dmseay

He spoke a different language. Some kind of broken English. Always talked about simple math problems; adding, subtraction. Never talked in the abstract. Just simple two plus two equations. Sometimes he’d add one plus one, or, one minus one, but for the most part he said two plus two equals four over and over. He was like a broken record.

And then he’d count to ten. Real fast. Like he was playing hide and go seek. He thought he was communicating. Speaking in some kind of Esperanto. Nothing could be further from the truth. He just didn’t know any other words. Never learned his alphabet.

When he wasn’t adding, or, subtracting, the boy would be silent. Sitting in a chair watching television with the sound off. Looking at pictures on the screen. Sometimes his mother would bring him a sandwich. He’d count the slices of bread. Then he would take a piece of lunch meat off and subtract. Out loud. His mom would tell him what a good boy he was. And, how smart he was. He’d grin from ear to ear.

One day he got real mad. Frustrated at life. He began counting to ten over and over again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Just kept repeating himself. This drove his mother crazy. She pleaded with the boy to stop, but, he kept on saying numbers. Mom turned off the television. He began to cry as he counted. It was all like some hypnotic drug he was addicted to. Counting and television. Tension grew. Mother told him to shut-up. Shut-up, she said. I’ve had enough, she screamed. He kept on counting as she began to collect clothes and pack them in a suitcase. I’m leaving, she told him. Done with this, mom declared. And, then she was gone.

The boy sat there in silence. He never counted again.

So. What’re you going to do? Gonna just sit there? Get up and fight boy. Prove yourself. Show me what a big man you are, the old man said. You think you got something on me? Think you’re quicker than me? I might be a little shakey, but I still got my moves, he taunted the boy. You just sit there. Waiting for me to make the first move. I might just do that boy. I just might.

His brow was wet. There was no air-conditioning in the trailer. Windows were closed. The afternoon sun heated up that piece of tin like an oven. The boy’s beer can was sweating. He took some of the condensation and used it to wipe his forehead. The old man kept rattling on about how tough he was.

You should’ve seen me in my prime, the old man said. I was really something. Fast. I’d sneak a punch in before you even knew it. You think I’m something now? Back then I was really something. That was before you were born boy. Back before I got your momma pregnant in the back seat of a Chevy. She thought I was something too, he laughed.

The boy took a swig of beer. Placed his right hand in his vest. Pulled out a pistol and aimed it at the old man. He said, all you are is talk. That’s all you do. You just talk. And talk. And talk. Why don’t you shut up for once. Just one time I’d like to hear nothing. Maybe a dog in the distance. But, other than that, I don’t want to hear a God damned thing. Particularly you, he put his hand on the trigger.

Don’t be going crazy now boy, the old man said. Don’t be talkiing that way. And put that gun down. Now.

Two shots were fired. One to the head and the other to the heart. The old man laid there on the floor bleeding. There was no movement. No sounds.

I told you to be quiet.

There was never any love between them. Maybe at one time, in the beginning, but it was only a spark.

She was the first to say I love you. He responded by lighting a cigarette and nodding his head. Months later he said I love you too.

A ring was bought at the pawn shop downtown. Wasn’t a real diamond. Fake. Couldn’t afford the real thing. Seemed to be a pattern throughout his life. Not being able to afford things. They both struggled to keep a roof over their heads. A trailer on the south side of town. Out by the truck stop. The sound of semis would put them to sleep at night. Air brakes would wake them up.

Their lives were a routine. Come home after a long day and watch crime shows on television. Shows about murders and kidnappings. Cop shows where men are drug out of their homes at night wearing underwear and saying they were innocent. Baby’s momma crying in the door way.

They’d sit there and watch with a twelve pack between them. He’d drink ten and she would drink two. Then he would pass out in his recliner. She let him be. Another night of sleeping alone. There was no love between them.

And then you realize it. There’s no one left to talk to. You’ve alienated everyone. Old friends want nothing to do with you. Those heightened arguments you had were too much for them. The highs and lows were too much.

Running. Just running wild. Driving all over the place. One day in New England and then over night you wind up in Dixie somewhere at a rest area on I-95. And you’re yelling at no one. There’s no one left to yell at. That paranoia of everyone out to get you has done permanent damage. Bridges burned.

The high lasts for weeks, sometimes months. And then you crash. Burned out. A depression sets in. You realize what you’ve done. Sadness. Sheer sadness. There’s two options; end it, or, go to the hospital. These are the choices on a daily basis. Choose wisely.

Where’s mom?

She’s gone to heaven.

Sure about that?

She was a believer.

I think she doubts. Just like all of us. Maybe she went to the grocery store. There’s a special on chicken thighs. Boneless, skinless, chicken thighs. You ever heard of such a thing?

No. She’s gone to heaven.

What time did she leave?

I’m not sure of the official time. Could have been at 2:23 in the morning. I wasn’t here. I’m not sure.

Then how can you be precise about 2:23?

I just have a feeling. I found the body you know. Her body. Laying there in bed. There was a beer can on the night stand half full.

Sure that wasn’t your’s?

Yeah. I always finish mine. I never leave anything half full. I complete things. Tasks. Meals. Cans of beer. I think she downed a bunch of pills.

I’ll bet she’s at the car wash. The car is gone. I’ll bet she’s at the car wash. Or, maybe K-Mart. She likes blue light specials.

She’s gone to heaven I told you. You got a wild imagination. She is dead. Gone. I saw her with my own two eyes. Dead as a door nail.

She could’ve been asleep. People do sleep you know.

She wasn’t asleep.

Did you put your hand over her mouth?

You know when somebody’s dead. You just know it. You know when they’ve left you.

Jane’s. I’ll bet she’s at Aunt Jane’s house. Call over there. Find out. Go on. Call.

She never liked you. Used to talk behind your back.

Oh yeah? Well, she hates you too. Hates. Being in the here and now. Right now.

Where do you get these wild ideas? You think you know everything. You got a lot to learn boy. Mom’s gone. She went to heaven. Nothing you can do about that.

OK pop. She’s going to walk through that door any minute now and you are going to look like a fool.

How much you wanna bet?

Father and son waited up all night. Like believers waiting for Christ to come back. She never came.

They’re waiting. All of them. Wanting to see a glimpse of hope. Some kind of miracle. They look for signs. Symbols. A shadow on the wall. In a text that they read. A face in the water. His face. A white Jesus.

They’ve seen pictures of him. Paintings. Colorful images of him nailed to a cross. People down below at his feet. Blue eyes and a beard. A crown of thorns. Images of a white Jesus.

Perhaps they like the baby pictures the most. Wrapped in swaddling clothes. Away in a manger. Paintings of Mary holding him. The three wise men bringing gifts from far away. Following a star. Leading them to the white Jesus.

They’re waiting. Waiting. Looking for the white Jesus. The one they see at Christmas time. On Easter when they celebrate his resurrection. They’re waiting. They’re waiting.

The brown stained carpet was ripped in several rooms. Wall paper torn. Windows broken. Birds spoke to each other at four in the morning. An hour and a half before sunrise. The moon was still shining through clouds. Shined on the house that had a sign saying no trespassing. That didn’t stop some from entering.

On walls inside there were words spray painted in red and blue. Short sentences of anger. Stay Out, was stated on one wall. And, We Warned You, on another. There were also drawings of stick figures with blood pouring out of them. Guns and knives drawn on the walls as well. A real scene of violence.

Over in the corner the kid slept. Blankets and coats thrown on him. May’s chill made him shake. The old man kept a fire going in the middle of what was once a dining room for fancy dinner parties. He hoped it keep the young man warm. He’d put his hands up to it and sing throughout the night. Kid liked his singing. Reminded him of his mother putting him to bed when he was younger.

Upstairs a few folks stayed up all night and slept during the day. Pictures hung on the cream colored walls of a family that once lived there. The squatters kept them up as a sign of what used to be. They too once had families. Loved ones. Now they just operated as scavengers. Going through dumpsters and collecting tossed out food for the house. Dumpsters picked clean behind McDonald’s, Long John Silver’s, Golden Corral. The men gathered while women sold themselves to the streets. Bringing in money for cigarettes and cheap vodka.

This house. This old place that some called home would soon be gone. The City Council deemed it could be of better use. Perhaps a parking lot. It will be missed. The vagabonds thought they had it made. Paradise comes in different forms.

I sit here alone. Looking at nature. Green trees. Wild flowers blooming. Tall grass that needs to be cut. Dandelions blown in the wind.

This is peaceful. Humming birds drink sugar water. They fly away with bellies full. Ivy climbs bricks on the house. Weeds are coming up in the gardens. I watch. The sun warms me.

An American flag waves down the street. A “FUCK YOU JOE BIDEN” flag flys beneath it. Kids get on the bus for a last day of school. Dew on grass wets their shoes. Boys and girls with lunch boxes and book bags.

Last night there was a shooting in downtown Chicago. One teen was killed. A curfew has been put in place. Kids must be in by 10 o’clock. Safe in their parents arms. That’ll put a stop to it.

No curfews here in the village. Gunshots are heard in the distance. Away from crowds. Target practice. Bows and arrows used as well. Practice for fall.

And on the river men in jon boats fish for whatever takes bait. Politicians fill television screens with ads. Housewives stay home and watch FOX News. A famous actor suing a former wife. She says he beat her. He doodles on legal pads.

This is America.

I-80 runs from Teaneck, New Jersey and ends in downtown San Francisco. It goes through Pennsylvania and into the Midwest. The cities of Cleveland and Chicago whose souls were lost long ago. Across the Western states, God’s country, where cowboys and Indians still live amongst a pipeline and energy windmills. Northern California ends the trip with homeless men begging for change. And, when you’re done traveling on this long stretch of road, you’ve seen America. The beauty and the horror that is the United States.

Coyotes were heard in the distance. Rabid dogs lived out there in the dark as well. Feral creatures. Gunshots going off at the break of day. Sun coming through painted skies of purple, orange, yellow, and red. Waiting on the apocalypse.

He stood in the bed of his pick-up truck with a pair of binoculars. Looking through lenses at a part of the country whose beauty has not gone away. This was no longer Chicago. No more Southside,or, Millennium Park where youth run from gun fire and squad cars. This was a different kind of wilderness. He listened as the winds blew across The Plains.

Staring at the sun, he realized it looked different out here. Seemed brighter. More intense. There was no haze hiding the burning star. Just a big orange ball touching the earth. Now he’d seen everything.

She lit a cigarette and sat on her front porch. Rain clouds were moving in. A darkness prevailed. She wondered where he was. Hoped he was OK. Said a prayer and then lit another Winston. There’s only so much anger you can keep inside. All of her’s was gone. The rain began to fall. Life goes on.

The phone rang four times. She ran inside. Picked it up just in time. You should see this Helen, he said. The sun. The beautiful sun, she began to cry.

Where are you?

I don’t know. Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. But, God is it peaceful. It’s peaceful Helen. A real peace.

I’m glad, she said. I’m happy for you. Now come back home, she pleaded. I know we haven’t talked in years. Or, done anything a married couple should do. But, I miss my roommate. I miss you, she whispered. It can be different. I’ll change. You’ll change. We’ll make it work.

I’ll call you from California. When I get to San Francisco. I’ll call you then.

How long will that be?

A few days, he said.

There was no call.

He sat in his truck waiting for the sun to rise. The rest stop on 80 was quiet. Not many travelers at that time of the morning. Just a couple of cars with their windows up. Folks inside them sleeping for a couple of hours. Windows fogged up.

In the distance a crack of orange came in the Iowa sky. A little purple along with it. The old man sipped on his vending machine coffee and chewed on the lip of the paper cup. Along with seeing a peek at the sun, thunder was heard as well. Soon the colors in the sky will turn black, he thought. A storm’s coming.

Listening to the thunder, he thought of his wife back home. She’s awake by now, he whispered. Probably looking at the note I left behind, he continued watching as the sky turned a dark gray. What’d I even say? he laughed. Can’t remember what I said. Where am I? he got out a map.

She was pouring herself a cup of coffee when she saw the note on the kitchen table. Written on a yellow legal pad in pencil. There were a couple of eraser marks on the page. Smeared words that didn’t quite mean what he wanted to say. The wife of thirty years read the note silently. It said, Dear Helen, by now you can tell that I’m gone. I don’t know where I’m going, west I guess, and I’m not sure you even care. Maybe it’s a relief to you that I’ve left. I’m not going to file for divorce. You know about the insurance policy. You’re my emergency contact. You’ll be informed if something happens to me. Best of luck, Carl. She took another sip and placed the note in the bread box on the counter. Sat down. And said out loud, he’s lost his mind.

The old man lit a cigarette and rolled down his windows. More thunder. Lightening broke through clouds. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the Atlas. Wasn’t sure if he was in Iowa or Nebraska.Then he thought, I might be in Idaho. He knew he drove all night. But, he couldn’t remember when he left. He took a bottle of Wild Turkey out of his glove box and poured some into his chewed on cup. Then, little by little, drops fell on his windshield. He started to roll up his windows then decided to take in nature. The air was sweet. And the rain soothed him.

Helen sat there in disbelief. She never thought he’d do it; leave. The tall blonde lit a cigarette and poured another cup. She put Bailey’s in it, stirred, and licked the spoon. At first she was concerned. Then, she became angry. What have we become? she thought. Was he really that miserable? she asked herself. The two hadn’t talked for years other than saying hello and goodbye as they came and went.

He spent most of his time at work, or, at the bar watching Wheel Of Fortune. She stayed home and read romance novels, watching TV movies, eating dinner by herself. She used to keep a plate for him in the microwave. That was years ago. Now she just made enough for herself.

Damn him, she yelled. God damn him. She got up and walked down the hall to his closet. Took out his work pants, shirts, socks, every stitch he left behind and placed them in the fire pit out back. She’d wait till sundown to burn them. Kind of a ceremonial thing. Helen spent the whole day running through the house collecting all he had; high school diploma, bowling trophies, sweatshirts, coffee mug that said, Dad Of The Year, on it. Tossed everything except the life insurance policy. All of it was placed in the trashcan. She looked on the next morning as the garbage was taken away.

Carl flipped a coin. A quarter he found in the ashtray. Heads he’d go west. Tails, go east. He followed the rain clouds to the west. Windows down. Sucking in all that clean air. His arm was wet. Didn’t care. He liked the smell of rain.