dmseay

What’re you looking at? he asked. She continued looking at him. His face, green eyes, brown hair, she took it all in. I said, what’re you looking at? the young man lit a cigarette. You’re watching me huh? Can’t keep your eyes off me, he said. She nodded. Kept on looking at him. I wish you’d stop, he said. Making me nervous, the young woman walked over and ran her long fingers through his curly hair.

It’s been a long time since I really looked at you, she said. Last time I really looked was on our wedding day, she took the cigarette from his fingers and puffed on it then placed it in his mouth.

Is this some kind of ritual? Some kind of voodoo thing? he asked, she continued stroking his hair. The tall blonde stood in front of him and placed his hand on her breast. He smiled. Tell me what you want, he said. Tell me, he kicked off his cowboy boots. She put her finger on his nose and told him, nothing.

I don’t want a thing anymore, she proclaimed, removing his hand from her body. It’s been too long. You haven’t looked at me in the longest of times. And now I look at you and you’re not looking back, she said. I looked into your soul. And there’s nothing there. Just misery, she said. The young woman opened the door and looked outside. A storm was coming. Wind was blowing over trees and trash cans. A hard rain fell. See that? she asked him. That used to turn me on, she said. Remember? Minute a storm hit we’d be in bed. If there was a blackout, all the better, she lit a cigarette, continued watching the storm. Now. Nothing. You don’t even look at me when I walk around here naked. What is it? Why?

He didn’t know what to say. She was right, he thought. I’m done with this. He looked at her briefly. Mumbled, you want a divorce? You wanna end this thing?

There was silence. Neither of them said a word. They avoided each other’s eyes. She nodded her head, yes.

The young man grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and looked. Just looked in her direction. Opened the can with his finger. You want one? he asked her. She quietly said no.

They couldn’t see each other. They stopped looking years ago. Not just him. Her too. There was nothing to say. He turned on the TV and sat in his favorite chair. Flipped through channels. She went to bed. Wide awake throughout the night. She heard the car door shut and the engine start. The woman ran to the window and watched as he backed out of the gravel driveway.

Goodbye she said. Goodbye.

Coffee grounds. There’s coffee grounds at the bottom of my cup. Can’t you do anything right? Make a cup of coffee? Boil water? Did you accidentally tear the filter? Or, were you just sloppy? Over-filling it? There’s not much of a science to it. It doesn’t take physics to figure this out, he lit a cigarette; spit black dots back into the cup. You wanna try to make another pot? she shook her head. Practice makes perfect, he said. If at first you don’t succeed…

Make your own damn coffee, she mumbled.

What was that?

I said. Make your own damn coffee, she said clearly. The old man laughed, flipped through channels on television. You think you’re real cute, she said. You’re a bully. Always have been. Going all the way back to grade school. Don’t know why I’ve stuck with you all these years, she cried. Don’t know why.

That’s it, he said. Go on. Get it all out. Can’t take criticism. That’s what it is, he went to the refrigerator. That’s the boy’s problem too, he remarked. Can’t take a lick of criticism. The question is, why did I stick around all these years? ‘Cause I’m no quitter, he said. Look at you. You gave up years ago. And that boy is going down the same path. You’re like two peas in a pod. Always against me, he moved items around. Bologna. Salami. Turkey. Where’s the ham?

We don’t have any, she sobbed.

Didn’t you go to the store?

I forgot.

How do you forget ham? It’s a three letter word, he said. It comes in different varieties; honey glazed, brown sugar cured, country ham…

Go get you some, she yelled while walking out the front door of the trailer.

Get back in here, he yelled. We ain’t done talking.

I need air, she said. Fresh air.

All this over coffee grounds. You making a scene. He grabbed the keys to the truck on the counter. I’m gonna go get some things. Like ham and a decent cup of coffee. You want anything?

I’m fine. I’m fine.

Boy sat next to the old man’s hospital bed for hours. Just sat there watching the heart monitor, listening to his breathing, looked at fluids running in and out of him; flirting with female assistants as they changed out bed pans.

He had been unconscious for days. Boy had sat by him for hours on end; leaving every once in awhile to get a meal, or, a shot and a beer at the bar down the street. The son walked on leaf covered sidewalks under sunny cool skies to clear his head. He’s gonna die, the boy whispered as he kicked cans into the street, picked up branches and broke them over his knee. He’s gonna die, mumbled while walking back to the hospital.

It was not too long ago that his mother had died. Boy wasn’t in town during that time. He was off on some kind of wild tangent ‘cross America; never checked on her. The old man called to tell him the news when she passed-on. Boy said nothing. Just hung up the phone, went into a bar and never came out.

But, the old man kept calling him. Asking the boy, who’s gonna fold my shirts, get my beer, make me dinner? he asked. I got cherry pop tarts for breakfast, but, whose gonna make me a decent meal? were the long drawn out messages he’d leave him. Where you at? the old man asked. Heard you were out in Washington state. Out there with all them hippies. Eating vegetarian food and dancing in the fields, he said in another message. Then I heard you were working on some ranch in Oklahoma. Well, which is it boy? Also heard you were in New York City. Sleeping in your car. Guess you’ve been all over, the old man laughed. Well, mom’s dead now. You can come home. I probably ain’t got that much longer. Oh well. See ya when I see ya, he hung up.

It ate at him. These messages ate at him. He couldn’t ignore them any longer. Decided he’d come home to see the old man one last time. Boy drove through out the night from Carolina back to Ohio. He had just enough money for gas and a case of beer. Boy would drink one after another as he drove past mile markers and state signs. Kept the Dodge at a reasonable speed. Flew under radar.

The long haired son pulled up to the trailer in the afternoon. Porch still shifted when walked on. Splinters tore into the calloused hand of his. The front door was open. No-one inside. Television was on with no sound. It was Gary Cooper in a baseball uniform. Giving a speech at a ball game. Grainy black and white images of the crowd filled the screen. And, then he was gone. Just like that. Cooper was gone.

He’s dying, the boy thought. The old man was dying, he whispered, looked in the refrigerator, found a can of Old Milwaukee. He was sure of it. Just like Gary Cooper in that movie, the old man was dying.

This son. This boy who’d left home so many times was now at his father’s side. Waiting for him to die. He didn’t want the old man to come back. Didn’t know what he’d say to him. Maybe he had nothing to say. Maybe it was all over. The driving around the country. Arguing with the old man. Feeling all torn up inside over both his mom and dad. The boy was at peace. He said goodbye and walked out of the room. The old man died a few hours later.

He said he saw nothing. Didn’t hear a sound. Hadn’t noticed that the light was flickering in the hallway; a bulb nearly burnt out. There were several things the boy didn’t notice that night. It was late. He’d just came home from a bar down the street where he’d drank all night and watched shows about stupid tricks people play on each other. The young man was drinking shots and beers. Cheap whiskey from the well. Cold Old Style cans sweated in his hands. The moon was full.

Crazy folks come out when the moon is full, the old man sitting next to him said. People do crazy things, the old man laughed. Sometimes you’ll catch em doing crazy things. Most times not. They’ll drive a car wrecklessly. Hold people up at gunpoint. Rob liquor stores. Commit murder, he said. Did you know that most crimes take place under a full moon?

Really? the boy asked.

I don’t know. Just made that up. But, it sounds right don’t it? the two laughed.

Nothing seemed out of order. The boarding house was the same as always. A constant drip came from the bathroom down the hall. The crazy man in room number 1 was talking to himself as always. Talking about the end of the world. Saying the horsemen were coming.

Boy walked to the end of the hall and unlocked his door. His Irish flag on the wall was falling. Holding on by a piece of tape. His bed was un-made. A mess. Covers wadded up in a ball. He sat by the window and lit a cigarette. Looked at the moon. Thought about astronauts walking on the moon. Laughed. A Hollywood movie set, he said. A Hollywood movie set, continued looking at the moon. There was a knock on his door.

Who is it? the boy asked from across the room. No answer. I said, who is it? he got up from the window ledge. Walked to the door. You gonna tell me what you want? The knocking continued. No voice. Just knocking on wood. I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t cut it out, he yelled. Come on now. Knock it off, he put out his cigarette on the tile floor. Made a burn mark along with the others. Black streaks on a yellowed floor. The knocking stopped. Silence. He could hear breathing on the other side. The boy pulled out his gun from the nightstand drawer next to his bed.

The heavy breathing continued. He decided he would open the door just a crack. Boy stuck the end of his pistol out just a bit. Looked through the crack. Saw a woman stading there. A tall woman with blonde hair. Wearing long sleeves in summer time. She was gasping for air.

Don’t shoot, she said. Please don’t shoot. He looked at her a little more. Opening the door just a few more inches. I need help, she said. My boyfriend next door his dead. He just died while we were doing it. Died on top of me. He was going at it and then he just stopped. No breath. Nothing. He’s just dead. The boy opened the door completely. Stepped out into the hallway. Looked at her. Looked at her legs all scared up. Bumps and bruises.

Did you call the police?

Not yet.

Don’t you think you should do that? she shook her head. I think that’s best. Call the cops. I’m sorry for your loss. And with that he closed the door. The boy could hear her walking down the hall to the next room. Knocking away. She just kept knocking. He laid in bed listening to the sound of her pounding on doors till it was quiet. Too quiet. He looked at the clock and it read 2:30 a.m.

She had small hands. Frail fingers. She washed dishes in the sink every night; hot water, dish soap, made her hands worn over the years. The old woman used a steel-wool pad to clean pots and pans. Cuts and scrapes on palms.

Cast iron skillets drying on the stove. She’d pick up objects at a hundred degrees with bare hands and put them away. Stacking them above her gray head on a metal dish rack. On tip toes she would stand. Placing dishes, pots ,pans and pressure cookers all on top.

At closing time you could find the mother of two sweeping the floors of the restaurant . Sweeping clean then mopping. Wringing out hot water in a yellow bucket that said, Caution on it. She’d bend over with her back hunched. Humming, I’ll Fly Away, to herself. Not loudly, but, softly. Like a prayer.

The bus would come at midnight and take her ‘cross town. Looking at the city passing. Seeing her reflection in the window. Asking herself, How’d I get so old? She’d smile.

Walking home. Not skipping like she did in her youth. Nor a spry step. Lifting one foot then the other. Feels like walking through concrete, she whispered. Then she’d sing out, I’ll fly away, softly. When I die Hallelujah by and by…I’ll fly away. And alone. In her home. She did.

Goodnight Ms. Johnson.

A man talked to himself at the social security office. Hair tangled; skinny. Cursing up a storm. Yelling about not having an ID. No social security card. No mail. Nothing. He held up a note from his mother declaring who he was. She even signed it. Said under penalty of perjury I state that this is my son and his name is Joel. The letter went on to give an address and a phone number. The woman behind the glass wasn’t buying it.

What do you want from me? Huh? he asked. You think you’re a big shot don’t you? Sit back there and make peoples lives hell. I’ll show you, he said. I’ll show you. And before the security gaurd came over he was marching out the door past shocked and disgruntled senior citizens. Yelling at the top of his lungs, I’ll be back. I’ll be back.

He paced outside the building. Mumbling to himself. Talking into his hand. An imaginary cellphone. Yeah I’m here, he said. Cocksuckers. They don’t know who their fucking with. Son of a bitch. Is this the way you run a country? he yelled. Is this the way you run a country?

He continued talking to himself on the city bus. Ranting and raving. Foaming at the mouth. Kept running his hands through his thin gray hair. Snorting and coughing.

Let me off here, he said to the driver. Let me off here. I’ve had enough for one day. I’ve had enough.

The car sat up on concrete blocks in the front yard. A 1967 Dodge Dart. Green. White wall tires that had faded throughout the years. A cracked windshield. Rust on the bottom. Winter salt had eaten through.

Tall weeds and tall brown grass surrounded the vehicle. Stains from oil leaks and anti-freeze made circles on the gravel driveway. Keys were in the glove compartment.

The old man looked at the car through his kitchen window. He stood there with a beer in his hand just looking at it. He remembered driving it through town on Saturday nights when he was younger; wife up in the front seat real close to him and the boy in the back playing with matchbox cars. The kid would roll them on the plastic seat cover. Make engine noises and rumbles in his throat when he’d make em wreck. Making them fall all the way to the floor, sinking into a pretend lake of blue. They were all smiles.

Things changed when the old man lost his job at the factory. He used to put bolts in steel. Over and over throughout the night. Screwing bolts into steel. The rivet gun would shake him a bit. But, he never complained. Just drank a lot. He’d stop at the corner tap after the midnight shift and have a couple. Come home and have a few more before passing out. Wake up and finish off the rest in the case ‘fore going to work. Kept mouthwash in the glove box.

Mom worked at the grocery store full time. She always talked to customers as she checked them out. Telling them to have a nice day. Counting change back. Said she was happy. The short squatty woman would take the city bus to work. The Dart was falling apart. Needed parts and a new transmission. That’s when the old man put the thing up on the concrete blocks. He stopped caring. He’d just look at it. No more rides through town. Everything was falling apart. Mother got sick; real sick. And the boy went and joined the Army. He used to send some money home when he could. The old man kept on drinking, looking at the Dodge. Day dreaming.

There was no funeral for mom. The old man kept her in a vase up on the refrigerator. Would say hello to her each time he grabbed a beer. Boy quit coming home.

The Dodge Dart stayed parked out there for years. Old man finally had it towed away. Got fifty dollars for it. Took the money and went to the liquor store and bought a couple of cases. Stood and looked outside where the Dart used to be; dreaming. Dreaming about driving it through town on Saturday nights.

They didn’t know what they were doing. From one day to the next they played by ear, couldn’t read music.

The two of them would talk, but, that always became an argument. Yelling back and forth at each other about small things, petty things; you left the seat up. Why isn’t there any beer? You took the last piece of bologna. Little spats leading to all out wars, or, conflicts. Some say there’s no difference. Ask the men who fought in Korea.

She got real angry one night. Accused him of sleeping around. Said he’d brought home a disease. Picked up a skillet and started swinging. Wild swings. Like a rookie trying to hit a softball. She kept striking out.

He had a beer in his hand. Shook it up real good. Shot the foam at her from across the kitchen. Asked her, You like that? took out another beer and shook it up. Like a line of ammunition. Foam flying everywhere till she began to laugh.

What are we doing? she asked. You want to fuck other women? Fuck other women. I just as soon not sleep with you, the tall blonde said. Just as soon not be with you at all, she adjusted her glasses that sat on her bent nose. It’s always something with you. Always. Am I not good enough for you? she came towards him, dropping the skillet on the tiled floor. Do I not make you happy anymore? There was a time when I did. Remember? she placed her hands on his hips. Don’t you remember? she looked him in the eye and moved in for a kiss. The wiry man stepped back from her. Took a gander at her. Didn’t say a word.

I remember when I used to dance you’d tip me real well, she said. Used to stick tens and twenties in my G-string. Used to do private dances for you, he took a drink from his beer. You found a new dancer? she asked. Found someone younger? A new model? That’s me, she said. Traded in for a new model. Never saw that coming.

Come on now, he said. I ain’t been screwing around with no dancer. Or, any other woman for that matter, he declared. You ain’t got nothing, but, a urinary infection, he said. You ain’t got no std. I’ll guarentee that.

You better hope I don’t, she said. You better hope, she placed her ring finger on his chest. Where do you go at night? Huh? What are you up to?

Nothing.

Just walk ’round aimlessly? Looking at streetlights? The moon? Stars? What’s caught your eye at midnight?

Fish.

What fish?

Asian carp. They jump out of the water. Huge things. You can’t see em in the dark, but, you can hear them splashing around. It’s gotta be the Asian carp. Catfish are bottom feeders. They wouldn’t jump like that. And bass, they’re just lazy. Maybe a walleye, I don’t know. But I think they’re thoseAsian carps. I saw a show about them once. Dangerous. A real menace to fishermen. I just like the sound of them splashing in the water, she laughed.

Asian carp huh?

Yeah.

She opened a beer herself. Sat down in the living room and turned on the television. It was on the nature channel. She watched how apes would fight each other for supremacy in the jungle sometimes. The young would take on the old.

Ain’t that somthing, she said. Ain’t that something.

He put on his jacket and headed out the door. It was a shining moon. Maybe he’d see some fish, he thought as he lit a cigarette. Maybe.

She watched him from the window of the trailer walking down the road. She kept watching till he disappeared into the night.

Look at how he sweats. Salt water running down his cheeks, ‘cross the forehead. His droopy chest is wet too. Broiling like a chicken thigh in 375 degree heat. He’ll be done in an hour.

The fat man wasn’t even moving. Energy was used just sitting there. Watching television. Swatting flies as they landed on the rim of his glass of Coke. Ice was melting.

A harvest moon was up in the sky. Yellow light shined down through clouds. Heat lightning was going off in the distance. You could hear a little thunder, but, not a drop of water fell. Windows were open. Fans were blowing. And the fat man flipped through channels. Jerry Springer was on. More and more about a man who cheated on his girlfriend. The man defending himself till an uncle or a cousin or a brother or a something comes out and beats the hell out of him. Fat man yelling at the TV, Get him boy. Get him, he shouted, opening up another soda; grabbing another piece of chicken from a KFC bucket. A ball of sweat dropped from his nose.

He fell asleep on the couch with a drumstick dangling from his fingers. Sound down on the television. People saying words in silence. Jimmy Stewart talking, but, nothing coming from his lips. Giving a speech to Congress in a movie; black and white. Piles of papers on his desk. You could tell he was upset about something. Looked like he was sweating too.

Fatty rolled over on the couch. Middle part sagged. His round face was turned towards the back of a pillow. Breathing heavy on the pillow. Snoring away. Loud. There was no one there to hear him. He was alone. He had always been alone. TV kept him company. He’d dream about shows he watched, movies, infomercials. Had visions of chefs making him food and trying to sell him a non-stick pot, a frying pan. Said the 1-800 number in his sleep. Talked out loud to a telephone operator standing by. Said he’d take one of everything. Pots, pans, plates, rotissery cooker. He had plans. Big plans.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Grabbed a piece of chicken. Turned the sound up. People talking with laughter in the background. It was Al Bundy trying to sell shoes to a fat woman. He laughed too. Then turned the sound down and cried in his sleep.

What was that sound? All kinds of noises coming from outside. A buzz saw, wrecking ball, trucks going beep beep beep, dogs barking at cars as they fly by down Broadway, cops cruising, ambulances telling everyone to get out of the way, the day has yet to begin. And here I sit telling you about it.

Last night was an all new low. Drunkeness, tomfoolery, a thousand laughs with waitresses and bartenders, local characters with red noses, fat men salting beers, old ladies drinking Manhattans, on the rocks with a cherry on top, a one legged dog running around the place.

We drank to the upcoming autumn; Indian summer. Clanked our glasses in a toast to colorful leaves falling from trees and candy corn. To temperatures turning cool then cold. Breath seen from our mouths as we sit around the fire. Drinks were raised to the Bears and football, which not always do the two go together. We drank and drank and drank. The abyss was well on it’s way. Somebody punched a wall.

And finally we drank to Linda, George’s dear friend. May she go on in peace, he said. And her glass always be full. Amen.