dmseay

Blood soaked into the white sheets. Dark blood. Almost black. It was his blood. Leaking from his chest where a couple of bullets were lodged. She stood over him just looking at him. He didn’t know what hit him. Shot him in his sleep. His hazel eyes looked up at her. Or, maybe he was looking up at God.

The two never got along. They’d yell at each other in grocery store parking lots. Raise their voices at O’Sullivan’s bar. Hit one another on the long gravel road that led to their house. Going back and forth while he tried to drive the pickup and keep it straight. She’d slap him and he’d punch her. Both of them had constant bruises.

And then, he would threaten to leave her. Tell her it was over. Done. She’d start balling. Crying over his hollow words. He was never leaving. She knew that. Deep down she knew that. The tears were a facade. Made up to get sympathy. He fell for it every time.

Sometimes she’d threaten to leave him. He’d get angry. Loud. Take swings at her. Hard hits with his fists closed. His hands were made from the jaw bone of an ass. Strong weathered hands from years at the steel plant. It was a wonder she never had a broken bone.

But, why’d she shoot him? Maybe deep down she wanted it all to end. Finished. Tired of all the violence.

She stood over him with rifle in hand. Picked up the phone and dialed 911. She told the dispatcher, He’s dead. You can come pick him up now, she said calmly. He’s laying right here in bed. Second bedroom on the right. I’ll be here waitin’, she said. The address is 1611 Northwest Road. I’ll be in front to let you all in. Should I put on a pot of coffee? See you soon, she hung up, lit a cigarette and tossed the gun on the bed in the blood. Poured herself a drink and waited. Just waited. She had a smile on her face.

Used car lots. Burned out buildings. Empty shopping malls. A strip joint featuring a one arm go-go dancer. Two dollar well drinks on Tuesday nights.

This was once a boom town. Industry thrived here. Back when we made things. Now technology is all the craze. The two coasts prospering; Midwest making the best of hard times.

Prices going up. Service jobs; McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, hiring and firing folks with no future. The green fields made him smile.

Every time the old man drove past the tall corn stalks, soy beans starting to grow, lush colors, he was reminded of his youth. A time when community meant something. People looked out for one another. Men sat in the diner discussing the decline.

It’s all the Democrats fault, one said. They started this whole Covid crisis, he slurped his coffee. Now we’re broke. China owns us. Bill Gates owns the rest, puffed on a Marlboro.

Now, now, wait a minute, another said. The Republicans are at fault too. Don’t trust them. Never have. They’re all about big business and leaving the rest of us behind, he stated.

They both are, the third senior citizen declared. They both are. It’s a club gentlemen. And we ain’t invited.

This gave the table pause. It was now clear the American dream was over. They drank their coffee. Ate pie. And smoked cigarettes. Sitting in silence.

Cans were piled high in the corner of the trailer. Old Style, PBR, The Champaign of Beers, King of Beers and Schlitz tossed aside by a television set that was always on.

The old man watched talk shows all day long. He’d start with Kelly and Ryan then end with Dr. Phil; Springer and Maury were in the middle of the day.

He’d talk to the TV. Call women whores and men assholes. He’d swing in the air if a fight broke out. Flailing his arms out in front of him. Making fists out of weathered hands. He’d yell out, You whore. You asshole, at the top of his lungs. Then the old man would tell Jerry and Maury to get ’em. Show ’em whose boss Jerry. Tear ’em apart Steve, he’d drink another beer. Slurped it down with a loud noise. Whatever was on sale that week.

His boy would come around every once in awhile to check on him. Basically he just came by when he didn’t have any beers or money. The old man was always good for a ten or a twenty spot. The boy would steal bills from dirty pants laying on the floor. Waited for the old man to go to the bathroom then go through the pockets. It was a habit he had since childhood. Boy knew the old man didn’t have much in the bank , but he couldn’t wait for the old man to die so he could take that too.

They sat there in silence watching Dr. Phil. A teenage girl was tearing her family apart. One day she wanted to be a boy, the next she’d want to be a girl. Her indecision was driving her mad. The parents didn’t know what to do. Please Dr. Phil. Will you help us, they’d ask.

The old man would sit there glued to the TV. The mother and father were crying. The girl kept spouting off at them. Saying, You don’t understand. Never have, never will, the daughter screamed. Dr. Phil got her in line. Told her he wouldn’t put up with that on his show. The old man cheered him on. Boy just sat there in amazement.

This is America, the kid said to himself as he opened another beer. Take it or leave it. This is America.

She did not claim him. Turned her back away. Said she didn’t know him. She knew a guy once. Used to bring her flowers every day. He’d dance with her under the moonlight at midnight. Told her she was something special; pure. Confessed his love to her. That was the man she knew.

Not this. A killer. Murdered all kinds of people across this great nation. Gas station hold ups. Bar fights. Waiting in parking lots for men to come out and meet their maker.

He liked to kill bikers.He’d drive down 30 at night with his window down and a sawed-off shot gun in his lap. Creeping up to them in the dark. Open fire. It was almost like a game he played. Extra points if there was a woman on the back. Arms wrapped around him. He’d aim for his head. Shoot at will. Watch the bike wreck on the highway as he drove off. Flicking his cigarette out the window and watching the lit butt bounce on the road. Then he’d turn on the radio and listen to gospel music.

Like I said. I don’t know this man. He is not the one I married, she said. You think you know some people. You don’t. You really don’t, she paused. No sir. I do not know this man.

It was dark. Daytime, but dark. Clouds blocked the sun. It was a greyish black color. And, trees danced in the wind.

He watched from his living room window. The reception on his television was weak. Pictures kept coming and going. His antennae wasn’t up to the task. The old man fidgeted around with it. The more he moved the metal plate, the worst it got. Until there was no picture at all. Just a blank screen.

God damn it, he said. Nothing ever works. Earler that morning the coffee maker dumped grounds in his pot below as it was brewing. The toilet was running. Kitchen faucet had a constant drip, drip, drip. Bath tub was clogged up. He was right. Nothing ever works.

The old man watched lightning and listened to thunder. The skies made a stirring sound. Like a train running at a slow pace. He drank coffee and spit out grounds on the floor. A green carpet with tiny black bits all over it. Looked like a painting. An obscure painting. Something that might go in New York for two hundred grand. He laughed.

It has a certain appeal to it, the old man said to himself. He played around with the grounds and smeared them on his canvass. Got a razor blade and carefully cut squares in his carpet. Making faces with the black substance. Drawing clouds and trees. A black sun.

I’ll make a fortune, he thought. Sell these down town at one of those galleries. Call the show, Art From The Old Man, he couldn’t stop laughing.

Outside the winds were picking up more and more, shaking his trailer. Moving it off the concrete blocks a little at a time until eventually it tipped over, trapping the old man. Furniture. Tables, chairs, the couch, his new finger paintings, all destroyed.

The old man climbed his way to the door and opened it. Looked around at power lines down on the ground. Poles knocked over. Other trailers turned on their sides. He whispered, Nothing ever works.

He walked along Highway 30; The Lincoln Highway. The road that stretches from East to West. Starts in New York and ends out in San Francisco. Long stretches throughout the Midwest. It just keeps going. Seems like it never stops.

Truckers and vagabonds travel this highway. Lost Americans in vans going from one end of the country then back again. Killing time. Waiting for the second coming. Some say they’re running from something. A past. Some kind of haunting. Trying to escape a torture. A hurt. These ghosts follow them.

At night in summer the winds pick up out in the middle of no-where. Air shifts and sways making it hard to drive against. Dark skies loom overhead. Drivers pull into small town truck stops where runaways and junkies stroll from cab to cab looking for an exchange; their bodies for greenbacks. Some are just looking for a lift to as far as they can go. No particular place in mind. Just some town to start over again in. Then again and again.

The diesel pulled into a stop in Fort Wayne, Indiana amongst seedy hotels, strip clubs, twenty-four hour diners that welcomed truckers and other creatures of the night. The driver gave him a five for a cup of coffee. He knew the young man was broke. They always were. Spending what little money they had on cigarettes and the McDonald’s dollar menu. The boy hadn’t seen a vegetable in months. Just cheeseburgers and fried fish sandwiches. He’d lick the tartar sauce as it oozed out of the side of the bun. His pot belly was rumbling again. He needed to feed the beast. He chose smokes instead. Sat in the truck stop diner waiting to walk into town. Make a grand entrance. This was his nature.

Sun rose at 5:43. He followed it to Main Street. Kicking a can the whole time. Walked to the middle of town where there was a big fountain. Homeless people bathing in the water before the cops showed up to chase them away. He was surrounded by meth-heads and whores. Some young, some old. Teeth missing and ruddy skin. A pregnant girl drinking from a bottle in a bag.

He sat there and took it all in. Fort Wayne was as good a place as any to start over again. This is America, he thought. Land of opportunity, he whispered. The boy didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe in much of anything. Gave up on God and the Holy Ghost. Didn’t care for Christ who climbed on the cross for him. He’d given up those beliefs in his youth. Told himself when he left home, I don’t need anybody or anyone. Live life on my own terms, he said out loud. And, he did.

People in the park told him where the shelter was. told him the rules and regulations for a bed at night. About attending chapel and joining a twelve step program. It was the same in every town. Christian charity was on their terms. No sinners allowed. They wanted you to be dipped in the water. For your soul to be cleansed. And who is really clean? he thought. The Muslim, Hindu, Jew? he asked himself. I’m just a sinner and always will be, he thought. God bless America? Maybe. He hasn’t blessed me.

And within a week he was back on Highway 30. Headed for another town. His soul was restless. Always would be. Highway 30 was his home. The Lincoln Highway his savior.

It was over. He could see that. Stared him right in the face. Time after time he’d tried to fix it. Bought flowers, rings. Would pay for dinners when there was no money in the bank; like magic.

She broke the news to him. It was right after they’d watched a movie together. Casablanca with Bogart and Bergman. It was their favorite movie. Or, so he thought. She confessed to him later that she hated the film.

Casablanca? he asked. How does anyone hate Casablanca? This relationship should’ve been over years ago, he said. Nobody hates Casablanca. It’s un-American, he lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey.

I just don’t like old movies, she said. Never have. And you’ve forced me all these years to watch them, she downed a shot. Casablanca, Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, all of em, she yelled. All of em are terrible.

He was broken hearted. Not because she was breaking up with him. But, because the whole thing was a lie. It was something he believed in whole-heartedly. He lived in a black and white world. Complete with old jazz playing in the background. He thought she was a part of that.

Oh well. Here’s looking at you kid.

The fence was falling apart. Wooden pieces loose. Splinters. It was never primed nor painted. Just wood nailed together. Gate was coming off the hinges.

Overgrown bushes in front hid the old house. Bushes as tall as the first floor window. You could almost call them trees.

Brown ivy covered the home. Over the years it’d died on the orange brick. It stopped turning green in the spring time. It had a charm of winter’s death. Shingles hanging on by a screw.

When the old man bought it years ago it wasn’t in bad shape. An older house, built in the late 1800’s. The basement had a dirt floor and cut down trees holding up the ceiling. They were strategically placed.

He never did marry nor seek a great fortune. A teacher of history at the high school. Never showed up at events with a date. Everyone in town thought he was strange. Long beard, long gray hair, an arm that was covered in tattoos from over seas; a green outlined mermaid from his elbow up. Wore shortsleeves in winter time. Took baths at midnight. Read Miller, Conrad, Camus, Sartre and Mellville. But, he never sought his great whale.

And, he let things slip. Or, he never cared to begin with. Lived in that house for forty years. Wanted to sell it one day. Had ideas of buying a ticket to Mexico and never return. Sleep on the beach. Eat tacos and drink tequilla. Seek comfort in a Mexican whore house. Then just move on to the next life; the other side. Maybe he always wanted to be on the other side. Maybe.

The house was falling apart. It was the perfect time to leave. But, he never got that chance. They found him in his bath with a copy of Tropic Of Capricorn at the bottom of the tub. The water was red. His eyes stared up at God.

Like his soul, the house was restored.

Trees were green and lush. Fields freshly planted waited for October’s harvest. Grain silos and barns dotted the landscape.

We drove Indiana’s backroads on a summer’s eve. Amish in carriages being pulled by horses. Pickups passing them by. A kid on a bicycle trying to keep pace. Curves in a winding road taking us across state. We passed cows and bulls. Cemeteries with headstones dating back to another time. Small towns and tattoo parlors. Motorcycles parked out front. Signs that said No Passing.

I looked at the tall weeds on the side of the road. Mailboxes with obscure numbers on them. Did the United States Postal Service even know these people exist.

It was farmland. Our time in it was brief. Though it seemed to stretch for miles. Wires hung overhead. It’s a wonder they have electricity.

Windmills spun in the wind. An American flag on a wooden shed. Front yards an acre long. These people are forgotten.

Nighttime fell. Darkness swallowed us whole. We drove under a quarter moon across the Midwest. Soon there will be light. Soon.

And this land will stretch across country through valleys and mountains. Through The Plains. All the way out west. We’ll be home soon. Soon.

People gathered in the street to watch. Hours were spent talking. Catching up on old times. All winter they stayed inside. Summer nights with windows open made them all a bit curious. Arguments could be heard. Family celebrations observed. So much to catch up on.

The streetlight laid broken in the street. A pick-up truck had hit it. The official word was driving under the influence. Neighbors poured out of their homes and apartments to look at the action.

This driver of the vehicle was known in the neighborhood as being a drunk. He’d grown up on Berry Street and now lived in a one bedroom a few blocks from where he spent his childhood. The firemen pulled him from his truck. The middle-aged man was taken to a hospital as a tow truck cleared the scene.

I heard he lost his job, said Mr. Aleman.

Yeah, I heard that too, Mrs. Shakowski said. Shame. Is he going to make it?

I don’t know his condition, Mr. Aleman replied. He hit that pole awfully hard. There was blood on the dashboard, he said.

So, I see Ben has gone off to college, Mrs. Yablamowitz said to her friend Mrs. Yelton, whom she had not seen since Easter. All grown up. They grow up so fast, she shook her gray head.

Yes, going off to Michigan, Yablamowitz boasted. He’s so smart.

Not too smart, Mrs. Yelton thought. Got that girl pregnant last year. Mysteriously she lost the baby, she looked away at the pole in the street.

What the hell happened? a drunk standing outside O’Reilly’s said to the other.

Some guy hit a streetlight, responded the village idiot. Just flat out ran into it, he stuttered. Going ninety miles an hour, the fool exaggerated.

Well, it’s in God’s hands now.

Slowly the crowd began to break up. People went back to their homes. Moonlight made some sit on their front porches a little while longer. Talking of nothing. Just feeling the breeze hit their faces. Soon it would be daybreak. Folks had jobs to go to. Appointments to make. Fall could not come fast enough.