dmseay

Rabbit ears were adjusted south. The old man kept playing with them. Moving the antennae north and northwest then southwest before sticking to the south. Still couldn’t get a good picture. Blury lines ran across the small black and white TV. Voices were heard over static. He had a hard time making out what the two were talking about. It was Dean Martin talking to John Wayne. Some kind of western movie on the late show. The old man popped open another beer. Boy sat on the couch; laughing.

What’s so funny, the old man said.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Doesn’t seem that way. Something got a hold of you, the father said to the son. Are you laughing at me, or, the TV?

Just laughing. That’s all. Just laughing, the boy said. How old is that television set? he asked, getting up and walking towards the ice box. You only got three beers left, he said. Didn’t you go to the store today? Of course not.

You know. You could’ve gone too. I went last time. A real pain, the old man said. Carrying all those bags on the bus. You never offer to help do you? boy opened his beer beside the old man’s ear. That’s real cute isn’t it? You got beer all over the side of my face. How about a little respect. Would it hurt you to be appreciative?

Appreciative?

Yes. Of all that I’ve given you.

Like what?

A place to stay. To lay your head. Christ didn’t even have that. Wandered around all those years; preaching.

It was three years pop. His ministry was for three years. Then they crucified him.

I know the story, the old man said. I used to tell it to you. You don’t appreciate that either.

What?

The crucifixion. Sacrifice for mankind. You’ve got some kind of twisted mind about it. You’re a non-believer.

It’s a fairytale pop. That whole book is filled with fairytales. Supposed lessons for life, he laughed.

What do you think happens when you die?

You die. They bury you or burn you. Nothing. We go back to being nothing. Just a speck of dust, boy got up to adjust the antennae. What? You think we go to some place with golden streets. Mansions, the old man nodded his head. That’s very American of you dad. You think they have a big shopping mall up there too? they looked at each other for a second or two. Boy went back to playing with the antennae. You want some kind of reward. That’s what you want. For all this misery here on earth, you want some kind of reward.

That’s enough.

It’s true.

I said, that’s enough.

You say you worship Jesus, but, you’re expecting a reward. Totally missing the point. Hell, I’m an atheist and I get that.

Get what?

The whole purpose of Christianity. Pretty easy philosophy. Just believe. Accept Christ as you lord and savior.

You don’t know the first thing about it. Think you’re real smart. I believe, he said. I believe. And, I’ll get my mansion on a street of gold.

The two sat there till morning came. They sat quietly. Didn’t say a word. Just looked at the TV with lines running across it.

He didn’t see her. She was hiding in the closet amongst dresses and shirts. Old shoes piled up. Boxes with Christmas decorations in them.

Come out, come out, where ever you are, the young man said. I know you’re here. You never leave, he lit a cigarette. You think I won’t find you? I always find you, he laughed. I got something for you, he took a package out of a bag. I think you’ll like it, he started walking around the trailer. Noticed there was a pot of coffee turned on. Is this fresh brewed? he asked. Did you make this for us? she started breathing heavy. He could hear her as he walked down the hallway. He sat on the bed facing the closet. Are you done with this? This game you play, took a gulp of coffee. I brought you a present. I’m going to lay it right here on the bed. When you feel like coming out, you come out. Hear me? she sat there in darkness.

An hour passed. He had the TV on. Watching Wild Kingdom. Watching how lions protect their cubs. He heard no movement in the back room. Turned the sound down. Poured another cup of coffee. Kept looking at the screen. The picture was coming in funny. Colored lines were running through the jungle; static. The young man got up and adjusted the rabit ears. Pointed them north.

Nothing works ’round here, he said. You notice that? How nothing works. It’s a miracle I got a cup of coffee. Would you just come out here? Open up that box on the bed and come out here, he said. There was no noise. Not a sound.

The television picture came back on. Now they were showing monkeys in their natural habitat. They too protected their young. He heard the closet door open. Heard the ruffling of paper.

You like it? he called back to her. I thought of you when I saw it. Was thinking you’d like it, he made his way back to the bedroom. Try it on, he said. Go on. Give it a twirl, the young girl looked at the dress. She began shredding it with her bare hands. Ripping it in two. Yelling and screaming. Uncontrollably crying.

That’s the thanks I get, the father said. You get back in that closet, he said. Come out when you have a different attitude, she crawled on all fours towards the door. No no. You get back in there. Not dealing with this today, he told his daughter.

He picked her up and placed her back in the closet. Shut the door. He could hear her sobbing as he went back to the front room. The television was blurred again.

Doesn’t anything ’round here work?

Several hours passed. Alone. Sitting at the kitchen table. Contemplating. What’s next? he asked himself. How much worse could it get? the old man continued. He took a calendar down from the refrigerator. Stuck there by a magnet. Got a marker out of the drawer where there were rubber bands, Q-Tips, steel wool pads, junk collected over the years. He started marking off days till his death, or, what he thought would be. Planned it out. Black exes drawn on dates leading up to December, 1st. He wanted one more autumn. One more birthday. His last Thanksgiving. Just one more November and he would call it quits.

October came along with Indian summer. Warm fall days and cool evenings.The old man sat on his front porch and watched the leaves change. Green to yellow. Red to rust. Piles raked up in yards around the trailer park. Young boys placing them in black plastic bags. He remembered when he was able to rake. Dragging the metal comb over the yard. His father paying him a dollar a bag. The old man smiled.

Maybe everyday in heaven is autumn, he thought. Maybe there’s piles of leaves along streets of gold. Is that true God? he whispered. Is my old dog Norman rolling around in them? the old man laughed. Then he was reminded of why he wanted to depart; joints ached, constant coughing, fat gut, lonely days, not being able to remember simple things, like where he placed the newspaper, the year, felt he was losing his mind.

It was no fun getting old. His wife gone, pets passed away, the old man was by himself. Every once in awhile neighbors would check on him. They’d bring a tuna casserole and make small talk about weather, last night’s football game, did he need anything? He always said he was fine. Just fine; sitting in the chill until darkness came.

November went by quickly. Just like life. One day was the 1st, then Thanksgiving was over. His calendar was all used up. December was here. It was time. It was time.

Neither knew what the other wanted. They used to know. Could read each other’s minds. Tell thoughts without words. They communicated with their eyes. He’d look at her, she at him, and they knew. They just knew.

But, now there was no magic. The old married couple would sit in silence each day. Wondering what the other was thinking. They came close to asking, but, would get distracted; a plane would fly above. Crickets chirped outside. A squirrel running around in the backyard. Their minds would wander. Sometimes forgetting the other was in the room. Sometimes asking themselves, Who is this next to me? The answer was always the same. You can be alone without being alone.

There were old black and white photographs throughout the house. Pictures of when they were younger. She wore a beautiful wedding dress. He looked dashing in his monkey suit. Photos of old cars he used to drive; a ’67 Dart. A yellow Chevy. They asked themselves, Who were these people? What did they do? Were they in love?

And, they sat in silence. Wondering who the other was. Minds turned off. Eyes a million miles away. Souls left years ago. Now, they just waited. For what? They did not know.

He looked around the house. Saw a tear in the leather couch. A rip in the easy chair. Pots and pans piled up in the sink. All the clocks were off by ten, maybe fifteen minutes. And, it was dark. A dim light bulb swung from the ceiling. Mice ran across the kitchen floor.

Some day, he said. Some day this will all be gone, the old man opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer. There was spoiled lettuce and rotted fruit in the bottom drawer. An opened box of baking soda sat in the back of the ice box. Nothing will exist anymore, he tapped the top of the beer can before opening it. Everything we take for granted, he smiled, Will be gone, he took a gander at his son standing in front of the television, adjusting the antennae. You hear me? It’ll all be gone. Everything we worked for. Gone, the old man moved his hands as if he was performing magic.

Which way is north? the boy asked. Or, is it east? he shook his head. Somewhere out there is a TV station with a big dish sending out signals. Awe hell, he said. Why do I even try? the old man handed him a beer. They both sat quietly, watching blurred lines go across the screen.

That thing never worked, said the old man. It’s always been on the fritz, he stared up at the dangling light bulb. The old man grabbed a broom standing against the wall and began toying with the bulb; hitting the cord it was attached to. Making the light swing wildly. It’s all going to be gone. And that’ll be that, he continued swinging at the cord.

Be careful with that pop, the boy said. It’s the only light we have. You bust it and it’ll be dark in here till morning, he told him. And, what do you mean it’ll all be gone? Maybe you want it to end. Put you out of your misery. Is that what you want? the old man now was trying to hit the bulb. He kept missing it as it swung back and forth like a clock.

I’m telling the truth, the old man said. Soon it’ll all be gone, contact was made with the light bulb. A thousand pieces went everywhere. It was nearly pitch black.Colored lines ran across the television. They sat in silence.

Always late. He was never on time. His schedule ran opposite of everyone else. If the old man was supposed to be there at two, he’d show up at three. He’d make you wait. You can drink a lot of beer in an hour. By the time the father showed up, his boy was ready to go home; questioning why he waited for him to begin with? The boy figured it was owed.

The old man and the kid were both night owls. Boy would get to the bar around ten each night. The old man came in an hour before closing. He’d spend the better part of the night walking around town with a pint of whiskey in a brown paper bag. Dad would go from shop to shop looking inside the windows at televisions on sale. He’d watch Johnny Carson behind glass without sound. Lips moving. Johnny laughing in silence. His guests sitting on the couch beside him laughing quietly too.

He walked past the beauty shop and see women’s heads with different wigs on them. Blonde, brunette, redheads on man-made Styrofoam. No eyes, or, mouths. The noses were gone. The old man laughed at this. He’d talk to them. Whisper with his lips against the glass. Drink more. Then kept on walking, stumbling down Main Street. Lighting cigarettes one after another. Talking to himself about the great rapture coming. Jesus will be back soon, he said. All this will be gone in the great fire, the old man would raise his hands to the heavens. He continued his nightly journey. Going into bars for a cold beer on tap. Something cheap. Drank from a frosted mug. Would add salt. The old man would only stay for one. Just one.

Boy sat there waiting on the old man. The bartender knew both father and son well. Around two he’d pour the old man’s beer and set it beside the kid. Thanks Patty, the boy always said. I’ll have another as well, he’d tell him.

The father was always pleased to see a beer waiting for him. The old man made his way to the bar through heavy gray smoke, stepping on peanut shells that made a crunch sound with every movement, sitting down in a pleather chair with a rip in it next to his son; all the family he had left.

Conversation was the same every night. Boy would ask how his evening was? The old man would smile. Told him everything was just fine. He was always just fine.

Waiting on Jesus, the old man said every night to the boy. Waiting on Jesus. He’s coming soon, the dad would say. Any minute now, then he’d lay his head on the bar. The bartender would give the boy that look of it’s time to go. Boy nodded his head. Threw the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him out every night.

Goodnight, Patty.

Goodnight.

I wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Wanted to see what was in the bones amongst marrow and fat. All those promises he made. Never once coming through. I’ll pay you next week, he told landlords. As soon as I can I’ll take care of you, he said to friends. Thousands borrowed. Had good intentions. Just no delivery.

The old man moved us from state to state. Job to job. Never settled down. He’d take a job for a couple of years and get tired of it; either quit or get fired. We’d leave in the middle of the night. Packing the station wagon with only essentials. Mom left pots and pans on the stove. Some gas grill dad had bought got left behind as well. We’ll get brand new ones, the old man said as we left trailer park after trailer park under the moon’s light.

We lived in Mississippi, then Kentucky, moved north to Ohio and Michigan, before settling in Pennsylvania. The hills were green in the spring and had a combination of colors in autumn. Leaves would pile up in the front yard. I raked them into piles then placed all the colors into garbage bags. Dad paid me a dollar for every pile. I was sure to make several.

You’re gonna break me too, he said with whiskey on his breath. Everybody wants money from me, he mumbled. Can’t keep up, he’d take another drink. Every time the phone rang my dad would tell mom, Don’t answer it. Just another bill collector, he said, flipping through channels. Surely they know we can’t pay em, mom would shake her head. The phone never stopped ringing.

I’d run into buddies of his down at the VFW. They’d ask, Where’s your old man at? Haven’t seen him much, they’d smile. I started answering the phone. The trail of debt was miles long. A hundred here and there. In some cases a grand. Time was running out.

When he was dying, I asked him,why he didn’t pay off his debts? The old man looked at me. Did you always have a roof over your head? I nodded. Did you ever starve? I told him no. Did I always pay you for raking leaves?

Impossible

that she waits for me

and not someone else.

Sometimes fortune smiles

on fools.

Of a million souls I was picked

by her (in a country where windmills are slayed).

And, lying in wait, she makes her choice.

Can it be?

Sometimes fortune smiles on fools.

It has grinned at me.

Happy Birthday my love.

Crickets. Heard crickets throughout the night. Sounded like they were inside the house. Loud. Making that sound that crickets make. Singing away. They might’ve been outside my window. Kept me awake.

My dad used crickets as fishing bait. He’d put em on the hook and cast way out. Said bass liked em. And blue gill.

I used worms. Big long red worms. Some were fat and others skinny. Would wrap em ’round my hook and let em fly. A worm soaring through the air. Till it landed in the trees.

You fishing for squirrels? my father would ask. What’re you doing all up in those trees?disgusted that his son was not a fisherman. Cut the line, he said. Cut the damn line, he told me in his Northern Texas accent. Here, he took the pole from my hands. Pulled out a pocket knife from his front pocket. A big knife. With several blades folded into one. Just sit back and watch, he said, cutting the line. Just sit over there and watch how I do it.

For hours I sat and watched him fish. Casting over the green waters of Arkansas. He’d pull em in one after the other. Made me real jealous. Actually, just made me wanna go home.

Heard crickets throughout the night. Thought of dad. To this day, I hate fishing.

He followed the moon. Drove east towards Ohio. Passed small towns; Monroeville, Decatur, on into Lima just up the road a bit.

Kept the radio on an AM station out of Toledo. Came in clear as a bell. There were no clouds in the sky; frequency ran pure. Men and women from all over America calling in to pitch their two cents worth. Talking about the price of gas, groceries,war, blaming Democrats and Republicans, calling for an uprising, a real revolution with guns and militias coming from all over the country. They were ringing a bell. A calling out over radio waves at two in the morning. He checked his gun to make sure it was loaded.

The young man kept driving into early morning. Chasing the sun. Headed towards New York. Took the Lincoln Tunnel into the city. Drove fast in the tunnel. Turned off the radio and listened to sounds of tires rolling on pavement at high rates of speed. No passing.

It was New York City. His eyes wide awake. Open to any possibilities. Bums asking for money. Pregnant women asking for dollars. A sign read, Gotta get back to Jersey. The young man drove around Manhattan not knowing where to turn and where not to turn. Wound up in the Bronx. Up on Hunts Point. Saw hookers walking around, pimps on corners, junkies laying on sidewalks. Homeless men and women following a zombie trail. He was a long way from home. But, then again, he had no home. Just a pickup and a gun. And in America, that’s all you need. He had work to do.

It was his job to cleanse the country. God had given him this assignment. That’s what he thought. The blonde hair, blue eye boy was here to save the United States. That was the task at hand.

I’ll have this place cleaned up in no time, he whispered. He then prayed for guidance. Rolled down his window. Stuck his gun out and looked through his scope. The job had begun.