dmseay

Looking outside at the red Mustang up on concrete blocks. Rusting. Tires off. A crack in the windshield from his first wreck. That was years ago. Back when he was a teenager. Back when there was an adventurous spirit in him. Now he was just a fifty-something year old living day to day. Downing beers and watching television all night long. Waiting for the good Lord to come and take him away. That’s what he wanted.

He’d drive that car all around town when he was young. Bought it used with money saved from working at the Piggly Wiggly store. The kid would cruise up and down Main Street. Showing off. Looking for women in bars. Sometimes he’d get lucky. Most of the time it was a fool’s errand. A waste of time. You waste a lot of time when you’re young.

Now he stayed up all night watching Gilligan’s Island reruns. He had a big crush on Tina Louise. Had posters of her all ’round his trailer. Had a signed black and white of her from a convention in Dallas. Sometimes at night he’d look at the red head called Ginger and talk to her. Pretending that she was there with him. That the two of them were dancing to slow music. It was Tina Louise he wanted. Not Dawn Wells.

Come daybreak he would wake from his dreams. Still drunk from the night before. He’d call out, Tina. Tina, and then stop. Realizing that she wasn’t there. She never was. He laughed at himself for such foolish thoughts. Then pop open a morning Miller. And, sure enough he was dancing again with Ms. Louise. Holding her close to his heart. Even though she was never there, she never left him.

He told the boy to wait. Wait right there in front of the liquor store. Daddy will be back in a flash. Just you wait.

And the boy waited. Looked at people as they went inside. Men in suits and ladies in tight jeans. Bums begging for bucks. A toothless woman holding a sign that read, Please Help Me.

The boy watched cars go by on Main Street. Pickups and four- doors. Some old rusted out Cavalier pulled into the parking lot. It’s back seat was filled with green and white garbage bags. A child’s toy sat up in the back part of the car. It was a dump truck. A yellow dump truck. Used to belong to the man’s kid. Now he was gone. Got cancer at a young age. The man’s wife blamed herself. It split the two in half. He went his way and she went her’s. The boy watched as the man stumbled out of the car. The man patted the boy on the head and smiled.

Daddy came out with a bottle of cheap scotch and a six pack of Old Style. The condensation seeped through the paper bag. They got into the Ford pickup and took off. The boy kept looking back at the liquor store in the rear window. Daddy opened up a beer.

The hibiscus in the back yard was in full bloom. Kind of a orange and red color. Lush green leaves. He watered it every day in the summer time. Watched it grow. It was his favorite. Loved it more than the orchids he had. Loved it more than the green ivy growing on the fence.

Sweat would pour out of him as he did yard work. Mowing the grass, planting flowers his wife had bought at the market. Piling stones for a retaining wall. A rusted wheel barrow by his side. A mud caked shovel at his feet. A can of Miller High Life in his hand. He would stand on the patio surveying his work. It was the only thing he’d ever accomplished.

He and his wife would sit in the garden and drink wine in the evening time. Sometimes they’d talk. Other times in silence. Just smiling as the sun went down. Waiting for the seasons to change. Hoping that summer would last a little longer. Wanting life to last a little longer.

And fall came. They would sit amongst death. The hibiscus gone. Just a brown stem.

The two of them sitting quietly. Not telling the other their thoughts. Thoughts of leaving. Wanting something more than just summer. The green was now gone.

Angie Dickinson was on television the other night. She was talking to Johnny Carson. The old man was watching with the sound down. Kept calling out the name, Pepper. That’s what they called her on Police Woman.

Boy came home around midnight. Tom Snyder was on. His guest that night was the man who put Charles Manson away. The old man was now whispering, They should’ve killed that son of a bitch. All that tax money wasted, he said. Boy grabbed a Miller and closed the refrigerator door.

You some kind of judge? Boy asked. Think you’re some kind of authority on these matters? he continued.

He murdered a woman and her unborn baby,the old man said. He paused. Did you ever see Sharon Tate? She was something. Got involved with that director. That Polish guy.

Roman Polanski, dad. His name was Roman Polanski.

Didn’t he rape some young girl?

That’s what they say. He left the country. Lives over in France.

How do you know so much?

Read. Watch the news. Educate myself on the matters of the world, Boy got up and grabbed another High Life. The old man turned the channel. Watched the midnight movie. It was Rebel Without A Cause. Starring James Dean and Natalie Wood. The two of them on his television. There was silence.

Be nice if we could hear it, the boy said.

Be nice if you’d leave. Drinking all my beer. Talking to me like I was an idiot. I knew who that polack was. Roman Polanski. I knew it the whole time, the old man stared at the TV. Sal Mineo was on the screen now. You know,the old man laughed, He was a straight up homosexual Sal Mineo was. Bet you didn’t know that did you?

Sure I did. Could tell just by watching him. He walks and talks just like a fag, boy said. He tries to play it straight in Giant,but, you can tell. Least I could.

You gotta eye for that sort of thing boy?

What are you insinuating?

The old man just laughed. He got up and walked back to his room laughing. He closed the door. Boy could still hear him laughing. Laughing at him. He grabbed another beer and walked out the door. The boy lit a cigarette and could still hear the old man laughing inside. Laughing like a hyena. Wild laughter. Like he’d never heard before. Then it stopped. It was quiet again.

The boy went back inside. Silently shut the door. Rustled through the old man’s pants pockets and found a twenty. He quietly snickered. Placed the bill in his wallet and stretched out on the couch. He slept well that night.

The river is lower now. Less threatening. Was way up high. Overflowing the banks. Flooding the farm land. Strange how fields flood then become dry as the Sierra.

Over in Newton County the corn is taking off. Growing higher each day. Sweet corn should be in by late August. Farmers are counting on it.

A body washed up on the banks of the Kankakee just yesterday. A young man. Body was blue; puffed up like a balloon. There was no identification on him. His hair was bloody and muddy from the waters. Holes in the back of his head.

They took him away on a stretcher. The County Coroner later confirmed he’d been shot. Right in the back of the head. Now all kinds of questions emerged. Where was he from? Drug deal gone bad? Did he owe somebody money? Where do you begin?

The sun is coming up over the river and the fields. I’m watching the ball of fire in the sky as summer’s heat turns up a notch. Soon it’ll be noon and the temperature will be close to a hundred.

There’s a section of the banks roped off as a crime scene. Cops looking for clues.

My brother hasn’t been home in a week. Folks tell me he’s up to no good. Said he owes half the county money. Has habits that could cost him.

I didn’t report him as missing. Figured he took off to California, or, somewhere. Wanting a new life. Maybe he found one.

A tattoo said Fearless on her right arm. She was everything but. Took off with some motorcycle gang when she was seventeen. The young redhead liked the way they worshipped her. Like she was some kind of goddess. A virgin hand picked by Zeus to satisfy their needs.

They rode all over America. Her green eyes shined in the night. Glowed against camp fires in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, on in to California. They’d let loose on Highway 1 all the way down to Tijuana where they’d drink cheap tequila and ramble off into whore houses. Leaving her behind. Sitting on a barstool taking drags from Marlboros. She didn’t belong to just one man. Shorty belonged to all of them.

That’s why she didn’t cry. No one could claim her. Tossed around like a sack of pure white flour every other night. Riding on the backs of Harleys. Confederate flags waved in the air from the handle bars. She felt free. But, not fearless.

Other women in the gang felt the same way. A tough act, but, inside they were just scared little girls. Leaving one abusive father for another. They’re right when they say freedom isn’t free.

Freedom bites you. It kicks you in the stomach. Makes you feel like you want more. More air blowing in your face. More punches taken. Anything to prove you’re fearless.

The tattoo on her right arm said fearless. You decide.

He shot his wife in Mexico. Some small town over the border near El Paso. Never said where he buried the body. All kinds of bare land around there. Maybe he dumped it in the river. Hard to say.

She was young. A Mexican girl no more than eighteen. He drove down there from Oklahoma specifically to marry her. The girl’s parents sent him pictures. Said it’d cost him $500 American. The middle aged man sent letters to her and the family. Saying he’d be a good man. Said he’d take care of her.

I got picked up in Carthage by him. Thumbing a ride to Dallas. He told me all about her. Told me he was in love.

We drove through the night into Texas. Crossed the Red River. The fat man pulled over at a rest area. We talked. Said he’d been married before. A blonde woman from Missouri. Joplin, I believe. He confessed that he’d killed her. Said she got on his nerves. Said she cheated on him. There was a paranoia about him. A mistrust in people. Women in particular.

But, he told me he liked talking to me. Said my listening put him at ease. I don’t talk much.

I left in the early morning before sun up. I was back on the highway . Hitching by day break. Didn’t think of him again until I saw a news story about a year later. About some American accused of killing his bride. Didn’t need to see a picture. I knew who it was. I knew.

Nebraska gets strange at night. Darkness falls on the land. The moon shines. You can smell corn growing. Hear wild dogs barking as lights flash from cars driving down highways that cut through small towns. Ghosts walking on the side of the roads. Crosses marking where death took place ; an old man trying to cross the road, baby girl tossed from a car, a road worker killed by a careless driver. All these ghosts in Nebraska nights. He drove on.

The old man was heading west to Colorado. Wanted to go to Denver. Had never been there before. Read about it in Kerouac’s book, On The Road. He was captivated by the adventures of Sal Pardise and Dean Moriarty. He wanted to see streets where Dean stole cars. See bars that Kerouac drank in. He wanted an American story to unfold before his eyes.

But, first he had to get through Nebraska. The old man pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot to sleep for the night. A few cars were parked in there as well. Couples sleeping in the front seat with the windows down. Taking in the Midwestern air. Loners, like him in old rusted pickups napping in the back beds.

He used a rolled up jean jacket for a pillow. His rested head fell right asleep. Eyes closed. The old man dreamed. Dreamed of Coltrane playing just for him. Blowing out Naima along with Body And Soul. The two of them alone in a room; a private concert. A bottle of scotch on his table.

The dream faded into loves of his past. Women he had been with. Women with stories about them all. Blondes from Chicago, Puerto Rican girls living in the Bronx, southern belles in Virginia. All of them visited him that night. And, he was pleased to see them all again. Each giving him a farewell kiss.

Soon the sun was up. Rising in an open Nebraska sky. The moon faded away.

Do you believe in ghosts? Or, are they just dreams? What feels real and what feels imaginary? Maybe there’s no difference.

He felt something that night. Maybe it was the whiskey he shared with Coltrane.

Uncertainty. There was always this uncertainty. He was never sure of himself, or, others. Always let his emotions get in the way. His prejudices stopped him from seeing truth. He spent most of his life in fear. The unknown gets us every time.

There was a gun under his bed at night. A snub nose pistol. Always had a fear that one day he’d have to use it. The old man kept it loaded. Middle of the night there were always noises. These noises kept him from sleep. A car going by, a motorcycle at midnight, noises from down the hall. A couple fighting. Some drunk knocking on his door in the early hours of morning while the moon still shined. He laid there with one eye open and his hand under the mattress, clutching the weapon. Waiting for someone to bust his door down. Any excuse to use it.

He never spoke of these fears. Kept to himself. Sitting in the front room each day drinking cans of beer and shots of schnapps with the pistol beside him on the end table. Watching TV in silence. He hated the sounds of voices. Particularly those coming from the television. Everyday he’d point the gun at the set. Telling bad guys to make one false move. Bandits coming to town. A villain on Gunsmoke. Some cheat in a poker game on ESPN. He’d have his finger on the trigger. Waiting for the right moment.

This uncertainty he had. A real loose cannon. Talked to himself. Had conversations about how the world was closing in on him. The uncertainty of life. The only sure thing being that we all die some day, he said. And, today was that day. It was a good day to die, he thought. Bury his fears.

He pointed the pistol to his right temple. Began babbling incoherently. The TV showed a gunfight in the streets of Laredo. Some western was on. He pulled the gun away from his head. Pointed at the man on the television with the black leather on him. And, he fired. A smile came to his face. He saved his soul. The television was dead. Blasted right in the middle of the screen. Heard sirens out in the street. He was sure they were coming for him. He laughed. Walked in glass on the floor and went back to his room. Placed the firearm under his bed and dreamed.

The old man didn’t hear anything anymore. Just quiet. Silence. No more knocks on his door. The couple down the hall quit fighting. Traffic noise had stopped. Maybe the world had ended, he whispered. Maybe.

She never expected anyting from him except the truth. Faithfulness was not his strength. She never asked. She knew in the back of her mind that he was cheating on her. Not just once, but, several times. She just never wanted to confront the truth. In the end, it eludes all of us, she thought. This fear we have of finding out. And, we talk to no-one about it. We just carry-on.

He died in the winter of 1989. Several people showed up at the funeral. Family, friends, former soldiers, co-workers, an ex-wife. They all came to show their final respects. She held onto an American flag. Their son placed his arm around her to give comfort. But, she was smiling the whole time. Almost laughing.

They didn’t have the guts to show up did they? she asked. Her son shook his head. The ladies. The women over the years that he carried on with, she whispered.

The boy just looked at her. The cat was out of the bag now, he thought. He held onto her tighter while the preacher man went on and on about what a fine Christian man he was. A true soldier for God Almighty. A man of virtue and moral fiber. A family man if ever there was one. The minister went on and on. The son and the mother looked at each other and smiled.

They knew the truth. Had for years. It was an unspoken in the household. Sunday lunches with women he’d carried on with. Sitting right across from mom. Holding their husband’s hands. Silent. Spoke when spoken to. That was the kind of woman the old man liked. Did he love his family? He said he did.

Love is one thing. Respect, another. Maybe he couldn’t help himself, the widow thought. Maybe he was some kind of wild animal that had these urges. Couldn’t control himself. Kind of like King David. Always wanting more, she told her son after the service. They sat having coffee and looking at the folded flag. She laughed . That flag was the only thing he was faithful to, she said. Sure wasn’t faithful to me.