dmseay

Trucks at a construction site beeping as they back up into the street. Garbage collectors driving down alleys. Cops cruising side streets. Last week a boy was shot on the corner at the stop sign. Nobody saw a thing.

He watched it all unfold from his rented sleeping room above Calhoun. Trash in the street; a constant reminder of where he lived. Whores walking around at midnight. Junkies howeling like dogs at a silver moon. Drunks arguing over the last drop. The taco stand where a gringo got slit last week closed upon further investigation. Untrimmed shrubs growing in front of condemned houses on Dewald. Things get worse before they get better.

And down in the street the old man saw a black kid kicking a can between cars. Running back and forth on Harrison behind Saint Patrick’s. He drank coffee and watched the child play. Maybe he was pretending to be an athlete. A soccer star. Maybe he was just bored on a summer’s afternoon. The old man said a short prayer for the kid. He said, Lord get him out of here. May he leave this place some day for a better life, the old man crossed himself. Kissed the crucifix around his neck.

He never saw the boy again.

It was too big. A whole map laid out in front of him. He saw it all; mountains, highways, oceans, lakes, major cities and small towns, hamlets. There were interstates running north and south, east and west; follow the blue lines.

He wanted to see it all. America in his rear view mirror. Deserts in the west stretched out forever. Pick wild blueberries in Maine. Live the romantic life. Sleeping under trees on cool autumn mornings. Walking on beaches as the sun goes down. Longed to listen to jazz in Washington Square Park while eating fried egg sandwiches on kaiser rolls. Drinking beer wrapped in brown paper. This is the life he wanted; nomadic life.

The middle aged man left his old life behind. Took off in a Dodge in the middle of the night. Saw lights of metropolitan areas. Sprawling suburbia from one end to next.

Crossed the Mississippi at sunrise. Watching colors bounce off brown muddy water. Eating a piece of watermellon at a truck stop in Tennessee. Drinking coffee in a diner with a piece of cherry pie. Listening to locals complain about Indian summer. Looking outside at leaves floating to the ground.

He later would cross the Ohio River. Walk across a bridge that separates Ohio from Kentucky. Mingled with bums in Cincinnatti. Hearing tales of men who’d traveled all their lives. Running from something, but , never avoiding it. The past was always close. Addiction, children they’d fathered, women left. These stories sounded familliar.

The man wondered if he’d done the right thing. Leaving his old life; a wife that loved him. A child playing peewee football on Saturday mornings. He decided to call home. His former home. Did he even have a home anymore? He wondered.

Hey, he said into the pay phone.

Where are you?

I’m in Pennsylvania. Around Pittsburgh. Going north to Philly. I want to see the Liberty Bell. Have a steak sandwich. I like Cheese Whiz.

I know you do, she paused. Why are you doing this?

Don’t know. Just got a wild hair up my ass to get moving. Go out and see America.

Now’s not the time for that, she said. You’ve got responsibilities. You just gonna run all your life? What are we gonna do? Wait for you?

He paused. Began to speak, but, nothing came out. Just stood there in silence with his finger in the coin slot. I’m sorry, he said. I’m sorry. And he hung up the phone.

Some men take forever to face themselves. Some never do. We just run. Whether that’s far away, or, stationary. We’re not at all there. Part of us in Albany and the other part in New Orleans; stretched too far. We never come around the bend to completion. And that is what makes the man.

Green. She wished colors to be gold, brown, rust, orange, yellow, red. The young woman wanted to hear a crunch and crackle under her feet as she walked her dog each morning. She wanted skies to be gray with a mist of rain showering down on her. Wanting to wear a knit hat and hiking boots, trapsing through woods in New England. Memorizing Simic and Kerouac; Ginsberg and Snyder. These were dreams.

She lived in a Midwestern trailer park. A hoosier by birth. No formal education to speak of. Just weekly trips to the library where she checked out Frost, Whitman, Plath, Hughes, Dickinson among others. She read every night. And dreamed. Beautiful colorful dreams of New England morns and water splashing on rocks. Of trees tall as buildings in New York. Falling in love with the smells of nature.

But hers was the smell of gasoline and burnt garbage. It was tin houses rusting. Water damage in the bathroom. Hers was the job of checking out customers at Krogers. Of bagging groceries for Mrs. Smith. Noticing a husband staring at her plump chest. Wishing she had a love.

So at night she would read her latest selections; Yeats, Rilke, Garcia, along with short stories by O’Conner and Harrison. She read Anais Nin as well; always wanting the wanting.

She had no dog. Just dreams. And sometimes that’s all we have.

He looked at him. Stared while he slept. Snoring away. Television remote in one hand and the other resting. The old man had The Andy Griffith Show on. Going in and out of sleep, he’d laugh sometimes out loud, then fall back into a state of unconsciousness. A beer was on the table beside him.

Where did it all go wrong for you? the son asked in a whisper. You just fell apart. Maybe you were never all that together, boy went to the fridge and got out an Old Style for himself. Popped it open. You used to drink Miller, again, whispering. What happened to you? the old man laughed briefly then fell back asleep. Look at you. Passed out pretty much, the boy tried to take the remote from the old man’s hand. The father gripped it hard. Even in his sleep he wouldn’t give it up. The old man smiled.

I’m stronger than you, the old man said. Boy went and sat down on the couch that was falling apart. Had a dip in the middle. Wooden arms scratched up.

This place is a real shithole, the boy said. A real shithole, he got up and grabbed another beer.

Nobody asked you, the old man said. Nobody values your opinion, boy laughed. That’s right. Laugh. Laugh at me, the dad said. You think it’s funny don’t you?

That we live this way? No. I do not find that funny. This is a nervous laughter, he said. Nervous that the whole trailer could fall apart at any given second.

I worked for all of this, the old man said.

You got this off of Social Security Income dad. You never earned anything. Could never hold down a job. Mom always said you were crazy.

She was crazy too, the old man said. Besides. It’s how you define crazy that’s important.

You were never around when I was a kid. I remember visiting you in the hospital. I think the psych ward became your second home. It was either that or a bar. Drunk and delusional is no way to go through life old man, boy took a swig of beer.

I always provided for my family, he told him. And this is the thanks I get? You should be more appreciative. One day this will all be yours.

The son looked around the trailer. Saw pictures of his mother on the wall next to Crayola colored pages. Colorings of lions and rainbows. Dark clouds and lightning bolts. He knew his dad was never right.

I’m going to get some more beer dad, the boy said. You got any money?

Asking me for money. I don’t have any money. Ther’s plenty of beer in there.

There’s only one left dad. There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Dad slowly got out of his chair. Passed the boy on the sofa. Uhhuh dad, boy got up and grabbed the old man from behind. You’re not getting the last beer, he picked up the old man and body slammed him to the floor. Opened the fridge and took out the last Old Style.

Get up dad, he yelled. I said get up, boy poked him in the ribs with his boot. Get up you old fucker.

The old man never moved. His body stayed there on the floor. Motionless. Boy took the remote from his father’s hand. Walked over him and sat down in the old man’s chair. Popped open the beer and flipped through the channels.

He took his finger and ran it over the desk top. Dust was collected. On the bookshelf someone had drawn a heart with an arrow through it in the dust. Placing the initials J and M on top of it.

There was saw dust on the hardwood floor. Piles of it. There was a table saw over in the corner and a sledgehammer up against the dull white wall. Sheets of drywall were off to the side by the windows. This project was taking too long.

It was in the spring of last year when he started. Knocking out walls, tearing apart bathrooms, remodeling the kitchen. All because she wanted this done. She wanted this old house to be cured of it’s disease. Brought back to life. Modernized.

She told him whatever it takes. Just fix it. Make it liveable. He always thought it was. He liked the old woodwork of the house. He liked it’s creaks when he walked on the floors. Liked the wooden flush boxes above the toilets. He would often hide his bottles behind them. She knew they were there. Never said anything about it till she left. Then she let everything spill. His drinking, womanizing, gambling, God knows what else. She said he wasn’t fit to be a husband. He agreed.

All this time they were playing house. No kids, just two dogs. The wife would take them for walks in the evening to get away from him. She would go on trips throughout the year without him. Always saying she needed time alone. That’s when his affairs started. She’d leave town and he’d hit the bars in search of blondes, brunettes, red heads, white women, black women, it didn’t matter. He was not choosey. Anything to get him through the night.

She used to call him from the road. Check in. See how he was doing. After a while those calls stopped. Or, she’d call in the middle of the night and hang up.

Alone, she would lie there in her hotel bed talking to the television. Having conversations with Tom Snyder, or, Larry King. She kept the sound down and mumbled to herself.

Do you love me, Larry? she’d ask. Do you still find me attractive Mr. King? The middle-aged wife would talk till she fell asleep. Saying goodnight to her television lovers had become a ritual. It was the only thing in life she looked forward to. Her misery was always on her sleeve.

So, at the age of forty-five she left him and the house that was falling apart. Headed for the West Coast. She wound up in Oregon. Lived in cheap hotel rooms. Continued her affairs with Tom and Larry. Some said she’d gone crazy. Others said she’d had enough.

And he never finished fixing the old house. He sold it. Took a loss. Wandered around aimlessly from town to town till he got to Oregon. Wound up in the same small town she was in. Their paths never crossed. She never enetered his mind. And he was just a ghost from the past.

He looked at her picture for a long time that morning. It was actually a black and white of the two of them. She leaning back in his arms and he with his cheek against her red hair. That was a long time ago. Back when they loved each other. Or, pretended to care.

Over the years the couple would go their separate ways. He turned to the bottle whereas she turned to church. She would judge him and question his motives. He’d take off on weekends to far away places just to get away. He was always buying a bus ticket.

During their time apart, she would call and call and call. Asking him where he was staying? Wasn’t he spending too much money? Isn’t there a chance you’ll get mugged?

He stopped answering the phone. He turned it off. Didn’t want to hear from her. That was the whole point of getting away. And, she’d ask, Why don’t you bring me with you? He told her the truth. He just wanted to be alone for awhile. Take in cities all by himself. Go to art museums, poetry readings, see films. He asked her, Do you have an interest in any of those things? She would tell him, no. She said she only had an interest in him.

It became too much for him. The old fat man had now gotten to the point where he would be gone every night. Out drinking in bars. Sitting alone in the park with a bottle of whiskey and a beer chaser. Going home at strange hours and sleeping on the couch. She would stay up and wait on him with the front room light on and a cup of coffee. They didn’t talk. They both went their separate ways.

Curdled cream in coffee. A mass floats on top of the liquid. Looks like a map of North America. Actually, the curdled cream looks more like Russia. Not the former Soviet Union with it’s attachments. Just Russia in it’s current state. One mass of white.

It’s separating now. Going in different directions. He takes a drink. The flaky white substance sticks to the side of the cup. A John Deere coffee mug with tractors on both sides. He’s got the complete collection; mugs, plates, silverware, bowls. Each with the tractor on it. Inside the cup is the John Deere logo. A yellow deer with a green background and the words, John Deere. It’s getting close to the bottom.

Open blinds let in sunlight. The room where he sits is quite warm. August has begun. The fat man looks outside at a park across the street. No one is there. No children playing on the swingset or slides. No teenage boys playing basketball. Just an empty park. His coffee is growing cold.

He looks at candy wrapers on his desk. Fun size Snickers and Butterfinger. He tries to scrape off tiny bits of chocolate on the silver insides. Fatty licks his fingers and takes a sip of coffee. Rarely does he throw anything away. Candy wrappers, cigars and books pile up on his desk that has been in his family for years. His grandfather made it out of cherry wood. It has drawers and side shelves. Kind of in the Shaker style. He runs his fingers over the smooth top. Dusty.

Fat man opens up Moby Dick which is lying on top of Tropic of Capricorn. Takes the last drop of coffee and sits the mug down on the desk. He begins to read the first paragraph. Then realizes this is a monumental task. He places the classic atop bills and a post card advertisement of Russ Meyer’s film, Motor Psycho. Pictures of cleavage and motorcycle riders. A man with a gun. An Amazon woman leaning on a car in a bikini. He can hear her now. Saying, Go daddy go. He tosses it to the side. Takes his mug into the kitchen and washes it. He then starts his day.

Summer is nearly over. Long days will end soon. A harvest moon will rise. That’s what she wanted; a glowing light to lead her on midnight walks through the garden. The girl will find peace there amongst mums of purple, gold, and rust. Kicking through leaf piles. Making that undeniable sound of autumn. But, for now, she waits. She waits.

Now is the time when men play games, she thought. Summer’s heat makes them crazy. Drinking cold beer on August nights in the back of a pickup truck. Shooting off leftover fireworks from the fourth of July. Kissing girls under tall oak trees as stars look down. Only to leave them wanting more, she laughed.

The round freckled ginger girl dreamt of love’s lost ways in her sleep. Like a movie in her head, she watched a romance. A boy taking her hand. Walks down trails. Late night I love you’s whispered on her front door step. The seasons were ready to change.

A dress of lavender laid on the bed. She wore it on the first day of fall. She was warm during days of Indian summer and a coolness came in the evening. She was at peace sitting on her porch swing. Thinking of what the new year would bring.

Just don’t let him be too tall dear Lord, she prayed. I don’t want my feet to leave the ground, she giggled.

And like magic, she turned to the sky and watched seasons change.

The old man must’ve driven past it a thousand times in his life. Old house on the west side of town. Tall grass, never mowed, with weeds in the flower beds. Chipped white paint on the front and sides. Shingles falling. It’d been like that since he was a kid. Nobody ever lived there. Nobody knew who owned it. He just knew it was old and falling apart. Just like him.

He stopped his truck one day while passing by. Parked it on the side if the road. The old man was finally going to see what was inside. See if it’s guts had been neglected all these years. Like his.

Upon opening the front door with a slight push, a hundred bats fluttered from the attic. They flew down to greet the old man. They made a terrible noise. Screeching, yelling out for their souls. The old man was guilty of this calling out for salvation when he got too drunk to stand. He understood the bats. They seemed to talk to him. Warning him of an end coming soon.

Cobwebs filled the corners of the ceilings. Dust was on the hardwood counter tops and cabinets. The fireplace had gray ashes in it. Wood that was burned long ago. Maybe by some rich family, the old man thought. Could’ve been a son that gathered the firewood, he whispered.

Pictures hung on the dingy white walls. Old framed black and whites of women wearing fancy dresses and men in fine suits. There were pictures of children sitting in a parlor. Sitting on an old sofa that looked Craftsman like. He shook his head and walked up the spiral staircase. Opening doors to rooms where people once slept, dreamed. The old man often dreamed. Had visions of paradise.

Old wood floors creaked as he walked into each room. Carefully he watched his steps. Sunlight poured through windows showing a light that called out to him. I’ve been here before, the old man said. All this is familiar. I had a family once, he laughed. Once.

In the master bedroom was a king size bed with a canopy over it. He took off his shoes and laid down on the old mattress with holes in it. Rats scurried out from underneath.

The old man rested with his green eyes open. He stared out the windows as the sun began to fall. I’m home again, he smiled. After all this time. I’m home again.

I’m not writing today

the sun is out.

I’m not writing today

I’m heart broken.

I’m not writing today

Democrats don’t want me.

I’m not writing today

Republicans called me a socialist.

I’m not writing today

I twisted my ankle.

I’m not writing today

America’s on the brink of collapse.

I’m not writing today

my head hurts.

I’m not writing today

I’m not writing today

I’m not writing today

it’s time for a nap.