A bird digs into the ground for worms. Cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers mixed with mulch. An old man pisses behind a bush. The bird has caught his breakfast.
Cars drive by. Broken down Fords and Chevys. A rusted truck goes down the street. It says TUNDRA on the tail gate. The traffic light is red. A man on a scooter goes through it anyway.
People pass time by walking in circles. Talking to themselves. Men look for food in trash cans. A woman whistles the National Anthem.
Western skies are grey. She looks up at them, peaking from under a bridge. Sun hides behind clouds. It’s just come up. Moon glowed throughout the night. The woman slept with an empty bottle of malt liquor beside her. Stars kept her company. Used to be a man who kept her warm. Now it was a bedroll she bought at the Goodwill; a book bag for a pillow.
She dreamt of horses in her sleep. Wild mustangs, quarter hosres, ponies. They were all brown with no saddles. No riders. Just running on the sands of a beach in California. Some place she’d never been, but was bound to get to. She wanted to see Big Sur. Read about it in books by Kerouac. Knew it was the home of Henry Miller. Steinbeck danced there, too. She kept these writers, men in her bag. They were the only men she had faith in. She wanted to see their homes. Walk where they walked. Drink where they drank. Everybody has a dream, she said. This is mine.
But, for now, she slept under a highway in Iowa. She had a compass telling her to go west. A map of America showed her which way to go. Like all of us, she tried to follow it.
Her bones hurt. Muscles ached from walking. She was hungry. Stole cans of sardines and jars of peanut butter. Thought about when she was a little girl and her mom made chicken fried steak for Sunday dinners. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans with bacon mixed in. And now she had sardines with mustard sauce. The price we pay, she said to herself as she opened the a tin can. The price we pay.
The young woman promised herself that when she got to California, she’d settle down. Get a job. Live a normal life, she thought. But, for now, she was free. And, like Janis sang, Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.
Ain’t it funny? Following a dream. There are worst things we could do. I suppose.
He’s cutting the grass. This kid on a riding lawnmower is mowing down weeds. Tall weeds. Weeds that have grown since the start of spring. We’re now going into summer.
A man is using a weedeater across the street. He, too, is whacking down the tall blades. He has a cigarette in his mouth. Tattoos are on his arms. They look like prison art. R.I.P. Jose is written in green. His clothes are dirty. His face is dirty. He wears sunglasses to protect his eyes from the flying debris. Shreds of candy wrappers and beer cans lay in the yard.
An older man talks on his cellphone, telling headquarters the job is almost done. Asking, where do they go to next?
The kid is done mowing. He pulls out a gas- powered blower and sweeps the sidewalks of all the trash, grass, and weeds. He’s found a dead bird in the rubble. A bluebird that flew around here at the beginning of spring. He flew with others around the neighborhood, the city. Looking down on all of us. How did he get caught in the muck and the mire.
This job is complete now. The man with the tattoo loads up equipment on the back of a pickup truck pulling a flatbed. Noise from the mower, blower, and weedeater have stopped. He lights up another cigarette. Fountain drinks in styrofoam cups are lined up on the tail of the truck. All of them chew on ice and spit it out into the street.
Spring has almost ended. Summer is near. I’m waiting for the fall of leaves.
There’s a problem, he said. A disconnect, lit up a cigarette. You don’t see things the way I see them. We don’t communicate, he poured a cup of coffee and offered her a cup. She shook her head, no. You always like a morning cup, he said. There I go again. Trying to second guess you. I never know what’s on your mind. Never know what you’re thinking. You think this is it? he asked.
I don’t know. It’s always something, isn’t it. We have this way of going for weeks without a word between us. Just roommates splitting the rent, she said. Sharing utilities. We don’t even sleep in the same bed. We just exist, she said.
You want to end this? Have it done; finished. She nodded her head.
Neither cried. They did not reach out to one another. He just started packing; not knowing where he was going. The middle-aged man put books in boxes. Kerouac, Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Mailer, Miller, Bukowski, Fante, Melville, Camus, all packed neatly in cardboard. All those masculine writers. She always said he didn’t understand women.
Confederate flag waves in the North. Fat man on a riding mower cuts grass. He leaves long dead blades behind. Soon, they’ll yellow and turn to straw.
He wears a red MAGA hat with white sweat marks on it. His tee-shirt rides over his hairy belly. It states, FREEDOM FIRST. Dark clouds roll in.
A banner on his fence says, Jesus Is My Lord…Trump Is My President. Pickups drive by and honk. Wave as they pass.
The fat man drinks a beer on his front porch and looks over his work. He’s proud of his accomplishment. Soon it will rain.
Yard sales. Throughout the neighborhood, people selling old memories. Books never read, old copper pots from grandma, a bicycle missing a seat. Everything must go.
An old lady sits in the garage with the door up. She yells out, Everything on that table is five dollars. A deck of cards with pinups on them. A rosary made out of wood. Couple of leather bound Bibles. Patsy Cline and Charley Pride records. Husbands and wives look cautiously through the goods.
Cars go by slowly. A suburban drive on a Saturday afternoon. From one end to the other, yards covered in folding tables and cardboard signs. Cigar boxes holding cash. It’s all somebody else’s junk, a man says under his breath. Empty picture frames which once housed loved ones. A vase with plastic flowers in it.
How much would you sell a memory for?
He went looking for her past midnight down dark roads; stretches of highways. No lights, just signs that glowed in the dark. Signs saying, Gary 58 miles and Valparaiso, 37. He looked east and west, north and south. There was no sign of her. She had slipped away from him. Left out the back door. No note or letter. The coffee pot was still warm.
She was never happy. She married out of need. A young woman with ginger hair and emerald eyes. She used to seduce truck drivers out where Highway 10 meets 65. Pouring coffee and taking orders all night long. Going home with strangers. The old man was one of them. He fell in love. She quit her job and drove around the country with him. Making love in the back of a semi. He never had it so good.
Wasn’t too long before their newborn arrived. Red hair like her mom’s. Tiny fingers that used to pull on the old man’s beard. He laughed. But, something told him she wouldn’t be around too long. He knew she was unhappy. Being left at home to tend to a child while he saw mountains and rivers, big cities, and the Great Lakes. She was jealous. Mad with jealousy. And, there was nothing he could do about it. It was just a matter of time.
Driving down those highways with the baby strapped into the passenger seat, checking truck stops along the way, he never found her. She was gone for good. She wanted to see America.
Mounds of dirt piled high. Holes in the earth. Stacks of aluminum siding stretched as far as the eye can see. Roofing shingles scattered. Cement trucks making their way down a dirt road. Addresses marked on curbs.
Amish men dropped off at the job site. Vans pull up and doors open. Beards and hats. Beards and hats. The pounding of nails at daybreak. Saws ripping boards in two. Bricks stacked one on top of the other. Trees cleared. Suburbia will be here soon. The future is in our hands.
Lakewood will be the name; no lake, but a pond in the middle with signs that say, No Swimming. Kids will sneak out at midnight for a naked dip.
Farmland sold. Generations of those who worshipped the sun and prayed for rain are now gone; moved to Florida or Tennessee to live in double wides. A history left behind. Their kids didn’t want it. Nor did the grandkids. So much for soil being in blood.
Now is the time for progress, they say. We’ll eat meat made from plants. Drink milk from nuts. Artificial Intelligence will write books. Don’t worry. We can always make more. What will it cost, man? What will it cost?
Christmas lights were still up. They shined in the nighttime, making the trailer home glow in green and red. People drove by on the highway just to see the colors in mid-May. Some laughed. Others cursed at the old man’s laziness.
He sat inside most of the time. Drinking cans of Old Style and eating bologna sandwiches. Sometimes, the old man would just eat it right out of the package. He’d sit there in front of the television, eating cold bologna and downing it with beer. Watching The Price Is Right, or Wheel Of Fortune. Never watched the news. Said it depressed him.
The plants needed water. They hadn’t been touched since his wife passed away back at Thanksgiving. It was her idea to put the Christmas lights on the trailer. She wanted to see them one more time.
Sometimes, he feels her presence in the front room; hears her voice. She told him never to take those lights down. Said she didn’t care what people thought or talked about. He nodded his head and plugged them in every night.
Her ashes sat on the mantle. Sometimes, he’d touch the white vase with her initials on it and talk to it when he heard her voice. Garbage can overflowed, dishes piled up in the sink. He told her we’re getting there, dear. One day at a time. We’re getting there, he said. He’d smile and go back to watching TV. Thinking that one day, he’d see her again.
Where’s my bottle of wine? he asked. The red. I think it’s a Cabernet. Or, maybe a Pinot Noir. Bottle that says Mark West on it, the old man fumbled around in the kitchen. Where the hell could it be? Did you drink it? he asked his wife. I said, did you drink it? the old lady started singing to herself. Humming the song One Day At A Time Sweet Jesus. Hey, he said. I’m asking a question here. Did you drink my wine? the humming got louder. I know when you’re guilty of something. You can’t keep a secret, he lit a cigarette. Just tell me the truth. Did you drink my wine?
No. I did not. I don’t drink wine. Or anything else for that matter.
Listen to you. Ms. pretty britches. Never got stained. Who do you think you’re talking to? You think I’m some kind of stranger? Think I don’t know you? Forty-five years. I know you. You sneak sips. You take gulps when Im not looking. Red, white, whiskey, it don’t matter. You steal from me.
I do not. ‘Sides. We’re married. How could it be stealing?
So you do drink from my stash.
I’m saying if I did. Which I don’t. I go to those meetings for Christ’s sake.
Why?
They give me peace of mind.
Wine gives you peace of mind, he started looking under wooden cabinets.
I like the way the folks make me feel. We’re all just one big group with the same problem.
What would that problem be?
You.
The old man laughed. He went looking in the bathroom where he found a bottle of Wild Turkey behind the toilet. There was a little bit left. Maybe a shot. He downed it and hid the empty bottle back behind the toilet again. He’d throw it away in the middle of the night when she was asleep. He smiled. Looked in his billfold. There was a ten and a five in there. Just enough, he said. Just enough.
Where you going? she asked.
To find peace.
