dmseay

The tall oak was split in two last night. Has burn marks on it this morning. Limbs lay in the street. The rest stands like a torched monument. An abstract statue with a deeper meaning. Bark and chips of wood are being swept up by men in uniforms. Chainsaws are buzzing. Soon it’ll just be a hump. A memory.

That tree was over a hundred years old they said. Over time his family had watched it grow. His grand parents and parents looked on as it reached towards the Midwest sky. Storms had come and gone, but, it had withstood the test of time. It made it through tornadoes, blizzards, high winds. It was a survivor. The oak stood as a symbol for his family. And now, just like his family, he was the only one left.

The old man stood in the window last night when the tree went down. He saw the lightning hit it. Heard the crackle. Saw the smoke in the early evening hours. It was a white smoke. A holy smoke. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was the same feeling he had when he saw his grandpa laying in the casket when he was just a kid. He’d made it to a hundred too. Survived the great war. Sitting in a trench. Killing rats as they scurried along. Eating them for supper. Praying for the gunfire to stop. Digging graves for dead Americans with more shots being fired. Never a moment of peace.

Cancer got him and his pop. Dad fought in World War II. Marched through Northern Africa and into France. Saw the ruins of war. Buildings destroyed. Famine. Bodies piled high. He told his son, Some day you’ll see it too. Some day. Wars will never end.

And, he was right. The old man served in Vietnam when he was just a kid. He was a Marine. Pop gave him a Bowie knife before he left. He didn’t come back with it. Now he’s got cancer too. He’s had it for awhile. It just keeps on lingering, festering inside his lungs. Some say it was the agent orange that did it to him. Others say it’s the two pack a day habit he’s got going for over fifty years. Doctor says he’ll be dead soon. Gone from this life.

The tall oak was split in two last night. Now it’s just dust.

The grass turns brown in August. Actually, late July. Rain comes in the spring and everything’s green, vibrant. But, by the middle of summer everybody’s done given up on it. The blades burn in the sun and die. No more water. Place becomes a desert. Dirt’s hard. Almost clay like. Mom’s tomatoes start to rot on the vine; lack of attention. Rabbits and coyotes eat em in the middle of the night. Sometimes a groundhog will make his way up to the back porch. Halves and quarters of green tomatoes eaten and left behind. When you don’t tend to things they die.

The boy was asleep on the couch again. Came in late. Out all night. Drinking. Looking for women. That combination will eventually kill him, momma thought. All he does is stay drunk, she whispered over the voices on the television. Talk show people. Regis and Kathy Lee yaking it up. Talking foolishness. The audience laughed.

The old woman kicked the boy in the leg. There was no movement. Get up, she said. Wake up, she shouted. Boy looked at her and then placed his head between his arms; face down in the sofa. The plastic cover had sweat on it. You gonna look for a job today? she asked. Get up. Wipe your ass. Take a shower boy, mom yelled. He just laid there in a pool of salty water.

You want some coffee? she poked at his ribs. The boy shook his head. Asked what time it was? Time for you to get a watch, she said. Now come on. Get up, momma turned and walked into the kitchen. She saw squirrels out on the back porch munching on tomatoes. Rotting on the vines. Looking like grapes. You can never have anything nice, she said. Never.

Boy got up and buttoned his shirt. It smelled of perfume and sweat. His breath reeked of beer. He sat down at the kitchen table. You gonna mow the lawn? she asked. Boy began to laugh. I said, are you gonna mow the lawn? He pointed at the coffee pot.

That grass is dead mom. It’s brown. Hasn’t grown all month.

It’s summer time. You cut grass in the summer time.

Not if it’s dead you don’t. That grass is dead. We ought to give it a funeral. A proper send off, he went to the fridge and got some cream. You should’ve watered it, he stated. And continued to water it. Just like those tomatoes. They’re dead too mom.

I know they’re dead, she yelled. You don’t have to tell me. But, it’s summer time. And in the summer you cut grass. I’m tired of giving you money for nothing, she declared. Finish your coffee and go mow, she stormed off to her bedroom. The boy shook his head.

I’ll need gas, he raised his voice.

There’s a twenty on the counter. Go get some.

He walked over to the counter and eyed the bill. Boy put the twenty in his pocket and walked out the door. She heard it slam.

She got up and looked out the front window. Her boy was walking down the road. She watched him till he vanished.

He’d stay up all night watching shadows on the wall. Animals he’d made with his fingers. Rabbits, birds, cats, a Texas longhorn would appear from his fingertips. Almost like a magic act. He’d just lay there and look at them. Talking to them. As if they were pets.

Late into the night he could not sleep. His pets, shadows, had gone away. He lit a cigarette and watched smoke climb through the lamp lit room. Sitting there. Thinking of nothing.

The old man walked down the hallway to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He began to laugh. The absurdity of watching shadows. A waste of time.

He looked out the window and stared at the blackness of outside. That is real, he said. Not pretend, he smiled. Night is black, he thought. Night is black.

This is a lonely life, laughing, he lit another smoke. He went back to his bedroom and turned on the exposed bulb. His animals returned. He had someone to talk to.

Stepping into a mess. Always avoid stepping into somebody’s problems. ‘Cause once you’re in, you can’t get out. Try as you might, it’s a difficult process.

He felt bad for her. She said her husband beat her. That was her claim. And sometimes he’d see bruises on her. Black and blue ’round the wrist where he’d grabbed her. A black eye.

They’d sit at the bar and she’d tell him all about it. Like he was a psychiatrist or something. Maybe a priest. She had sins to confess as well.

She told him about another man she was involved with. Owned a used car lot. She wouldn’t say his name. But, there was only one used car lot in town. Fred Jones Automotive. He had those silly commercials on at three in the morning. Wearing costumes and a man in a monkey suit. Eating bananas while Fred talked about savings and clean, clean cars.

The two talked about her leaving him. He said she’d be better off with the used car man. She’d smile and stir her drink. She said, They don’t make them like they used to. My daddy. He was a true man, she said. Stayed with my mom for fifty years. Never even thought of leaving. My momma never had a bruise or a scratch on her. She was loved.

Never step into a mess. Keep your nose clean. He kept thinking that as he sat there listening to her ramble on. The more she talked, the more scared he got. He was starting to get emotionally involved. He wanted to punch this guy. Wanted to take care of her.

I’m meeting my lover tonight, she said. Thanks for listening, he nodded. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He listened to her talk for hours and she paid him with a kiss.

He watched her walk out of the bar and get into a shiny Lincoln. He laughed. Ordered another drink. Told the bartender to be careful where he stepped. Avoid problems, he said. Now I got a headache on my hands.

Every once in awhile he’d see her around town. She’d wave. He’d nod his head. They never really spoke again. He avoided that mess. Went on about his life. But, every time he saw those used car commercials, he’d think of her. Hoped she was alright. Months passed.

The evening news said she was missing. Anyone with any information should contact the police. He thought about calling. Then decided to stay out of it.

Fred Jones came on the TV and was smiling as always. He wondered what he was smiling about ? Wondered what had happened to her. He popped open another beer. Put on Bill Evans. And listened to the music.

He drove his pickup across Arkansas in the middle of the night. Listening to radio the whole time. Picking up stations out of Little Rock, Hope, Texarkana. Country staions and Gospel. When he got bored he’d listen to talk radio. People from all over calling in. Talking about politics and homosexuality. The old man would grin and nod his head. Things ain’t like they used to be, he whispered. No, they are not.

By day break he’d made it across the state. He was in Texas with the sun coming up over small towns, farm lands. It was his goal to shoot it straight through big T and drive on into New Mexico where the red clay looks like a painting. For some reason he wanted to go to Taos. He’d never been there. Just liked the way it sounded. Thought he could get some real authentic Mexican food there. Sounded Mexican. And, if he was lucky, pick up an Indian woman. He liked their high cheek bones and dark skin.

The old man was once married to a white woman. That was years ago when he lived in Chicago. Had a home on the southside of town. Sold it after his wife died. Made a fortune. Well, a working man’s fortune.

That’s when he decided to take off. See America. See what it was like to be free. Like an antelope or a deer. Just running everywhere wild. Take his squaw with him. They could sleep under the stars, wrapped in blankets of different colors.

He got to New Mexico and looked at the red mountains of clay. Thought about how long he was going to stay in Taos. Maybe a week. A month. As long as it took to be at peace.

Peace is a hard thing to find.

He sat on his front stoop waiting at 24th and 8th Avenue. Yellow lights on taxi cabs glowed in the rain. Working girls walked the streets of Chelsea. He sat there with his jacket pulled up to his cheeks. His unshaved chin made a noise on the zipper each time he moved his head. Looking up and down 24th at the people, cars, brick buildings, men throwing up in garbage cans, listening to music pouring out of the Mexican restaurant.

Midnight in New York and the city was in full swing. Dealers dealt. Junkies scored. Old queens got their kicks at the Y. The young man sensed all the energy pushing down on a city that had given up. He lit a cigarette and blew out smoke that mixed with rain. A kind of blue. The kid knew she’d be coming along soon like she did every night. That beauty about her. Brown skin with curves tucked into a tight mini-dress. Her frosted blonde hair smelled of the Coco Chanel she stole at Macy’s. And the way she talked; a New York sing song poetic pause. She chose her words carefully.

That night would be the night he’d finally ask her, Can I walk you home? He wanted to assure her that chivalry was alive and well in this boy’s soul.

But, she didn’t come that night. The 17th of November was filled with gloom. Heart broke. He watched the sunrise over the city. Lit another cigarette and called it a day.

He looked and saw nothing. Darkness. Out lines of window frames. A sliding glass door. Birds chirped away in the backyard. Another hour before sunrise. Streetlights shined a blue and yellowish color.

It was peaceful. He had been up all night wondering around the trailer park. Dogs barked. Cats ran and hid. The boy kicked a can down the street. Saw trash cans overfilled. Heard trucks off in the distance. Highway 30 was close by. A train ran through town. He had options.

The old man was asleep. Passed out early that night. A can of Miller High Life slipped through his hand and made a mess on the carpet. He just kept on sleeping. The boy picked it up quickly and drank what was left. Just a slurp. He opened another. The teen knew the old man had lost count.

Boy must’ve walked around the trailer park for hours. He was trying to decide whether to leave or not. There was nothing much to stay for. Mom had died a few years ago. The old man was at death’s door. His cat ran away. Why couldn’t he, he thought. What was holding him back? The boy had a little cash from working at the Kroger store. Stocking cans and cleaning aisles. Smoking cigarettes out back and talking smack. His restlessness was getting to him.

Boy went back inside his trailer. The TV was still on. The sound was down. Just Sheriff Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke was on. Walking through town. Looking for bad guys. Women in petticoats. Saloons filled with drunks and gamblers.

And then it hit him. He’d go out to Vegas. Take his money and play the slots. And when he won, just walk away. Start a new life. That’s what he wanted. A new life.

Pop was in a dreamlike state. Blurry eyed, he woke up in a haze. There was a note on the coffee table. His bare feet squished on the wet carpet. The note said, I’m gone. Adios.

The old man read it and laughed. He took another beer from the fridge and whispered, What a strange boy. Good luck.

They sat in the bar watching Wheel Of Fortune on television up in a corner close to the drop ceiling. Vanna turned letters. Pat made some witty remark. The contestant spun on Bankrupt, leaving him with nothing. He was a service man. All dressed up in his Air Force uniform from Lexington, Tennessee. The old lady thought he was cute. Her husband just ordered another beer. He shook some salt in it and watched the foamy head rise. She kept on drinking gin and tonics.

Isn’t that a shame, she said. A military man goes broke on Wheel Of Fortune. It’s bad enough he has to go fight a war,she shook her head. A gray hair fell to the bar.

He ain’t got no war to fight in, the old man said. We’re not at war right now, he laughed. Next you’re going to tell me he was drafted, he pulled out a comb and slicked his greasy salt and pepper hair back.

Well, he’s in the service isn’t he? You’re always saying we’re fighting somebody somewhere, she slurped her drink.

Not him. I’m talking about Special Operatives. Navy Seals. I’m talking about men who don’t have time for Wheel Of Fortune, he stated. They’re probably killing somebody right now as we speak, he tipped his stein to a flag on the wall above the mirror.

There they looked at each other in the glass. Him, with lines in his face. Her, with drawn on black eye brows. They just stared for a moment.

Do you still find me attractive? she asked. He sat still. I found this book at the library on senior sex. Said couples in nursing homes were still doing it, she smiled. He took another drink of beer. Said couples could be happy forever. What do you think about that? she asked.

I think I need another beer.

He had a dream. Fields. Wide open fields. No corn in them. Or, soy beans. Just flat lands.

And, she was dancing barefoot in the plowed up dirt. She was spreading seeds with her bare hands. Hoping that soon they’d sprout.

He watched her in this dream. This strawberry blonde with fare skin in a paisley sun dress. She was smiling at him. Laughing as she danced, skipped to music in her head. She’d hum along to it.

She told him all was forgiven. His sins against her turned into dust. They were no longer alive. They’d gone to the other side where fields of gold rolled on forever and ever.

She reached out for him. But, he couldn’t move. His guilt weighed him down. Then she danced away. He just watched. Just watched. That’s all he could do.

There’s no sense in looking off into the distance. You have to live in the here and now. Nobody knows what the future will bring. Could be good . Could be bad. You could live it up today and die tomorrow. Some people. That’s all they plan on is dying tomorrow. Their present day is filled with nothing. Eating and sleeping. Watching television. Going to a job they hate. Some assembly line where they screw in bolts all day long. Or, making Happy Meals for the populas at large.

Very few people get it right. This life. Vacations, summer homes, grand kids, Saturday night cookouts. A cocktail makes the time go faster. To drink and speed through life. Or, perhaps slow it down a bit. Taking time to enjoy. These few. These lucky few.

I look out upon nothing. No sun. Not a cloud nor a blue sky. Staring at cream colored walls. Shut off from the outdoors. Living on coffee and creamer. A slice of wheat bread. No mortadella. Not even a slice of bologna. A spoonful of peanut butter. All resources have been spent. And the walls feel like they’re coming closer. A little too close. I want to push them away, but, they won’t budge. Is it my imagination, or, are they standing still?

Thunder is heard. Soon the sins of many will be washed away. And I wait here inside. Waiting. For what I do not know.

Blinds are drawn. It’s dark in here. And quiet. Very, very quiet. The thunder is timed. It comes and goes every few minutes. Lasting only as long as God allows.

Rain hits the roof. A new noise. It eases the mind. Perhaps this is paradise. As good as it gets. I’m OK with that. I’m OK.