dmseay

An old ghost came to visit last night. She walked right into the room. Tapped me on the shoulder. Pillow was wet from my head. Laid on my right side. No blankets. Just a naked body lying there. She saw my flesh. Again, she tapped my shoulder. The dream I was having. Traveling in a distant land; Europe, I believe France, walking around Paris. It was Novemeber, and the wind was cold. She whispered in my ear and told me my dreams were alive. You’ll never go home, she said. This is your final resting place, she kept tapping my shoulder. Blowing on my neck. I didn’t turn to look at her, but I could tell there was something familiar about her. I’d known her from another life. We were once happy. As happy as people can be.

The bottom sheet had come undone. No longer was it tucked away under the mattress. A bare bed left marks on my body. I still felt her presence. She said she’d been waiting on me. Waiting for my turn. The ghost grabbed my hand. I turned over, and it was nothing. No one was there. But, I felt her. I could tell there was someone there in the room with me. I’ve been fooled before.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. Church bells rang. I walked over to the window. A sealed window. Snow. The end of June and it was snowing. Or, was it June? Maybe it was November in Paris.

A calender was taped to my bathroom wall. Pictures of old buildings throughout the world were displayed on the page with dates and months below. November seventeen was circled. There was no year on the calender, just days and months. And then I asked myself what year it was? 1967, 2000, 2011. I didn’t know. There was no mirror in the bathroom. My beard was long, and there were no razors.

I looked over, and there was a Spanish man talking in his sleep. He was speaking Spanish in his sleep. The room was dark, and a light came from under the door. I heard voices on the other side. People said things that didn’t make any sense. Just rambling sentences. Incoherent jabber. I was scared to open the door. Frightened of what was on the other side. And then the door was opened by the ghost. She said, time for your meds.

See anything? he asked. She shook her head. No lights? Lanterns moving in the dark? No fire sparks? again, she just shook her head. Let’s set up camp here tonight, he told her. No fire. Can’t take the chance. Sleep with one eye open, she didn’t say a word. Just got out her bedroll. She slept on top of it. No blankets covering her. The girl wanted to be ready to move.

No stars out that night. Pitch black. The moon didn’t even shine. Let off a hazy glow covered by clouds. The clay they slept on began to turn to mud. Rain drops fell on them at a fast pace. Felt like bullets. There were no trees to hide under. Out in the middle of nowhere.

We might as well walk, he said. can’t sleep. They’ll find us soon enough, he began folding up his bedroll and placing it on his back.

That’s what I’m scared of, she said.

How’s that?

They’ll find us, and that’ll be the end. No more us, she lit a cigarette.

We got a long walk ahead of us, he said.

Do you know where you’re going? Have you got any idea? he shook his head. She laughed. I remember when we first started out. We had wheels. Easier to get around this country. We could move quickly back then. I miss that old truck. I miss the radio. Haven’t heard music in weeks, she said.

Keep it in your head, he told her. Keep the songs in your head.

I hear you humming sometimes.

‘Cause I got the music in my head. Earth, Wind and Fire, Ohio Players, Kool & The Gang. They’re all there, he pointed to his right temple. Right there inside my head. A constant juke box. Sometimes, I hear Bob Seger, the Stones, Billy Preston.

Who?

Never mind, he said to the young girl. I’m too old for you. You can’t relate. Haven’t got to the point yet where the music is inside of you.

I remember you playing that station in the truck. Playing all them old songs. Then you’d switch to talk radio. People calling in from everywhere. Just to hear their own voice. Calling the president an idiot. Saying the whole country is going to Hell, she looked at him as they walked. You think we’re going to Hell?

Who knows? I can only think about us at this time.

Celebration by Kool & The Gang ran through his head. They kept walking.

Bushes covered the front windows. Wildly grown. He couldn’t see out. A gravel driveway with a truck on concrete blocks parked in it. Trashcans overflowing in the alley. Tom cats trace back and forth. Old chicken bones strewn. Gutters falling off.

No one left that house. None of the neighbors knocked on the door. Burned out Christmas lights hung on nails in the siding. A lamp shined in the side window. It was never turned off.

People wondered if he was alive. Grass and weeds grew in the yard in the summertime, and snow covered a broken up sidewalk in winter. The old man sat eating Saltine crackers in his easy chair. He sat in silence. He didn’t even talk to himself. Alive? He had given up on life years ago.

There is no comfort in being alone. Old and alone. Left behind by wives, lovers, children, dogs that ran around the house. You become a stone. You don’t move. Just wait for death. Maybe death waits for you.

It wasn’t what he planned. Alone. But, things got out of hand. Some say it was drinking, but he never drank. Others said it was mental illness. Said he was on some kind of disability for being crazy. And, maybe he was. But, no one ever stepped a foot on that front porch to find out. No one ever knocked on his door. Sometimes, kids would look through the windows. They never saw anything. Just a lamp on a table. Their parents told them to stay away. Kids never mind their parents.

So, the old man sat in the dark eating Saltine crackers. Crumbs in his lap. A beard down to his chest. Alone. No one likes to be alone.

Blinds closed. There’s not much light coming in. The fan above gives off a cool breeze. Dust is blown off tables and lamps. A pile of dirty clothes sits in the bedroom; piled high in a basket. Nothing has been washed in months. Nothing has been cleaned in years. Crumbles of tortilla chips and popcorn stick to his feet as he walks across the floors. An old easy chair with black blood marks on it. The old man sits in it. He flips through television shows; The Price Is Right, Jeopardy, Wheel Of Fortune, Let’s Make A Deal. He snickers at the losers. Taunts them from the comforts of his trailer home. The cat box is overflowing.

He looks outside his small window in the door. Cut out in a square. He sees kids playing dodgeball. They’re throwing the ball at one another; hard and fast. One boy falls to the pavement. He is bombarded with balls. A whole group of boys hit him with rubber balls as hard as they can. It brings the child to tears. The old man laughs. He yells out things like, Smear the queer. Get him.

Soon, the boys put the balls down and start throwing rocks at the kid. Then bricks they find in the old man’s yard. One picks up a two by four and swings wildly until there is no response. The boy lies in the street. Silent. Gasping for air till none is left inside of him.

The old man closes the shade and goes back to watching television.

He carried her upstairs. Long strands of blonde hair covered her face. Blue eyes closed. Snoring. In his arms, her limp body lay still. Like a rug folded in the middle. Every once in a while, she’d smack her lips with her pierced tongue.

She had a tattoo of the maiden voyage on her right arm. Outlined in black with red ink. Wore short sleeves to show it off; even in winter. He laid her on the sofa in the front room with coffee stains and spilled gravy on it. Without opening her eyes, she smiled at him.

The television was on with the sound down low. Spencer Tracey and Kathryn Hepburn kissing on a black and white screen. The young man opened a beer and sat beside her on the couch. He placed her head in his lap. Started flipping around channels. Entertainment Tonight was on. Celebrities interviewed on the red carpet as they strolled into the theater.

We’re going to be stars like that one of these days, he wispered to her as she slept. People are going to know us, he said. They’re going to recognize us when we go out for dinner or get a latte at Starbucks, he laughed. Then we’ll take all our money and move to Paris. Start speaking in French. You’d like that ,wouldn’t you? she smiled, coming out of her coma.

There ain’t no such thing as Paris, she said. There’s a Paris, Texas. There’s a Paris, Tennessee. But, there ain’t no Paris, France, she said. Not for people like us. Never for people like us. Do we have any ice cream? Chocolate?

We got frozen yogurt.

See. You’re already getting weird. Paris, France? Frozen yogurt? I don’t know, Billy. Things sure are strange.

Go back to sleep, he said. And dream. Just dream.

That’s all we do is dream, Billy. That’s all we do.

Shouting. Screaming. Yelling out in the middle of the night to no one. That voice. A screeching voice. One with a mix of cigarettes and whiskey.

Kentucky Fried Chicken barrels all over her apartment. The old woman hangs the fried skin of the chicken on wire hangers. She saves them for midnight snacks. bones from thighs and drumsticks litter the room.

She cries out obscenities. You mother fuckers. You sonofabitch, she carries on. You left me, she says. Left me here with nothing, she goes on. I hope you rot in Hell.

There’s a light on in the kitchen window. She’s on the floor. On her hands and knees. Pills are emptied out of prescription bottles. The old woman is naked. Rolls of fat, loose skin, knees shake. She wobbles as she tries to pick up the pills.

A young man looks in the window and sees her struggles. He notices pictures on the walls; a man in an Air Force uniform. Black and whites. A girl with ribbons in her hair. You mother fucker, she yells. You sonofabitch, she curses again.

The old woman looks up at the window and looks at the young man. What are you looking at? she asks. He quietly shakes his head and says, Nothing.

Work. tirelessly working at something, not sure what it is. Just like ants. Carrying things above heads. Shovels, pitchforks, hoes, everybody has something in their hands. Heading up a mountain top. The earth is soft from the rain. Looking for a place to raise their flag; a marker for others to find them. Clouds grow gray. Darkness falls. They work into the night. Digging a final resting place for a comrade; limbs cut off, eyes staring up at the sky. Red blood turns black.

War is not neatly packaged. It is not pretty. Heroics go unrecognized. And here, on this mountain top, they bury their friend, a soldier, a boy of twenty-one. They drink vodka and cry. Some laugh at memories of the lad. They tell stories.

And, in the distance, there is gunfire. There are missiles being shot off by both sides. More soldiers killed civilians, too. Some say peace will never come. Others hold out hope for victory. A win. At what cost?

Check the thermostat, will ya? he asked. It’s a hundred degrees outside, and it feels like it’s forty-two in here, the old man poured a cup of coffee. Did ya hear me? she sat in the rocking chair, slowly going back and forth. I’ll check it myself, the old man looked at the gage on the wall. Sixty-two? Are you out of your mind? she smiled. First thing, we can’t afford it. Secondly, it’s cold, he said, turning the dial to seventy-eight.

I wanted it to feel like fall in here, she said. Autumn. I wanted it to feel like autumn, the old lady continued rocking in the wooden chair.

You want me to paint the leaves too? he took a sip of his coffee. This ain’t coffee. This is brown luke-warm water, she laughed. You know, you’re getting crazier by the day. By the minute, he laughed and walked into the kitchen. The old man started going through cabinets. Looking past sugar, salt, various spices she’d collected over the years. OK, I give up, he yelled. Where’s the coffee?

It’s in the freezer, she said.

Why is it in the freezer?

Keeps it fresh.

That’s an old falsehood. An untruth. It’s a lie some fool started a long time ago. Behind the green beans, frozen chicken stood a can of Maxwell House. They say it’s good to the last drop. Or, is that some other brand? he took out the coffee and removed the plastic lid. Maybe I’m losing my mind too, he said. Maybe we’re both goin’ crazy, he started looking through the cabinets again. What did you do with the filters?

You can’t find them?

Just tell me where they’re at.

I don’t know. Funny. I used them this morning. Now I can’t remember where they’re at.

The old man started pulling everything out of the cabinets; peanut butter, crackers, Wheat Thins, old bread passed the date, a can of sardines, unopened pickles, an Allen wrench.

Where are the Goddamned filters?

Maybe in the bathroom, she said.

He walked down the hall, mumbling to himself. Who keeps filters in a bathroom? he asked out loud.

I think I left them there this morning when I went to the bathroom, she said. I did. I left then on the back of the toilet. I forgot.

Why would you carry them into the bathroom?

I don’t know.

From now on, the coffee and filters stand on the back of the counter, he said. I decree this. You understand? she nodded her head. You’re getting dingy, dear. You’re getting dingier by the day.

I was talking to Robert Paul’s wife the other day, and she said the end days were coming. She could feel it in her bones. Turn on the TV, and all they talk about is war. That and how some cute kid saved his fish from a tornado; I like those stories. Anyway. She said the end times were coming, he counted out spoons of coffee. Added water. Turned the maker on. The brown water dripped into the pot. They sat in silence.

Storms were coming. They sat on the back porch watching the clouds roll in; a mist was in the air.

She loved rain and thunder. Took her back to when she was a kid and she hid beneath blankets in her room with her sister. The two of them would take a whiffle ball bat from the shed and pitch a tent. They’d stay underneath till the storm stopped; laughing and pretending late into the night.

He sat there with his arm around her. The rain drops got bigger. Thunder became louder. She placed her head on his shoulder. Thinking of her little sister who had passed a few years ago. Strange thing. She died listening to the rain fall, thunder clapping.

Bolts of lightning flew across the night sky. There she is, she said to her husband. She’s out there in the sky, letting me know her energy hasn’t died, she held his hand.

We never die, he said. We just keep on living. Lightning, trees growing, leaves turning green, rain falling, we never die. Just become a part of nature.

She rested her head on his shoulder again. He kissed her hand. The sister lit up the sky.

He looked at the Picasso, Dali, Matisse, a sculpture by Rodin. Walked in silence; taking in colors. Hours spent in a museum. Long stretches of hardwood floors. Art hanging on white walls. The middle-aged man felt at home.

Outside, cars honked and belched fumes into the air. Cop cars blasted sirens. Ambulances sped up and down Lake Shore Drive. Boarded up buildings on Michigan.

Alone, he walked amongst the crowd. Kids looking at cellphones, trucks cutting off pedestrians, food vendors selling hotdogs with sweet relish and peppers. He remembered this town. Remembered when Millennial Park was Grant. Drinking six packs at Blues Fest; a bottle of wine with jazz.

The gray-haired traveler thought of Studs Terkel. His interviews on the fine arts station. That gravel voice asking questions to artists, politicians, working class men, and women, seeking truth.

And, he stumbled past bars on Clark Street he used to frequent. The Duke Of Perth, Joann’s Piano Bar, The German American Bar, Irish joints, the raising of a glass, a toast to the town.

He looked in his backpack and found a harmonica. The thin man zipped it across his lips. God, how he missed this town.