wishing it would stop. It did.

Do you think it was him? he asked.

I don’t know. Do you think it was her? The tall blonde got out of bed immediately and got dressed. So did he. Are we overreacting? she lit a cigarette. He drank what was left of white wine in a bottle. They sat in silence while there was a knock on the door.

Patti? You in there? the voice asked. You can’t hide from me. Just come on home and we’ll talk about it, he continued knocking. The two continued looking at each other.

The young man reached over and pulled a knife from his pants. He motioned for her to open the door. She refused. Whispered, Are you out of your mind?

Patti? I hear you. Just come on out, he said. She motioned for him to hide in the bathroom. She opened the door. Her husband said, Come on home girl. Come on home.

He wondered what happened to her. Tall blonde with emerald eyes. Last he heard she was out in California. Posing for magazines. That’s what she told him.

They used to talk for hours on the phone; evening till deep into the night. Talked about high school, movies from the past, places they went; the coffee shop downtown, sneaking into bars with fake ID’s. She’d always wear a dress. Made her look older. He grew a cheesy mustache.

Both of them moved on. He got married and so did she. They stopped talking. Didn’t think it was right. She claimed to be madly in love with a screen writer. Some guy who wrote action films. He married a Catholic girl from the Northside. Neither marriage worked out. Both ending in divorce. They began thinking of each other again. They’d look at the phone for hours. Wanting to make that call. Sometimes he’d call her old number just to hear a voice say, disconnected. He’d smile. Took out an old year book and looked at her picture. And, she did the same; a thousand miles away.

Blonde hair turned gray. His head now had a crown. He’d spend his days fishing while she walked upon the beach. Daily rituals kept them alive; alive and alone. Wondering briefly, what could’ve been. Had they just taken a chance.

Quarters rained down from the change machine. Some, bright and shiny whereas others were a dirty gray. Washington’s head chipped away at by time and use.

The young woman counted the silver one by one in her small hands. Placed each coin into the slot and added soap as lukewarm water filled the washer. Her child kept tugging at her shirt.

Here baby, she told her girl, Go getcha something to eat, she said, pointing at the vending machines, the kid took notice.

In front of her was a plethora of choices; candy bars and corn chips. Cherry and cheeses danishes. Juicy Fruit and Blow Pops dangled in front of her as well. Numbers and letters were to be pushed for a choice to be made. The kid studied the whole operation very thoroughly then ran back to her mom for assistance.

What is it child? the tired mother asked. Her daughter, with a fist in her mouth pointed at the machine. You need help? baby girl nodded her blonde head. Both walked over slowly. Hand in hand. The child leading the way. Point to what you want baby girl, the mom said. A bag of ranch style potato chips with a cowboy hat on the package was her choice. You sure now? she asked. The kid nodded her head again in an exaggerated way. Alright then, the mother said. Let’s push some buttons.

Mom held the child up to the panel with one arm. She guided the child’s finger with her lined hand. A 12, the mom said as they pushed on the keys, watching the bag fall from the rack. What is that? she asked her daughter. What is that? both had their mouths wide open. Get it now, she put baby girl on the floor. Go on, get it, the girl pushed open the shoot and grabbed her chips.

Good job baby girl, mom said. Good job. They shared the goods as they watched dirty laundry being tossed in the water. It was another Saturday morn.

Rowing towards land. One last cast. Another chance at hauling in the big one. The boy started to talk. Shhhh, said the old man. You’ll scare em away. Probably why we ain’t caught anything today. All your yapping. All you do is talk, he reeled in his line a bit. There was a large mouth bass out there with his name on it. The old man had him once before, but, it slipped away. That was a few summers ago. Now in November, he gave it one last try.

The boy steadied the canoe. Kept oars on both sides; treaded water. Began humming an old country song he’d heard on the radio earlier that day. He got louder with each sip of beer that he had. Opened another one from the Styrofoam cooler. Took the cold can and rubbed his forehead with it. Getting a headache, he said. Starting to hurt at my temples.

You are a headache, the old man mumbled. Shhh. Can’t you be quiet? Go into a zen like state and shut your mouth, he said. The young man laughed at him.

You actually think you’re going to catch something? he asked. Only thing your going to catch is a cold, he continued laughing at the old man. His father reeled in more and cast out again. Whatever, the boy said.

I’ll cast all day long if I choose, the old man told him. All day long. Best you just keep your mouth shut, the boy rowed a little closer to the bank. He could feel the bottom with his paddle. Row me over there, the old man said. I can feel him, he smiled.

We’re going in pop, the boy said. I’m done with this.

Like hell we are. You row me over there.

Row yourself. He tossed the oars into the canoe. I quit. Can’t take anymore of this…of you.

Boy. Just wait. I ain’t done.

The boy stood up and walked out onto the water. He did not sink. He just glided over the lake. The old man watched him. Huh, he said. Thinks he’s Jesus.

He watched her in the backyard. Playing pattycake with the neighbor’s girl. Opened a beer and continued looking on at the two youngsters laughing at one another. At first they’d start off slow then increase speed till one couldn’t take it anymore. Hands flying in the air. Guided by short arms. He turned his back on them. Drew the blinds. Took a seat at the kitchen table. Opened another beer. She wouldn’t be home for another hour. He watched the clock.

His head was on the table when she walked in with a sack of groceries. She pulled on his long black hair. You awake? she asked. Where’s Penny? picked up an empty Old Style can and threw it in the trash can. You had one job, she mumbled. One job, he lifted his head off the table.

Is she next door? she asked. He nodded his head. Are you sure? he looked at her and then opened another beer. Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those? the young husband walked into the living room. Thanks for your help, she said. He remained silent.

The sun was starting to go down behind trees and churches. Kids feet could be heard crunching leaves as they walked on sidewalks. The evening paper was thrown onto doorsteps by a boy on a bike.

I’m gonna call over there, the mom said. This is ridiculous. He laid in his easy chair watching The Mike Douglas Show. Crystal Gayle was singing, Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue. The audience clapped. He wished he was married to Crystal Gayle. He liked her long brown hair. Her thin frame.

Sylvia? Is Penny over there? You haven’t seen her? Is Jennifer there? She is. I see, she said and hung up the phone.

The young mom went out to the front porch and lit a cigarette. Waiting on her child to come home.

He looked out the back window at acre upon acre of dead grass. Colored brown. No weeds nor flowers. Just dried up land.

Steinbeck came to mind ; The Grapes Of Wrath. Tom Joad heading ‘cross Oklahoma. Going home, but, there is no home. Mile after mile of dirt that runs through your hands. Wind blown ‘cross highways and back roads. A blazing hot sun forever.

The old man walked out to the back porch. A skinny dog howled. His bones stuck through his skin. No water coming from the hose. That got turned off months ago. An old stick was chewed on. Splinters in his mouth. The old man tried to pet him. The dog just laid there crying. Soon this’ll be over, he whispered. The Lord will come back. Take us with him, he said, stroking the ribs on the pup.

The Midwest is no longer the Midwest. Seems like the country’s shifted. Right to left. Left to right. Sins will have to be paid for, he stuttered. We all have to atone. Make things right, he thought. One day a hard rain is gonna fall.

It didn’t feel right. Lying in bed with her no longer felt familiar. She’d place her hand on his chest. Nothing. His wife would sleep with her head on his shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling. Counting. Thinking. This is over.

And, he wondered if she felt the same. She still kissed him goodbye when he went to work. Made his coffee in the morning. But, she no longer said, I love you. They, no longer said, I love you.

At night time the two would sit and watch TV. Cable news. Depressing stories of how the world was falling apart. All four eyes glued to the television. No one said a word. They ate and watched the news in silence. Even the sound on the television was low. He had control of the remote. He always had.

Around nine o’clock the wife would go into the kitchen to make his lunch for the next day. She sat there looking out the window. In autumn it would be pitch black at that time. She stared into darkness.

He fell asleep in his easy chair. She did not wake him. His snoring rang out through the house. She used to laugh at that. Now she just found it annoying.

She walked down the hall to the bedroom. Passed pictures of them when they were younger. Photographs of her parents and his. Everyone had a beer in their hand. Everyone was smiling. She kept on walking. Brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown. No longer were they silky and black. She now wore flannel to escape the cold. Even in summer.

Eventually he made his way back to the bedroom. Sat on the edge of the bed. Placed his watch on the nightstand. Got in under the sheets. He did not look at her. This did not feel familiar.

Mistakes were made. Nothing is perfect. You can try and try and try and it’ll always have a dent in it. Small bumps along the way. Little details forgotten. Leading to a catastrophe. You think you got it right. You comb through it a million times. Where did I go wrong? There’s no soothing the human ego.

She pointed out these typos. Smiled while she was doing it. As if she took some kind of pleasure in it. He had no choice, but, to sit back and take it. Each correction placed a dagger in his heart. He didn’t scream, or, say anything. Bit his lip. He would never have anything perfect. Quality control was lacking.

In bed at night there was no sleep for him. Thinking of the too instead of to. Of they’re as opposed to their. Your, not you’re. These were the things that kept him awake at night while soundly she slept. He’d look over at her. He wanted to blame her for these mistakes. But, he knew he was solely responsible. Should have spent the money on a whore instead of masturbating. Going at these things alone are never best. You need a set of a hundred eyes reading it over and over and over again. The price of perfection is never ending.

On the breakfast table the book sat there. Alone. The cover looked nice. But, inside he knew it was filled with sins; mistakes. These are the things that kill us.

It’s barely noticeable, she said. Half of America won’t catch it. The other half will be unserstanding.

No, he thought. No. That’s the thing about people. They’re always looking for a reason to tear you apart. And yes. I am my own worst enemy.

You gotta come from somewhere, he said. You just don’t show up from nowhere. Outta the blue. There’s gotta be some kind of history about you, he sipped at his coffee and lit a cigarette. A tall waitress came by and filled their cups. They both watched as she walked away. What’re you driving? the young man looked away. You driving a Peterbilt? That’s what I drive. Hauling pigs. Taking pigs to slaughter. You gonna say anything? I can’t do all the talking. Well, I suppose I could, the old man said. It’s polite to join in these conversations. To participate, the young driver just looked down the counter and grabbed sugar packets. Added cream from a small pitcher. Hey. I’m talking to you. Fine. You don’t want to talk. We’ll just sit here. Just sit here.

Time passed in silence. The old man looked up at the clock. Two in the morning. The young man kept ordering more coffee with the pointing of a finger. The redhead server obliged. They’d been sitting at that counter all night long. Both had finished their breakfast. The old man had eggs and bacon whereas the young driver pointed at the picture of pancakes. Dwight Yoakam’s Million Miles From Nowhere played on the radio. The old man hummed along.

Would you be quiet? the young man asked.

He speaks. I was beginning to wonder. Thought you was a mute.

I just need silence, he said.

Understood. We all get that way sometimes. When I’m home I don’t want any noise on at all. Just as silent as silent can be. What’s on your mind? The young man looked at him and did not say a word. Went back to quiet. The silent treatment. I gotcha. See you on down the road, the old man said. Take her easy.

The young man sat there looking at the clock. Watching the seconds go by. Motioned for another cup of coffee. Then he began to laugh. Just quietly laugh. A Johnny Cash song came on. He tipped the waitress and walked out to his truck. Picked up his phone and began to dial. No-one answered. He thought that was a good thing.

Don’t force it; don’t push. Let it flow naturally. Take in your surroundings. Be aware of what’s around you. Question it.

Don’t take anything for granted; don’t think it’ll be there a second later. Do it now. Commit to the action. This thing could slip away from you. Grab it.

Don’t sleep on it; write it down in the middle of the night. Keep a note pad by your bed at all times. Take one with you during the day. Keep it in your back pocket with your wallet that has the condom in it; you might get lucky.

Don’t stop in mid thought. Don’t let anybody interupt you. Keep at it. Ignore those that say it’s impossible. You know the truth. Keep on that path.

Soon there’ll be nothing left to write. That’ll be when you’re 92 and sitting in a nursing home waiting for your diaper to be changed. The years go by quickly. Don’t wait.