dmseay

What is inside of us? he asked. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, a brain, some form of a soul? he continued.

Watching rain fall on an August morn. He breathed in and out. A potbelly stomach goes in and out as well. His heart beats.

It’s the soul that wanders. Perhaps irregular. Or, maybe it is its regular state to wander. Green trees shine in the rain.

He goes back and forth with thoughts of God. Does he even want to meet him face to face? His breath quickened. A fast pace of the heart. Maybe this is death? he said. But, I see no light. My life has not flashed before my eyes. I have no regrets.

The heart stopped. His eyes stared towards Heaven. Only he knows.

Blood was on his clothes. A perfectly white tee-shirt turned dark red. His hands were shaking. Tried to talk but made no sense. Babbled about how the dude kept coming after him. Said he wouldn’t quit swinging. All this for a girl.

She was a pretty one. Long black hair and high cheek bones; mysterious eyes. Tall girl. She wore jeans and cowboy boots to the local bars. He thought she was all his. Killed him when he saw her that night. Out with some dude from Chicago. He wore gold bracelets with his initials on them, a necklace with a diamond anchor. Had a gold tooth.

It don’t have to go down this way, he said to the boy in the parking lot. I just met her, the dude told him. Haven’t even bought her a drink, the boy pulled out a switchblade his daddy had given him before he died.

The boy went straight for the heart. Started slicing away at the dude’s chest, his neck, and stomach where he jabbed it in and twisted it. Dude fell to the pavement. No one made a sound. The boy didn’t make a sound, and neither did she. They just looked at each other. He dropped the knife.

We met down by the river. I remember waiting for him in the rain. Told him if they caught him he was looking at manslaughter, maybe murder, but probably manslaughter. He didn’t know the difference. He just said, I done messed up this time.

I had a spare plate in the trunk. An old license from a truck I used to own. We switched out plates and he opened the door to the Dodge. He said, I’ll never see you again, lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.

Sometimes, these things happen, I told him. Here, put on this shirt, he threw the bloody one down on the floorboard. You know, I said. That blood is never gonna come out, he nodded, said thanks, and took off.

I ain’t seen him since.

Trees, tall weeds swaying in the backyard. Cushions from patio chairs scurry across green grass. An umbrella shakes and bends. A siren goes off.

He sits in a kitchen chair, watching God’s wrath. Hail comes down. Balls bounce off his Ford. A windshield cracks. The old man shakes his fist at the sky as he has many times before. Cats are getting restless.

The widower opens the refrigerator and grabs a beer. The electricity goes out. He sits in the dark. Lightning makes the sky orange. He drinks his Old Style and pulls out a Marlboro from his pack. His fingers shake as he lights a match; burning down to his fingertips. Calluses have been there for years. Hail has turned to rain.

Thunder rolls in the sky. The sirens stop. He goes to the front door and opens it. Trees are down. Power lines stretch across the street. A work crew is on their way.

Cats sleep now. Another beer is opened. Soon, there will be light.

What’re you doing? Do you know where you are going? Driving like a mad man. Slow down, she said. Pull over. We should be heading east. You’re chasing the sun. The moon is behind us. Pull over, the young woman got out a map.

I know where I’m going, he told her. What time is it?

It’s 8:30.

Are you sure we’re going west?

The sun sets in the West. It goes down in California. Didn’t you learn that in school? Turn around.

I’m lost, he said. I’ve been lost. Never know where I’m going. Never know if I’m coming or going. Never sure. I get confused.

How did you start going west?

You were asleep. I took a wrong turn. Took a wrong turn a long time ago, he laughed.

You can say that again, she looked at the map. Ohio. It’s right there, she pointed. Lima, Ohio. We’re in Iowa heading west.

Yes. I gotta turn around. Start over.

Right. Yes, you do.

Sorry. I’ll get back on the straight and narrow.

I have not seen you lately.

You left years ago.

Time and clouds change.

Rain falls, and I think of you.

Seasons come and go.

Barren trees and brown grass.

You always preferred gold and green.

Life was never simple.

They looked at each other. Hadn’t seen one another for a long time. Just kind of stared.

He didn’t know what to say. She was tongue-tied. Didn’t even embrace.

Others danced to karaoke songs belted out by drunken fools. Some talked about old times. One guy had become a lawyer. The class valedictorian grew up to be a housewife; living on some ranch in Wyoming with her husband and three kids. The quarterback was killed in a car crash. They said he had a drinking problem. A picture of him, along with the other deceased, stood upright on a folding table. Classmates looked on, wondering when their time would come.

And these two kept staring at each other till he finally said, Hello. It’s been a long time.

Yes, she said. It’s been a long time.

Hoping it turns cool soon. Wanting to see colors of gold, rust, yellow. Burnt offerings in backyards.

A first frost. Shining grass. Writing names in hearts on car windows. Taking in Indian summer. Marching bands. Days getting shorter. Apple cider doughnuts. Kids picking pumpkins.

Sitting on hay. Drinking a stout. Starlit nights and you. Long walks. Blowing out smoke. Oh, how I long for autumn.

This is old. This bread is old. And stale. The flavor is gone, he said. Look. Other pieces are turning green. Mold, he tore off bits and examined them. Some kind of wheat bread. When I was a kid, my parents only bought white, he told him. We had bologna sandwiches on Bunny White Bread. Package had a rabbit on it. Some kind of deranged Bugs Bunny type character. Had a big smile on his face. We ate everything but the heels. We fed those to the birds. These black crows and orioles would fly into the backyard and eat the bread. Some would take off with pieces in their mouths. Their beaks holding onto small bits of bread, he lit a cigarette.

We could make toast, the other man said. Pick out the ones that aren’t green yet. Put butter on it. Bring it back to life, he laughed.

Nah. It’ll make you sick, he said. Just throw it away.

My mom used to tear around the mold, then serve it. That’s how poor we were; nothing wasted.

I guess I come from a different class. We threw that stuff out. The birds loved it. Why not share?

All I’m saying is maybe this is all we got, and we can’t get anymore. Not now. Not till payday, he looked in the refrigerator. Moved items around. Old jars of grape and strawberry jellies. Quarter stick of butter. A can of Spam. We got things to put on the bread, he said.

Check the dates.

He looked underneath and on the sides. There’s no dates. But, Spam and jelly last forever.

Are you out of your mind? Nothing lasts forever. Everything expires. Bread expires. Jelly expires. Butter, Spam, us, it all comes to an end. It dies. Keep that in mind.

The other man took a bite out of the old wheat bread. He swallowed it. Smiled. Tore off some more and placed grape jelly on it. Ate that. The Spam stood there in the refrigerator’s door. He opened the can and plopped the whole mass on a paper plate. Smeared it on a slice of bread. Looked at his friend and continued eating. Washed it all down with water from the faucet that he cupped in his hands. Smiled. Laughed.

I hope you’re happy.

Bank statements. Two coffee mugs. Three candles have yet to be burned. Sunlight comes through shades. Dust on the desk is getting whiter. An extension cord runs from the socket to the lamp. Nothing has changed in twenty-five years. Only the rent.

Every day, he sits at his desk in front of a typewriter. Papers are stacked on the side. Unopened packages of medicine in his drawers; maybe he’ll open them one day. Maybe not. He likes being in bad health. Prays for it to all be over with. He has faith in death.

And on the door hangs a rosary with a silver cross on it. Wooden beads that used to run through his fingers as he prayed to Mary. A thousand year old prayer to the savior’s mother. It just hangs there.

The old man looks at it every once in a while. Thinks of his youth. Thoughts of grace run through his head. The walls are blank.

This is not what he wanted for his life. The fat man had different ideas. He never followed logic. Nor was there a path of discipline. He just roamed from one day to the next, writing poems, reading novels, listening to Coltrane. Always hearing garbage trucks outside. Men in Mexican voices speaking to one another. He stared at the white page.

The old man would write and write till he could write no more, then read just a bit, enough to know it was no good. Black letters thrown away. Words tossed aside.

In his sleep, he dreamt of past loves. Women in and out of his life. He would wake and try to write about those dreams about those women. Again, he’d write till the wee morning hours. Again, the sun came through blinds. He looked at the rosary and threw the pages away. Prayed that just one sentence would satisfy him. But they were just words. Just words, unlike Coltrane’s notes ,which were more than just notes. To be that good, he thought. To be that good. I wonder if he ever threw anything away.

It’s not up to you, he said. You don’t make these decisions. I think you’d be far better off if you would just keep your mouth shut, he told him. He lit a cigarette and fooled around with the lock some more.

Who put you in charge? Jr. asked him. What makes you the boss?

I’m the one with the gun, he told him. In case something goes wrong, I’m the one with the gun.

What could go wrong? Jr. asked.

Lots of things. Just point the flashlight.

It’s cold out here, the kid said. Too cold.

Quit your bitching. I can’t see. Put the light right in there. Point it. Do it. Not much time.

Some locksmith you are, Jr. said. This should’ve been done a half hour ago. That’s stretching it. We’re going to get caught. I’m out of here, he told him.

A gun was pointed at Jr. You’re not going anywhere, he said. You move one step, and I’ll kill you. Dead on the spot. Now shut up and point the flashlight.

The door opened. No alarm sounded. No lights came on. In the dark, a gunshot went off. Jr. fell to the floor. Blood ran from his head.The money was collected from the safe. Walking out in the dark, he tip-toed around Jr. He shook his head. Whispered, I told you to shut up.