dmseay

It didn’t feel right. Lying in bed with her no longer felt familiar. She’d place her hand on his chest. Nothing. His wife would sleep with her head on his shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling. Counting. Thinking. This is over.

And, he wondered if she felt the same. She still kissed him goodbye when he went to work. Made his coffee in the morning. But, she no longer said, I love you. They, no longer said, I love you.

At night time the two would sit and watch TV. Cable news. Depressing stories of how the world was falling apart. All four eyes glued to the television. No one said a word. They ate and watched the news in silence. Even the sound on the television was low. He had control of the remote. He always had.

Around nine o’clock the wife would go into the kitchen to make his lunch for the next day. She sat there looking out the window. In autumn it would be pitch black at that time. She stared into darkness.

He fell asleep in his easy chair. She did not wake him. His snoring rang out through the house. She used to laugh at that. Now she just found it annoying.

She walked down the hall to the bedroom. Passed pictures of them when they were younger. Photographs of her parents and his. Everyone had a beer in their hand. Everyone was smiling. She kept on walking. Brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown. No longer were they silky and black. She now wore flannel to escape the cold. Even in summer.

Eventually he made his way back to the bedroom. Sat on the edge of the bed. Placed his watch on the nightstand. Got in under the sheets. He did not look at her. This did not feel familiar.

Mistakes were made. Nothing is perfect. You can try and try and try and it’ll always have a dent in it. Small bumps along the way. Little details forgotten. Leading to a catastrophe. You think you got it right. You comb through it a million times. Where did I go wrong? There’s no soothing the human ego.

She pointed out these typos. Smiled while she was doing it. As if she took some kind of pleasure in it. He had no choice, but, to sit back and take it. Each correction placed a dagger in his heart. He didn’t scream, or, say anything. Bit his lip. He would never have anything perfect. Quality control was lacking.

In bed at night there was no sleep for him. Thinking of the too instead of to. Of they’re as opposed to their. Your, not you’re. These were the things that kept him awake at night while soundly she slept. He’d look over at her. He wanted to blame her for these mistakes. But, he knew he was solely responsible. Should have spent the money on a whore instead of masturbating. Going at these things alone are never best. You need a set of a hundred eyes reading it over and over and over again. The price of perfection is never ending.

On the breakfast table the book sat there. Alone. The cover looked nice. But, inside he knew it was filled with sins; mistakes. These are the things that kill us.

It’s barely noticeable, she said. Half of America won’t catch it. The other half will be unserstanding.

No, he thought. No. That’s the thing about people. They’re always looking for a reason to tear you apart. And yes. I am my own worst enemy.

You gotta come from somewhere, he said. You just don’t show up from nowhere. Outta the blue. There’s gotta be some kind of history about you, he sipped at his coffee and lit a cigarette. A tall waitress came by and filled their cups. They both watched as she walked away. What’re you driving? the young man looked away. You driving a Peterbilt? That’s what I drive. Hauling pigs. Taking pigs to slaughter. You gonna say anything? I can’t do all the talking. Well, I suppose I could, the old man said. It’s polite to join in these conversations. To participate, the young driver just looked down the counter and grabbed sugar packets. Added cream from a small pitcher. Hey. I’m talking to you. Fine. You don’t want to talk. We’ll just sit here. Just sit here.

Time passed in silence. The old man looked up at the clock. Two in the morning. The young man kept ordering more coffee with the pointing of a finger. The redhead server obliged. They’d been sitting at that counter all night long. Both had finished their breakfast. The old man had eggs and bacon whereas the young driver pointed at the picture of pancakes. Dwight Yoakam’s Million Miles From Nowhere played on the radio. The old man hummed along.

Would you be quiet? the young man asked.

He speaks. I was beginning to wonder. Thought you was a mute.

I just need silence, he said.

Understood. We all get that way sometimes. When I’m home I don’t want any noise on at all. Just as silent as silent can be. What’s on your mind? The young man looked at him and did not say a word. Went back to quiet. The silent treatment. I gotcha. See you on down the road, the old man said. Take her easy.

The young man sat there looking at the clock. Watching the seconds go by. Motioned for another cup of coffee. Then he began to laugh. Just quietly laugh. A Johnny Cash song came on. He tipped the waitress and walked out to his truck. Picked up his phone and began to dial. No-one answered. He thought that was a good thing.

Don’t force it; don’t push. Let it flow naturally. Take in your surroundings. Be aware of what’s around you. Question it.

Don’t take anything for granted; don’t think it’ll be there a second later. Do it now. Commit to the action. This thing could slip away from you. Grab it.

Don’t sleep on it; write it down in the middle of the night. Keep a note pad by your bed at all times. Take one with you during the day. Keep it in your back pocket with your wallet that has the condom in it; you might get lucky.

Don’t stop in mid thought. Don’t let anybody interupt you. Keep at it. Ignore those that say it’s impossible. You know the truth. Keep on that path.

Soon there’ll be nothing left to write. That’ll be when you’re 92 and sitting in a nursing home waiting for your diaper to be changed. The years go by quickly. Don’t wait.

We need to talk about this, she said. Too many times things go unnoticed. They’re just left alone. Or, buried. Put behind us and then it catches up and there’s anger. Quiet anger, she told him. We just sit here silently. And it’s right here in the room. You see it. I see it…

What’re you talking about? he asked. This 800 pound elephant. I haven’t seen it. I don’t feel it.

You’ve got to, she lit a cigarette. It’s been here for years. I’m suffocating. It’s killing me, the old woman said. It happened and we put it away. Didn’t even discuss it. Is that healthy? No. No it is not, the round woman said. I wanna talk about it. Get it off my chest. You killed our boy, she screamed. You killed him..

Stop it. Just stop. It was an accident. Nothing was done intentionally. I loved him as much as you. You can’t deny that, the balding husband said.

Careless. You were careless. He had no business drinking. You had no business drinking. What were you thinking.

It was supposed to be fun.

Well it didn’t turn out that way did it?

We got in the raft. We went down stream like we’d done a hundred times. The wave came from out of nowhere. It was too much. Too much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. One day he was alive and then the next…, the dad grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

I’m tired. I’m worn out. It’s cold in here. I just feel cold, he wrapped a blanket around her. I can’t take it anymore. I just need you to say it was your fault. ‘Cause all these years I’ve been blaming myself. Say it. Say it.

He shook his head. Pushed his glasses up on his nose. Looked at his wife and said, That I cannot do.

You gotta be honest, the old man said. Have some kind of morals, he told his son. Can’t just go off and do whatever you want in this life. There are consequences, he lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly; blowing out gray smoke into the lit lampshade. The boy reached for the old man’s pack of Newports and had his hand slapped. You shouldn’t smoke, the father said. It’s bad for you. It’s killing me, he said. If it’s not too late don’t start. If you have started, quit, boy got up and walked over to the refrigerator. Hey, the old man whispered. Grab me one. The boy popped open two Old Styles and started to hand one to his dad then pulled it out of his hand. The boy continued this game. Damn it, pop said. Give me that beer, the young man smiled. Held the can up by his shoulder. Shook it a couple of times. Gave it to the old man, who grabbed it with both hands like a baby wanting a bottle.

You shouldn’t drink dad, boy said. Probably why you’re in the shape you’re in, he told him.

Mind your own business, the old man said. The son laughed. It’s a combination of things, he coughed into a rag. Stress throughout the years. Smoking too much. Your mom getting on my nerves. Just an unhealthy lifestyle. What did that German fellow say? That which does not kill me makes me stronger, they both laughed.

I think you messed up the quote dad.

No. That’s what he said. There’s a sign above the bar that says that. What was his name?

Nietzsche. Died of syphilis, the boy said.

Well, he said that.

It’s us, pop. He said, That which does not kill us makes us stronger. That’s the quote dad.

Us? Me ? What difference does one word make. You think you’re so smart. Why don’t you get a job you’re so smart. Always drinking my beer and eating my Pop Tarts, the old man said.

I’m not going to work for no $11 an hour. Or, even $15. Why should I? Work is what kills you. And for what? So you can pay a mortgage? Bills? Buy a car? That’s the American dream dad. Not mine.

Lower your voice. Your mother’s trying to sleep.

Sorry.

What’re you? Some kind of communist? Next thing I know you’ll be speaking Esperanto. Just listen to me, he said. Stop these shenanigans. Get a job and start your life. Move out of this trailer. I got $500 saved up that I’ll give you. You can start with that. Buy you some clothes and gas for the car. You can borrow that too. American dream? Yes. You can have it too.

We’ll see.

It’s a one time offer.

Now that’s truly American.

He rolled his head around from side to side. Bones in his neck popped and creaked. She was asleep down the hall. The old man sat in darkness. He turned the radio on low to a jazz station out of New Jersey. It was Coltrane’s birthday. The station played the saxophonist all night long. Love Supreme, Central Park West, and Lush Life in the background as the frail man lit one cigarette after another.

The old man could hear his wife getting out of bed and walking towards the living room. She turned the music off. His wife hated jazz. She put on a pot of coffee. The dripping of the liquid had a rhythm to it. They listened till it stopped.

Can’t sleep? she asked. He nodded. She turned on a lamp. If you can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, she laughed. Do you have to listen to that music at this hour? he ran his fingers through his long gray hair. Well? Do you? he looked at her then turned his head away. I’ll pour some coffee, she got up and he reached for her hand. The old woman dodged it.

They hadn’t touched one another in years. The house was filled with memories. Not love. Pictures of their children hung on the walls. Their daughter who grew up to be a lawyer like the old man. A son who was never quite up to par. Both smiled in their cap and gowns.

That’s funny, she said. I can’t remember how much sugar you take. One or two spoons? he held up two fingers. The round woman brought the coffee over to him. Again, he reached out to her. Again, she denied him. She dimmed the light. They sat in silence for awhile. For awhile.

I was thinking of this time five years ago, he said. That phone call.

Let’s not talk about it, she said in a lowered voice; almost a whisper. I don’t want to talk about it.

We never talk about it.

What’s buried is buried. What’s gone is gone, she glared at him.

So young. He was so young.

I’m going back to bed.

No. Stay with me, he pleaded. Stay.

Can we talk about something else?

Yes, he said. Yes. There was quiet once again. Did you hear from Patricia?

She’ll be here on Saturday for the weekend.

Good. Did you buy flowers?

Not tonight. Please. Not now. I’ll turn the music back on. Coltrane was playing on Kind of Blue. He was playing along with Miles Davis and Bill Evans. It was the old man’s favorite album. He used to listen to it when their son Johnathan was a baby. She remembered and quickly turned the radio off.

I would like to listen to that. Please.

Her thin lips whispered, no.

No more talking. They both stayed wide awake in silence till the sun came up. Neither said a word. There was a chill in the air. The house was cold. He turned the radio back on. No more Coltrane. Just morning news.

It is morning. And, you are not here, she whispered. Strange. Your presence is no longer felt, she sat up in bed. Long time. It’s been a long time since I felt free, the old woman said. Why didn’t you leave earlier? she looked at a picture of him on her night stand, then turned it face down. She wiped her emerald eyes with her wrinkled hand. Looked at the clock. She had slept throughout the night. No dreams.

Walking down the hall, she carried his picture with her. She placed the photo on the kitchen counter. Made coffee and watched as hummingbirds flew to the feeder by the window. They were free. Free to do as they wish, she thought. I wonder where they’ll go next, she mumbled. Do hummingbirds fly south for the winter? she asked herself. Maybe I should.

She finished her coffee and slapped her brittle thigh. I’m going to do it, she said aloud. I’m following the birds, she laughed, got her car keys and started the old Dodge. It runs, she rejoiced. It runs, the old woman couldn’t believe it.

And, in her robe and slippers she flew with the birds. Followed them down highways and back roads. Laughing the whole time. I’m free, she said. I’m free.

Before midnight. Half of America asleep. Some work third shift jobs; drive diesels down highways, cook omelets, drink heavily, make love. And many sit in the dark thinking of what might have been had they towed the line. Just followed the rules; a lot of folks like that.

The clock on the stove read 11:47. The microwave blinked 12:00 in a repeating rhythm. His watch said 11:17; he had options.

He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette. Blew the gray smoke into the dark. Listened to the radiators hiss. The old man had heard that sound all his life. Conjured up memories; his past. A life of nothingness. Alone throughout it. Never went anywhere. Never traveled. No schooling. Just alone in an old house. Burn marks on the floor.

Everyday he went to two places; the liquor store and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Drank the same beer, Old Style, and ate the same meal, a three piece with a thigh, wing, and drumstick. Mashed potatoes and Cole slaw came with. Along with a stale biscuit. Walked the same route everyday too. West on Baker to Broadway then up north to Main Street. It was his daily ritual. Talking to himself silently the whole time. His thin lips moved.

What was he saying to himself? Just chatter. Mindless chatter to God. Always asking for forgiveness. Knowing that he, like all of us, were sinners. He had this fear of dying. Scared of eternal suffering. Never thought he was good enough for heaven. When he was younger he was told that. Stuck with him. Never did the church teach him forgiveness. Or, the sacrifice of Christ. He was taught that God will punish us. So much for salvation.

Alone he sat in the dark eating chicken and drinking beer. Scared to go out at night. Knowing the apocalypse could come any day. These were fears that kept him awake. He never knew what time it was. He just knew light and dark.