dmseay

Always late. He was never on time. His schedule ran opposite of everyone else. If the old man was supposed to be there at two, he’d show up at three. He’d make you wait. You can drink a lot of beer in an hour. By the time the father showed up, his boy was ready to go home; questioning why he waited for him to begin with? The boy figured it was owed.

The old man and the kid were both night owls. Boy would get to the bar around ten each night. The old man came in an hour before closing. He’d spend the better part of the night walking around town with a pint of whiskey in a brown paper bag. Dad would go from shop to shop looking inside the windows at televisions on sale. He’d watch Johnny Carson behind glass without sound. Lips moving. Johnny laughing in silence. His guests sitting on the couch beside him laughing quietly too.

He walked past the beauty shop and see women’s heads with different wigs on them. Blonde, brunette, redheads on man-made Styrofoam. No eyes, or, mouths. The noses were gone. The old man laughed at this. He’d talk to them. Whisper with his lips against the glass. Drink more. Then kept on walking, stumbling down Main Street. Lighting cigarettes one after another. Talking to himself about the great rapture coming. Jesus will be back soon, he said. All this will be gone in the great fire, the old man would raise his hands to the heavens. He continued his nightly journey. Going into bars for a cold beer on tap. Something cheap. Drank from a frosted mug. Would add salt. The old man would only stay for one. Just one.

Boy sat there waiting on the old man. The bartender knew both father and son well. Around two he’d pour the old man’s beer and set it beside the kid. Thanks Patty, the boy always said. I’ll have another as well, he’d tell him.

The father was always pleased to see a beer waiting for him. The old man made his way to the bar through heavy gray smoke, stepping on peanut shells that made a crunch sound with every movement, sitting down in a pleather chair with a rip in it next to his son; all the family he had left.

Conversation was the same every night. Boy would ask how his evening was? The old man would smile. Told him everything was just fine. He was always just fine.

Waiting on Jesus, the old man said every night to the boy. Waiting on Jesus. He’s coming soon, the dad would say. Any minute now, then he’d lay his head on the bar. The bartender would give the boy that look of it’s time to go. Boy nodded his head. Threw the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him out every night.

Goodnight, Patty.

Goodnight.

I wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Wanted to see what was in the bones amongst marrow and fat. All those promises he made. Never once coming through. I’ll pay you next week, he told landlords. As soon as I can I’ll take care of you, he said to friends. Thousands borrowed. Had good intentions. Just no delivery.

The old man moved us from state to state. Job to job. Never settled down. He’d take a job for a couple of years and get tired of it; either quit or get fired. We’d leave in the middle of the night. Packing the station wagon with only essentials. Mom left pots and pans on the stove. Some gas grill dad had bought got left behind as well. We’ll get brand new ones, the old man said as we left trailer park after trailer park under the moon’s light.

We lived in Mississippi, then Kentucky, moved north to Ohio and Michigan, before settling in Pennsylvania. The hills were green in the spring and had a combination of colors in autumn. Leaves would pile up in the front yard. I raked them into piles then placed all the colors into garbage bags. Dad paid me a dollar for every pile. I was sure to make several.

You’re gonna break me too, he said with whiskey on his breath. Everybody wants money from me, he mumbled. Can’t keep up, he’d take another drink. Every time the phone rang my dad would tell mom, Don’t answer it. Just another bill collector, he said, flipping through channels. Surely they know we can’t pay em, mom would shake her head. The phone never stopped ringing.

I’d run into buddies of his down at the VFW. They’d ask, Where’s your old man at? Haven’t seen him much, they’d smile. I started answering the phone. The trail of debt was miles long. A hundred here and there. In some cases a grand. Time was running out.

When he was dying, I asked him,why he didn’t pay off his debts? The old man looked at me. Did you always have a roof over your head? I nodded. Did you ever starve? I told him no. Did I always pay you for raking leaves?

Impossible

that she waits for me

and not someone else.

Sometimes fortune smiles

on fools.

Of a million souls I was picked

by her (in a country where windmills are slayed).

And, lying in wait, she makes her choice.

Can it be?

Sometimes fortune smiles on fools.

It has grinned at me.

Happy Birthday my love.

Crickets. Heard crickets throughout the night. Sounded like they were inside the house. Loud. Making that sound that crickets make. Singing away. They might’ve been outside my window. Kept me awake.

My dad used crickets as fishing bait. He’d put em on the hook and cast way out. Said bass liked em. And blue gill.

I used worms. Big long red worms. Some were fat and others skinny. Would wrap em ’round my hook and let em fly. A worm soaring through the air. Till it landed in the trees.

You fishing for squirrels? my father would ask. What’re you doing all up in those trees?disgusted that his son was not a fisherman. Cut the line, he said. Cut the damn line, he told me in his Northern Texas accent. Here, he took the pole from my hands. Pulled out a pocket knife from his front pocket. A big knife. With several blades folded into one. Just sit back and watch, he said, cutting the line. Just sit over there and watch how I do it.

For hours I sat and watched him fish. Casting over the green waters of Arkansas. He’d pull em in one after the other. Made me real jealous. Actually, just made me wanna go home.

Heard crickets throughout the night. Thought of dad. To this day, I hate fishing.

He followed the moon. Drove east towards Ohio. Passed small towns; Monroeville, Decatur, on into Lima just up the road a bit.

Kept the radio on an AM station out of Toledo. Came in clear as a bell. There were no clouds in the sky; frequency ran pure. Men and women from all over America calling in to pitch their two cents worth. Talking about the price of gas, groceries,war, blaming Democrats and Republicans, calling for an uprising, a real revolution with guns and militias coming from all over the country. They were ringing a bell. A calling out over radio waves at two in the morning. He checked his gun to make sure it was loaded.

The young man kept driving into early morning. Chasing the sun. Headed towards New York. Took the Lincoln Tunnel into the city. Drove fast in the tunnel. Turned off the radio and listened to sounds of tires rolling on pavement at high rates of speed. No passing.

It was New York City. His eyes wide awake. Open to any possibilities. Bums asking for money. Pregnant women asking for dollars. A sign read, Gotta get back to Jersey. The young man drove around Manhattan not knowing where to turn and where not to turn. Wound up in the Bronx. Up on Hunts Point. Saw hookers walking around, pimps on corners, junkies laying on sidewalks. Homeless men and women following a zombie trail. He was a long way from home. But, then again, he had no home. Just a pickup and a gun. And in America, that’s all you need. He had work to do.

It was his job to cleanse the country. God had given him this assignment. That’s what he thought. The blonde hair, blue eye boy was here to save the United States. That was the task at hand.

I’ll have this place cleaned up in no time, he whispered. He then prayed for guidance. Rolled down his window. Stuck his gun out and looked through his scope. The job had begun.

What’re you looking at? he asked. She continued looking at him. His face, green eyes, brown hair, she took it all in. I said, what’re you looking at? the young man lit a cigarette. You’re watching me huh? Can’t keep your eyes off me, he said. She nodded. Kept on looking at him. I wish you’d stop, he said. Making me nervous, the young woman walked over and ran her long fingers through his curly hair.

It’s been a long time since I really looked at you, she said. Last time I really looked was on our wedding day, she took the cigarette from his fingers and puffed on it then placed it in his mouth.

Is this some kind of ritual? Some kind of voodoo thing? he asked, she continued stroking his hair. The tall blonde stood in front of him and placed his hand on her breast. He smiled. Tell me what you want, he said. Tell me, he kicked off his cowboy boots. She put her finger on his nose and told him, nothing.

I don’t want a thing anymore, she proclaimed, removing his hand from her body. It’s been too long. You haven’t looked at me in the longest of times. And now I look at you and you’re not looking back, she said. I looked into your soul. And there’s nothing there. Just misery, she said. The young woman opened the door and looked outside. A storm was coming. Wind was blowing over trees and trash cans. A hard rain fell. See that? she asked him. That used to turn me on, she said. Remember? Minute a storm hit we’d be in bed. If there was a blackout, all the better, she lit a cigarette, continued watching the storm. Now. Nothing. You don’t even look at me when I walk around here naked. What is it? Why?

He didn’t know what to say. She was right, he thought. I’m done with this. He looked at her briefly. Mumbled, you want a divorce? You wanna end this thing?

There was silence. Neither of them said a word. They avoided each other’s eyes. She nodded her head, yes.

The young man grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and looked. Just looked in her direction. Opened the can with his finger. You want one? he asked her. She quietly said no.

They couldn’t see each other. They stopped looking years ago. Not just him. Her too. There was nothing to say. He turned on the TV and sat in his favorite chair. Flipped through channels. She went to bed. Wide awake throughout the night. She heard the car door shut and the engine start. The woman ran to the window and watched as he backed out of the gravel driveway.

Goodbye she said. Goodbye.

Coffee grounds. There’s coffee grounds at the bottom of my cup. Can’t you do anything right? Make a cup of coffee? Boil water? Did you accidentally tear the filter? Or, were you just sloppy? Over-filling it? There’s not much of a science to it. It doesn’t take physics to figure this out, he lit a cigarette; spit black dots back into the cup. You wanna try to make another pot? she shook her head. Practice makes perfect, he said. If at first you don’t succeed…

Make your own damn coffee, she mumbled.

What was that?

I said. Make your own damn coffee, she said clearly. The old man laughed, flipped through channels on television. You think you’re real cute, she said. You’re a bully. Always have been. Going all the way back to grade school. Don’t know why I’ve stuck with you all these years, she cried. Don’t know why.

That’s it, he said. Go on. Get it all out. Can’t take criticism. That’s what it is, he went to the refrigerator. That’s the boy’s problem too, he remarked. Can’t take a lick of criticism. The question is, why did I stick around all these years? ‘Cause I’m no quitter, he said. Look at you. You gave up years ago. And that boy is going down the same path. You’re like two peas in a pod. Always against me, he moved items around. Bologna. Salami. Turkey. Where’s the ham?

We don’t have any, she sobbed.

Didn’t you go to the store?

I forgot.

How do you forget ham? It’s a three letter word, he said. It comes in different varieties; honey glazed, brown sugar cured, country ham…

Go get you some, she yelled while walking out the front door of the trailer.

Get back in here, he yelled. We ain’t done talking.

I need air, she said. Fresh air.

All this over coffee grounds. You making a scene. He grabbed the keys to the truck on the counter. I’m gonna go get some things. Like ham and a decent cup of coffee. You want anything?

I’m fine. I’m fine.

Boy sat next to the old man’s hospital bed for hours. Just sat there watching the heart monitor, listening to his breathing, looked at fluids running in and out of him; flirting with female assistants as they changed out bed pans.

He had been unconscious for days. Boy had sat by him for hours on end; leaving every once in awhile to get a meal, or, a shot and a beer at the bar down the street. The son walked on leaf covered sidewalks under sunny cool skies to clear his head. He’s gonna die, the boy whispered as he kicked cans into the street, picked up branches and broke them over his knee. He’s gonna die, mumbled while walking back to the hospital.

It was not too long ago that his mother had died. Boy wasn’t in town during that time. He was off on some kind of wild tangent ‘cross America; never checked on her. The old man called to tell him the news when she passed-on. Boy said nothing. Just hung up the phone, went into a bar and never came out.

But, the old man kept calling him. Asking the boy, who’s gonna fold my shirts, get my beer, make me dinner? he asked. I got cherry pop tarts for breakfast, but, whose gonna make me a decent meal? were the long drawn out messages he’d leave him. Where you at? the old man asked. Heard you were out in Washington state. Out there with all them hippies. Eating vegetarian food and dancing in the fields, he said in another message. Then I heard you were working on some ranch in Oklahoma. Well, which is it boy? Also heard you were in New York City. Sleeping in your car. Guess you’ve been all over, the old man laughed. Well, mom’s dead now. You can come home. I probably ain’t got that much longer. Oh well. See ya when I see ya, he hung up.

It ate at him. These messages ate at him. He couldn’t ignore them any longer. Decided he’d come home to see the old man one last time. Boy drove through out the night from Carolina back to Ohio. He had just enough money for gas and a case of beer. Boy would drink one after another as he drove past mile markers and state signs. Kept the Dodge at a reasonable speed. Flew under radar.

The long haired son pulled up to the trailer in the afternoon. Porch still shifted when walked on. Splinters tore into the calloused hand of his. The front door was open. No-one inside. Television was on with no sound. It was Gary Cooper in a baseball uniform. Giving a speech at a ball game. Grainy black and white images of the crowd filled the screen. And, then he was gone. Just like that. Cooper was gone.

He’s dying, the boy thought. The old man was dying, he whispered, looked in the refrigerator, found a can of Old Milwaukee. He was sure of it. Just like Gary Cooper in that movie, the old man was dying.

This son. This boy who’d left home so many times was now at his father’s side. Waiting for him to die. He didn’t want the old man to come back. Didn’t know what he’d say to him. Maybe he had nothing to say. Maybe it was all over. The driving around the country. Arguing with the old man. Feeling all torn up inside over both his mom and dad. The boy was at peace. He said goodbye and walked out of the room. The old man died a few hours later.

He said he saw nothing. Didn’t hear a sound. Hadn’t noticed that the light was flickering in the hallway; a bulb nearly burnt out. There were several things the boy didn’t notice that night. It was late. He’d just came home from a bar down the street where he’d drank all night and watched shows about stupid tricks people play on each other. The young man was drinking shots and beers. Cheap whiskey from the well. Cold Old Style cans sweated in his hands. The moon was full.

Crazy folks come out when the moon is full, the old man sitting next to him said. People do crazy things, the old man laughed. Sometimes you’ll catch em doing crazy things. Most times not. They’ll drive a car wrecklessly. Hold people up at gunpoint. Rob liquor stores. Commit murder, he said. Did you know that most crimes take place under a full moon?

Really? the boy asked.

I don’t know. Just made that up. But, it sounds right don’t it? the two laughed.

Nothing seemed out of order. The boarding house was the same as always. A constant drip came from the bathroom down the hall. The crazy man in room number 1 was talking to himself as always. Talking about the end of the world. Saying the horsemen were coming.

Boy walked to the end of the hall and unlocked his door. His Irish flag on the wall was falling. Holding on by a piece of tape. His bed was un-made. A mess. Covers wadded up in a ball. He sat by the window and lit a cigarette. Looked at the moon. Thought about astronauts walking on the moon. Laughed. A Hollywood movie set, he said. A Hollywood movie set, continued looking at the moon. There was a knock on his door.

Who is it? the boy asked from across the room. No answer. I said, who is it? he got up from the window ledge. Walked to the door. You gonna tell me what you want? The knocking continued. No voice. Just knocking on wood. I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t cut it out, he yelled. Come on now. Knock it off, he put out his cigarette on the tile floor. Made a burn mark along with the others. Black streaks on a yellowed floor. The knocking stopped. Silence. He could hear breathing on the other side. The boy pulled out his gun from the nightstand drawer next to his bed.

The heavy breathing continued. He decided he would open the door just a crack. Boy stuck the end of his pistol out just a bit. Looked through the crack. Saw a woman stading there. A tall woman with blonde hair. Wearing long sleeves in summer time. She was gasping for air.

Don’t shoot, she said. Please don’t shoot. He looked at her a little more. Opening the door just a few more inches. I need help, she said. My boyfriend next door his dead. He just died while we were doing it. Died on top of me. He was going at it and then he just stopped. No breath. Nothing. He’s just dead. The boy opened the door completely. Stepped out into the hallway. Looked at her. Looked at her legs all scared up. Bumps and bruises.

Did you call the police?

Not yet.

Don’t you think you should do that? she shook her head. I think that’s best. Call the cops. I’m sorry for your loss. And with that he closed the door. The boy could hear her walking down the hall to the next room. Knocking away. She just kept knocking. He laid in bed listening to the sound of her pounding on doors till it was quiet. Too quiet. He looked at the clock and it read 2:30 a.m.

She had small hands. Frail fingers. She washed dishes in the sink every night; hot water, dish soap, made her hands worn over the years. The old woman used a steel-wool pad to clean pots and pans. Cuts and scrapes on palms.

Cast iron skillets drying on the stove. She’d pick up objects at a hundred degrees with bare hands and put them away. Stacking them above her gray head on a metal dish rack. On tip toes she would stand. Placing dishes, pots ,pans and pressure cookers all on top.

At closing time you could find the mother of two sweeping the floors of the restaurant . Sweeping clean then mopping. Wringing out hot water in a yellow bucket that said, Caution on it. She’d bend over with her back hunched. Humming, I’ll Fly Away, to herself. Not loudly, but, softly. Like a prayer.

The bus would come at midnight and take her ‘cross town. Looking at the city passing. Seeing her reflection in the window. Asking herself, How’d I get so old? She’d smile.

Walking home. Not skipping like she did in her youth. Nor a spry step. Lifting one foot then the other. Feels like walking through concrete, she whispered. Then she’d sing out, I’ll fly away, softly. When I die Hallelujah by and by…I’ll fly away. And alone. In her home. She did.

Goodnight Ms. Johnson.