dmseay

It is not for me to say. He told him. I don’t get involved in other people’s problems. It’s best I keep quiet. He shuffled some papers on his desk. Took a drink of coffee. You know what your problem is? His co-worker shook his head. You want everyone’s perspective. Answers. Answers to your problems. He stood up and looked out the window down below. Cars passing. Cabs honking. Busses picking up old ladies and teen hoodlums at stops. Cop cars cruising. An ambulance or two. You want attention. That’s really what this is about. Right? There was silence. Neither man said a word. 

I’ll go back to my desk now, the salesman said. I’ll figure it out.

You better, the boss told him. You haven’t sold dick this week. I’m not happy. He sat down. Magazine subscriptions. That’s all they are. And you let your personal life get in the way. Get out of here. Go sell something. Anything. Six months. A year’s worth.  Just sell.

The associate walked out and closed the door behind him. He held his head high as he walked past other salespeople. All talking on phones. Some softly. Others loudly. He got to his desk and opened the bottom drawer where a hand gun was stored. He placed it to his head.

Blankets cover windows. Cacti are dying. Old blooms lie on the floor. Dirt is stiff and hard. Water no longer runs. Faucets have been dry for a year or two. No tea. No coffee. Nothing. A hundred packs of Kool-aid wasted.

The bath tub is filled with dirty pots and pans. Cat shit on the floors. No toilet paper. Tiny bits of soap on the sink. He spits in his hands and rubs the small pieces in between them. A dirty towel is used to wipe his hands; his ass.

Outside, the grass is taller than corn stalks. Wild flowers growing in the sun. Summer in Vermont. He sits outside and takes in the coolness of the morning air. It is bright. Wind blows. Lips chapped.

Sometimes, he sleeps outside. It is quiet in Montpelier. No noise after midnight. The town has fallen into a trance. Lights are out. Peace.

His old Pinto sits on concrete blocks in the front yard. Wheels removed. He remembers driving it to Cambridge for weekends with his lover. They walked around Harvard Square and smoked joints the size of an ink pen. Laughing. Sitting in an Irish bar called The Plough and Stars. Reciting Joyce to one another. Reading in silence over a pint. Holding hands.

He now spends his days dreaming of old times. Years gone by. He doesn’t wish for the past. Nor the future. Looking out over Montpelier. He just wishes it would end.

The fan overhead is dusty. Hasn’t been cleaned in years. There is mold in the refrigerator. No food. Just black mold. The recliner is torn. Ashes in the fireplace. A Bible atop the mantle.

Coffee is on the stove. The kind cowboys used to make. Grounds between his brown teeth; some chipped and broken. He drinks and says, good.

A breeze comes in through the window. He stands there and lets the wind hit his wrinkled face. It is a warm breeze on a spring day. Easter will be here soon. Christ rose from the dead. A stone removed.

The old man remembers this story from his childhood. He smiles. Cups his hands together and gives thanks. Prays for forgiveness, though no sins have been committed. Crosses himself and says, Amen.

The meek shall inherit the earth.

A couch with thick pillows on it. Blankets unfolded. TV remotes between the cushions. He lays there thinking of how to tell her. Mention that he is  no longer in love. Bring up that he is leaving.

A bed upstairs where she lies with dogs. Hand sewn sheets they bought from the Amish. Wood framed chest of drawers hiding secrets; her side and his. She takes a bottle of vodka out from under the bed. She drinks it down and closes her eyes, hoping a mixture of booze and muscle relaxers will do the trick this time.

The television is turned on. Sound is down low. Almost inaudible. He flips through channels. Black and white movies on a couple of stations. Here’s looking at you, kid. 

He can’t get over Bergman’s beauty. The coolness of Bogart. Play it again, Sam. This husband begins to laugh. If only I was that cool, he mumbles.

She is silent. Eyes closed. This wife is ready to meet her maker. The dogs whine. A blanket is pulled up over her face.

It is five o’clock in the morning.  They are both asleep. He dreams. Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.

  

Christmas lights of green, red, orange, and yellow on the house next door. A blow-up Santa on a sled in the front yard. A green wreath with bells on it. Baby Jesus lies in a manger with Mary, Joseph, and wise men. Snow-covered straw.

A moving truck was in their driveway two months ago. A cop car with lights on parked across the street. His pickup was gone. She held her child’s hand as the movers loaded toys, beds, tables, clothes, kitchen items, and chairs. A fake tree stood in the window untouched.

He was never around. At night, his truck was there, and in the morning, it was always gone. He’d leave when the sky was still dark and the sun was just peaking through clouds. Cold mornings with frozen windows and heavy exhaust. The whole neighborhood could hear him scraping the windshield. Driver’s door slammed shut.

Used to watch her load the baby up in her car at lunchtime during the week. Other than that, the small blonde was a ghost. My wife took a watermelon over to them when they first moved in. She said thanks and immediately shut the door. Only time she ever said a word.

Her car was parked in the driveway this morning. So was his truck. The blow-up Santa was deflated. Baby Jesus was missing.

Do you know what you’re talking about? He asked. All this coming from your mouth. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Sounds, not words. He spread marmalade on his wheat toast. Noise. That’s all you make. Noise. The cop took a sip of coffee.

You’re not listening. His partner stated. You don’t hear me. The fat police officer told him. You’re a narcissist. Toxic. This job has gotten to you. You should quit. Get a job at a mall. Sell shoes. Maybe dress suits to women. You’d be good at that. You speak their language. He leaned forward. His tie drowned in coffee.

Right. You are right. The detective said. Using words like some fag. Narcissist. Toxic. Next, you’re going to tell me my masculinity is suffocating you. Right? You are right.

Silence. Cars drove by on Eighth Avenue. Ambulances had sirens on. People marched from 32nd Street to 33rd while others marched the opposite direction.  Each one had to get some place. A meeting with a client. A store. Tourists checking out Madison Square Garden. Frightened, homeless teens walking around aimlessly. Looking for a buck. They were all looking for a buck.

More coffee? The waitress asked. The two nodded their heads. She poured coffee and waved a bill up in the air.

I got it. The fat man said. I’ll take care of it.

Thank you.

 

Tail lights fade. Driving on a flat highway. Orange glow of a cigarette butt in the dark. Radio on a Chicago station. Tom Waits sings, The Piano’s Been Drinking. The music is turned down low. He sings along. Takes a drink of coffee and lights another cigarette. The road is clear.

He’s heading east now on I-80. The Chicago station has been lost in the air, and small-town Indiana stations take over. There’s a woman he longs to see in Detroit. Or, is it Philadelphia? He can’t remember anymore. It’s been so long.

When did I see her last? He asks himself. Nineteen ninety-eight on New Year’s Eve. He laughs. She kissed him. He held on tightly. Arms around her curvy waist. Her blonde hair under his chin. It was Philadelphia, he says. And keeps on driving.

Happy New Year.

Boards warped. Coming up in some places. Cracks. Holes. Old wood that was never sealed.

Dust on windows. Curtains tattered and torn. Heating vents no longer blowing air. A rooster crows.

He sits on a milk crate turned upside down. Beer bottles lined up on the mantle; Old Style, Miller Genuine Draft, Black Label. Some have cigarette butts in them. Others just urine left from long ago. He often contemplates drinking the warm piss. Or pouring it over a cut. There’s magical power in piss, he says. Vikings used it to heal wounds. He goes on. Cleans the blood. It’s antiseptic, he says to a ghost.

The ghost nods. Sits down beside the old man with rotting teeth. Crumbs from month old bread are in his beard. Mold.

There’s no way I’m leaving. He tells the banshee. This is my home, he says quietly. Raised a family here. Had a wife. A couple of kids; a boy and a girl. She used to comb their hair before they went to school. A big yellow bus took them every day. My wife made sack lunches for the kids. Peanut butter and honey were their favorite. They liked pickle loaf, too. A bag of potato chips.

No. I’m not going anywhere. He said. I’ll die here and stay in this house forever.

Just like me, said the banshee. I’ve been here all along. A hundred years. My screams have been silent.

I never noticed you before, the old man said.

You weren’t looking.

A wrench on a concrete floor. Black oil surrounding it. Tires off an old Buick. McDonald’s wrappers and bags balled up in the corner.

The radio plays Glenn Campbell singing Wichita Lineman. He hums along to it. A dog chained up in the backyard howls. The sun is going down.

She calls him in for supper. He turns the radio down. Be there in a moment. He says. The wrench is wiped off with a greasy towel and put away in the Craftsman toolbox. And I need you more than want you, Campbell sings. The old man turns it off and locks the garage door. He’s covered in WD-40 and fluids that smell of rust. Hands cracked. Rough. She hasn’t been touched by him in years.

Pinto beans are on the table with ham hocks and collard greens. A cast iron skillet holds hot  cornbread and butter melts in a tray.

How was your day? She asks

Almost got her fixed, he says. Jesse can pick it up tomorrow.

That’s good. How much are you charging him?

Don’t worry about it.

Minutes go by. They eat in silence. She makes a pot of coffee. He cracks open a second beer. The evening news is on. A magazine sits on the footstool. A picture of a man in a boat catching a large mouth bass is on the cover. The old man picks it up and stares at the picture. He wishes that it was him catching the fish.

She clears the table. Pours a cup of coffee and sits in the kitchen. Wondering when this will be over. The thick woman moves over to the couch and picks up her yarn. She stitches. He falls asleep in the Lazy-boy. Snoring. The dog barks outside.

Where did he take off to? He asked. Always leaving. Never puts gas back in the truck. It’s always on E.

Maybe he’s at Cheryl’s house. She said. He spends a lot of time over there.

Does he? Dad asked. I thought that was just a side thing. Thought he spent most of his time at Brandi’s.

The stripper? Lord, I hope not. Mom poured a cup of coffee. She got down a mug for her husband. Stirred in cream and sugar, just the way he likes it.

Strippers. Waitresses. Check-out girls. He’s got them all over town. Dad laughed.

Like the old man before he settled down.

The old man never settled down. Screwed everything in sight. Drank like a fish. Dad took a drink. He was always leaving, too. He’d take off for Dallas. Houston. Remember that time he called mom from New Orleans? Said he just wanted to try the jambalaya. He was a real slippery one. The cat jumped in his lap. He stroked his back. Rubbed its belly.

Get down. Mom said. You know I don’t like him up by the table.

He just needs some loving. That’s all.

Headlights shined through the curtains. A door slammed. Old, rusty metal creaked.

Gotta oil those hinges. Dad said. WD-40.

The boy walked into the house. He’d been gone for two days. His eyes were red. Breath smelled like turpentine. Had a cigarette between his lips. What’re you two looking at? The son asked.

Nothing. Just looking.

You want some coffee? Mother asked.

I’m going to bed. Long night.

Where’d you go? Dad asked.

Nowhere. Just drove around. Looked at trees. Drove down by the lake. Went and saw a movie at the drive-in.

What’d you see? Mom asked.

W.W. And The Dixie Dancekings.

Any good? Dad asked while laughing.

No. I slept mostly through it. 

Did you see Cheryl? Mom took out a dozen eggs and some bacon.

I didn’t see anybody. Just spent time alone. I prefer it that way. Pretty soon, I won’t be able to. 

Why’s that? Dad drank more coffee. Rolled the liquid around in his mouth.

I don’t know. Things change. Won’t be thirty-five forever.

No. Dad said. No, you will not.

The sun was coming up. Light shined on the wet grass. A dog barked. The cat meowed.

Goodnight, the son said.

Goodnight.

He went into his room. The same one he’d had for thirty-five years. Posters of racing cars and pinups adorned the white walls. He pulled out a gun inside his nightstand and ran his fingers over it, and placed it in his mouth. Laughed a little and pulled the trigger.