dmseay

Stop.

What?

You know what.

No. I don’t. I’m sitting. Sitting here. Minding my own business. Doing nothing.

Just stop. There was silence for two minutes. She lit a cigarette and turned to him again. How does it feel?

What?

What I’m doing. This thing I’m doing to you.

You’re not doing anything.

But, I am. The same thing you were doing to me, she stopped talking. He stared out the train window. Trees went by. Old buildings in small towns. Debris out in the streets. They both looked out the window. Then she, sitting across from him, looked at him again. There sure is a lot to see, she said. This is my first time on a train.

Oh, he turned to her.

Don’t do that.

What?

You know what. Think I look funny? she asked. You keep staring at me. Don’t look at me.

You were talking to me.

Yes. Yes, I was. I need a drink. Maybe that would calm me down. Do you want to join me?

He looked out the window. Saw cars lined up. Dodge, Fords, pickups, station wagons, a Pinto. No, he said. He pointed to outside.

Fine. Maybe you could see about sitting somewhere else while I’m away.

Maybe. Just maybe.

You don’t have to be condescending, she walked away. He continued looking at America.

Do you hear them?

Who?

The birds. They’ve come back. Nests are being made. Different colored eggs will fill them. Chicks will chirp while mothers sing. It’s really quite something. They fly south and then fly back. Like senior citizens.

I wonder where they go. Arkansas, Texas, Florida, Alabama. How far south do they go? We should follow them sometime, Grandpa. Get in the truck and chase them.

Can’t chase birds. Too fast. Fly too high.

We could pretend. Imagine that we’re following them. The same way we pretend that grandma’s in heaven.

You think that’s pretend?

Sam’s mom says it is. But, what does she know?

What do you think?

I think she’s in heaven. All good people go to heaven.

Right.

We should chase birds, Grandpa.

Yes. We should chase birds.

Don’t force anything, he said. Let it come naturally. If you have to think about it, then it’ll come out wrong, the old man said. That’s the problem; too much forcing. Trying to put a circle in a square. It just doesn’t work, he told the younger man seated next to him. The harder you try, the worse it gets, he motioned for the bartender to set up another round. There’s nothing wrong with hard work. It’s just when the hard work doesn’t work, you gotta a problem, he downed his whiskey, tapped the shot glass, and motioned for another.

The young man looked at the old man’s hands. Wrinkled and lined. Calloused. Black underneath nails. He laughed.

What’s so funny?

Your hands, the kid said. All they’ve ever known was forced work. Look at mine, he stuck out his hands, fingertips pointing to the sky. These hands are clean. Never had a scratch. They’re pure white. The nails evenly trimmed. I’ve never had to force anything. Smooth, he said. Notice how my ring slides off and on. No forcing. No forcing.

I see, the old man grabbed the kid’s hands. Things have come easy for you. Not a matter of skill or brains. Just luck. There will come a time when you’ll think you have to force. And you’ll get nervous. But, don’t.

Have you forced? Am I right about that?

Look at me, the old man said. What do you think? You learn as you get older.

He sat in his car, looking at Christmas lights in April. Red, orange, green, yellow glowing in the pitch black of the trailer park.

Another beer was pulled from his six-pack. He felt the coldness in his hand as he drank. Sweat dripping off the can.

The old man noticed how the lights sparkled and flashed on and off. It gave him peace. He didn’t question why they hadn’t taken them down. He was thankful.

He crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it out the window amongst the other debris; candy bar wrappers, used condoms, burned out Roman candles that lay there. Put the car in drive and took off. Headed back home. It was two o’clock in the morning.

Waste of time. All this talk. Going back and forth over what? Opinions. That’s all there is. Just opinions. Most of the time, we don’t even know what we’re saying. Just talk to hear ourselves talk. Our own voices. No listening. Words. Babble, he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. What time is it?

There’s a clock above the bar, the young man told him.

I don’t want to look at the clock. I’m asking you. Why do you have to be such a smack?

It’s ten o’clock. Time for you to go home and go to bed, he took a drink of his beer. People don’t like you. I’ve seen you before in here. You start trouble. Patrons don’t like you. The bartender doesn’t like you. Nobody does. And yet, you come in here. Haven’t they thrown you out a couple of times? the old man looked at him. Yes, I’m talking to you. You come in here like you’re some kind of royalty. A king. Except you don’t have any followers. No country, the kid said. What are you in exile? the old man laughed.

You should respect your elders. one of these days we’ll all be gone. And you’ll be stuck with rainbow flags and cute transexuals selling beer. I’m out of here. I’m gone. You remember what I said, the old man took one last drink and walked out the door.

Who was that? the young man asked the bartender. I’ve seen him before, but who is that? Where does he get off? Just who does he think he is?

A dinosaur.

Did you mean to kill him?

I don’t know. It all happened so fast. He was coming at me with his arms outstretched. Like he was Frankenstein. He had some look in his eye. A mean look. But, he had his arms open. Maybe he wanted to give me a hug. I don’t know. It all happened really fast, she said to the cop.

You think maybe he was trying to hug you? Has he tried to hug you in the past like that?

How do you mean?

Coming at you. Arms outstretched. A mean look in his eye. Did he say anything?

No. He was silent. Breathing heavy. He was a smoker. Went through about two packs a day. He always had a gurgle in his throat. Made noises. But he wasn’t saying anything.

How’d it all start?

He came home late. Later than usual. I could tell he’d been drinking. Kind of dodged and weaved through the trailer. I was sitting in the front room watching TV. Some kind of show about animals. How they protect their young. Keep them safe. But then other animals come and try to kill them. Rape the mom. Declare themeslves king, the cop listened. Took a drink of coffee. Those animals are real headstrong. Wanting to kill. Wanting to protect, she said.

Did he come to you, or did you go to him?

He came over to me. Smelling of alcohol.

Where was the gun?

Had it beside me on the stand.

And you were waiting for him to come home?

Yeah.

Why’d you have the gun there?

Always have the gun next to me when he’s gone. Lots of crime in that part of town.

Yeah. I know.

Those animals killed those babies and raped that mother. That was hard to watch. But something made me want to watch it, she tapped her finger on the table. He got in between the TV and me, and he would not move. Just stood there with his arms outstretched. Like some animal, she tapped faster on the table. So. I killed him.

It’s not like I didn’t tell you it was going to happen, Frank lit a cigarette, loosened his tie. I mean. What do you expect? These are hard times. Everybody’s caught in the mix. You think you got it hard? Look at the guy next to you, the man drank from his beer glass. I’m not wishing anything on anybody. I’m not hoping for someone’s demise. I just got to look out for myself. Take care of me and mine’s. You know what I mean?

His friend looked at him. Took a drink that had been bought for him. Started to talk, then lit a cigarette. Put the Zippo back in his pocket.

Listen. I know you’re in a jam, Frank said. We all are. it’s the country we live in. Banks falling apart. Gas is always high. Groceries getting more and more expensive. Take this, he handed Jack a twenty. I’ll take care of the tab. Have another drink.

I’m short this month. I can’t take a piss standing up, Jack said. Everything is wrong. Upside down. This, he looked at the twenty. This’ll get me a cab ride home.

Yeah. I guess you better walk.

Death. I, we, sell death. A plot. Some hole in the ground. The final resting place. That’s what we do, he said to his co-worker. People come to us in their deepest time of need. A loved one has died. Heart attack, stroke, murdered on Austin Avenue. Something, he took a drink from his rocks glass. You can tell by the look on their faces if they loved the person or not. You get a real sense of how the relationship was. The worst is dealing with the parents. Some kid dies of cancer. A teenager killed in a car wreck, the salesman stirred his ice. And what do we do? We offer tissues. And a contract. Some financial agreement. You think that gives them solace? It does not give them solace.

For solace, they should go to a priest, the partner said. That’s not our job. I mean. I can only give so much, the other man nodded.

Right. You want comfort? Hire a hooker. Don’t come see me for that. Come to me to bury your dead. I’ll laugh with you. Cry. But, I will not comfort you. I will not get myself attached, they clinked their glasses together.

They looked up at the TV. The Cubs were losing again. An old man at the corner of the bar lit a cigarette. Coughed a little. Clapped his wrinkled hands. Let’s go, Cubbies, he yelled. Let’s go.

Probably be seeing him next week, the salseman said. Carry him out of here on a stretcher, the old man yelled at the TV again. Son of a bitch. He can’t die soon enough.

I’m on a bus heading east on 30. It is quiet. No noise. People are asleep or sitting in silence staring at their phones. Ninety-eight miles to go.

Semis pass by us. Minivans and SUVs heading out in search of America race each other; who’ll get to Florida first? Who knows where they’re heading.

They are families of four traveling over Midwestern landscape; bare corn fields, stalks chopped down, green grass in the median, blank trees staring at them. A kid on the side of the road throwing up. Mom pats his back.

Rusted railroad tracks run parallel to the highway. I wonder if Kerouac ever rode them. Wonder if he missed his home. Missed his brother, who died for his sins.

The sign says 81 miles to Fort Wayne. I miss my kid brother. Soon, I will see him alone in a room at the nursing home. I’ll bring him a chocolate bunny. Mom used to give us those when we were kids. Hopefully, he’ll smile when he bites its head off. A decapitated chocolate rabbit. It’ll be good to see him.

Soon, it will be dark.

Is there a heaven? he asked. I mean, when we die, do we go some place better? lit a cigarette. Cause I gotta tell you, after all this, you deserve something better. Don’t you?

Main Street was playing on the jukebox. The two men sat at the bar watching a baseball game. The older one did most of the listening; threw out a few words here and there. But, the young man kept talking, ordering shots of Hot Damn, and clapping when the Sox got a hit.

What I’m saying is, for all we have to endure here on earth, you’d think death, the after-life, would be comforting, he said to the old man. It should be a reward. A prize for getting through it all without killing someone, he took a drink from his Old Style can.

Well. I see that. And punishment if you violated the ten commandments, he laughed.

No. Not at all, the kid said. There is no hell.

Has to be. We’re born with this fear of it. This fear that if we don’t do good, then we go to hell. We burn forever with other sinners.

We’re not born with that. We’re taught that. In Sunday school. In church. On television. In books, the song Wichita Lineman came on. And, all I’m saying is maybe God wants all of us to be in one place. A paradise. A return to paradise. Where Adam and Eve started. With beautiful sunny days and lush fields to sit in and contemplate on life. A place where there’s only love.

You just made that story up. There ain’t no place like that.

Top of the sixth. Sox lead the Indians 3-2.