dmseay

Streetlights glowed. Yellow light shined. Sounds of beer cans and bottles being tossed in a dumpster woke up the neighborhood. Closing time at Sully’s.

The front door was locked. Money was taken off the bar. A few; a lucky few remained after hours. Shots were poured. Beer steins filled. A snifter of Grand Marnier sat in front of him. The old man drank it slowly. Finished off each sip with a swig from a short glass filled with New Castle. He liked the combination.

There was no music being played. Just men talking. Speaking in drunken tones. The bartender would often say shhhh. Then he’d continue cleaning and pour more shots.

These were the night’s big tippers. And it was the same crowd every night. They tipped tens and twentys. Most of them bartenders from around town who got off their shifts early. Their’s was the drinking life. Day and night. Filled with booze. Sneaking drinks during shifts. Buying rounds at Sully’s. Driving home at sunrise. Sleeping till noon. Then waking up and doing it all over again.

The old man was a barkeep from way back. He poured drinks of condolences the day Kennedy was shot in Los Angeles. Listened to people’s distrust in government during Watergate. Laughed with the crowd and saluted Clinton when he said, I did not have sexual relations….Stood behind the bar and watched as the twin towers fell and America began to doubt. Bought rounds for the bar the night bin Laden was killed. He watched young men turn into old men. Casual drinkers become drunks. Girls selling their souls. And, there he was. Drinking after hours in a saloon that served him well over the years. What more could a man want?

The talk was the same as the night before and the night before that. Middle aged men whose wives had left them. Gamblers saying would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. Cubs lost again. Toilets needed cleaning.

And the old man waited at the door to be let out into sunlight. Beautiful bright sunlight. He said to himself, Today will be a good day.

He sat on the edge. Feet firmly on the ground. Blankets pulled back. Could’ve swore he saw a bedbug. Clutching a pillow and waiting. Wanting his phone to ring. Or, hoping he could just sit in silence. Couldn’t decide between the two. Then his phone rang. The decision had been made for him.

The number was from out of state. Some area code in Mississippi. He let it continue to ring. And ring. Thoughts went through his head. A bunch of what ifs. What if it was a man with a gun? What if she had a knife? He took money out of his wallet and laid it on the nightstand. He answered his phone.

What room are you in honey?

212, he said.

I’ll be right up.

Sweat began to pour from his forehead. His hands felt cold. He sat there staring at his phone. There was a knock on the door. He didn’t answer. Again, another knock on the door. An uneasy quiet. For a third time there was a knock on the door. This time more rapid. The young man clutched his pillow tighter. He heard foot steps walking away. His phone rang. It stopped. Then it rang again. He answered.

Hello.

What’s the problem baby?

No problem, he stuttered.

Did you give me the right number?

Yes, he said. I believe so.

I don’t have time for games, she said.

I’m sorry. Let’s just forget this.

You owe me something. I drove all the way over here and I got nothing to show for it, she demanded. Again, silence. Five seconds of neither speaking. Bitch I’m coming up there again, and she hung up the phone.

Waiting. Wanting it all to be over. Loneliness is a sickness, he thought. Desperation can kill you, he whispered.

Time passed. There was no more knocking on the door. He looked through the hole and there was no one there. No sign of anybody. An empty hallway. He turned on the television with no sound. Flipped through channels. Landed on a baseball game. The Cardinals were playing the Padres. He began to laugh. Surely this was a sign from God.

His phone began to ring again. It was her number. He let it ring. Frightened. Was she out in the hallway? Was she downstairs? He answered.

You wanna try this again honey? she asked. I understand. You’re nervous. Most guys are, she said. I’ll be good to you baby. I’ll be good, she whispered. His head was filled with thoughts of cardinals and priests. Men from his youth talking about wages of sin. He hung up the phone and began to pray.

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name, he said. The phone began to ring again. Mississippi calling. He let it go to voice mail and continued praying.

There were no messages. Just breathing. Just breathing.

Crying. The cat would not stop crying. He was perched right outside the old man’s window. Long whines. Almost yelling like it was being tortured or something. He got up and opened the door to the trailer and the cat took off into night. No sounds. Just left as fast as he could. Ran down the street and under the porch of another trailer. Lightening could be seen in the distance.

The old man turned on the light in the kitchen and looked at himself in the glass. He pulled the curtains back a bit. Hadn’t shaved in a few days. Hair was long and greasy. I’ve stopped caring, he whispered. That’s usually the beginning of the end, he thought. Thunder started to rumble.

Half a pot of coffee sat on the counter from the day before. The old man put the container up to his nose and smelled it. Old. Strong smell. He tasted the cold liquid. Bitter. It was bitter. Poured a cup and placed it in the microwave. Added cream and sugar. Took a long sip. He was pleased. Dogs began barking. It started to rain.

Drops of water hit the kitchen window. Almost like bullets. Tat, tat, tat was the noise of the rain. He watched from his chair. Rain could be seen in the glow of the streetlight. Water poured into a hue of bluish yellow. Amazing, he said. Just amazing, he shook his head.

Storms. He liked storms. He and his wife used to make love during storms. Now he just sat with a cup of coffee. Watching from the sidelines. No longer a player. Those days were over. She was asleep still. Snoring. Farting. Took all the covers. Talked in her slumber as well. A different discussion every night. Spoke to their son who had left long ago. Talked about baking bread. Told her husband to stop and listen, she mumbled. He still loved her.

Sounds of the cat crying returned. It yelled out loudly. The old man fixed a bowl of milk. Waited for the rain to stop. And placed it on the front porch. His job was done. The old man leaned back in his recliner and whispered, Goodnight everyone. Goodnight.

The old man had bad dreams. Horrible images ran through his head as he laid there in bed next to his wife. He heard the refrigerator humming down the hallway. Sounded like a train chasing him through town. A locomotive building up steam and following him. Coming close to running over him on the steel tracks. Then he’d wake up.

He sat up in bed. Looked out the window and saw the streetlights flickering as they always did. Listened to the semis running up and down 41. Saw the cat’s eyes in the dark. His head was soaked. Sweat had poured throughout the night. The old man ran his frail hands through his gray hair. Noticed that his wife was still asleep. Sound asleep. He wondered what she dreamed about.

There was the sound of men talking outside his trailer. He could hear them through the thin walls. Talk of where to get rid of bodies. One man mentioned the river while another said it was best just to bury. A third man suggested cremation. Burn the corpse. Ashes to ashes. The old man listened and fixed himself a pot of coffee. He patted his forehead with a paper towel. Opened the fridge and noticed they were out of cream. Milk would have to do. The three men continued talking. She was a good wife, the one said. And, I want to do the right thing, there was silence. The old man looked out the window and saw them congregated under the light pole. The good Lord took her in her sleep, the man said. She didn’t feel a thing. The old man closed the curtains.

He fell asleep in his recliner. Dreamt of trains chasing him. He slept to the sound of semis running up and down 41. Woke up a half hour later and looked outside. The three men were gone. He wondered if they were ever there. Or, was it just a bad dream?

His chest drooped. Belly was round, stuck out like a bowling ball. Legs were sticks. The old man was getting older everyday. Closer and closer to the other side. Soon his days would be finished. Done. Like a theif in the night. He’d be gone.

He said he had faith. Was baptized as a kid. Preacher took him down under water and said, Death to sin. And alive to Christ, the congregation clapped and sang out hallelujah. Wasn’t until years later he realized what had happened. What it meant to believe. Life does that sometimes. A delayed reaction. Committing an action then remembering it years later. Or, understanding what you’ve done. He understood. He understood.

Throughout the day he’d drink beer and watch The 700 Club, Jimmy Swaggart, PTL. Liked faith healers as well. Men who’d place their hands on the afflicted. In the name of Jesus demons come out, he’d pop open another beer, smile and raise his hands to the ceiling of his trailer. Shout out, Hallelujah. Then drink down half a can. Placed his hands on the TV and felt shocks running through his body. Little sparks touching his fingers. Praise be to God, he’d say. Praise be to God. The old man opened another one.

The Bible sat on his coffee table. Black book with gold lettering. He got it years ago from his parents. King James version. It sat there. He never turned a page. Just took what others said was on it as the gospel truth. Particularly the book of Revelations. Preachers on television talked about the coming of the Lord all the time. Asked, Are you ready? the old man would nod his head and say he was. He was ready to move onto the next life. Done with this old worn out body. Wanted his new one. Ministers said he’d get a new body and a mansion of gold. Said the good book told em that. But, you had to be washed in the blood. Had to have faith. The old man took their word for it. He believed.

They found him in his trailer with empty beer cans around his recliner. His gray head was fixed on the ceiling. Looking straight up at heaven. His eyes wide open. The TV was on. Brother Jimmy was asking for money. Flys swarmed ’round the place. Shades were drawn. Dark inside. Just a smell of death. The good Lord giveth and he taketh away. The old man was taken. A six pack was still in the refrigerator.

Black rooftops taking in sunlight

Shadows of trees

Grass is high

Dandelions blown in the wind

Weeds stand tall.

A bird sings

Sounds of lawnmowers fade in and out.

Shredding dead leaves of winter.

Patio parties with gin cocktails

A lime in every glass

Talk of vacations

Weekend trips

Smells of charcoal and burnt marshmallows.

Band Aids on knees

Sunscreen faces

Bug spray lingers

Minds wonder

Who’s sleeping with who?

Ted and Alice stop by

Bringing wilted salad

Wearing Izod

White with stripes.

Pornography watched on phones by boys upstairs

The air conditioner runs

And war is just around the corner.

He’s hiding. Could be anywhere. Behind the couch? Maybe there in the closet. Could’ve gone outside. Dashed behind a tree. Perhaps in a cave. Might’ve driven off into the night. He was always threatening to do so. Always.

The old man poured himself another cup of coffee. There was no creamer in the house. Who forgot to replace the creamer? he asked himself out loud. He settled for it black. That’s the way his boy drank it. Dad hadn’t seen him in days. Weeks had gone by without any notice of him. Like a kid playing hide and go seek. He’s gone. The old man counted to a hundred and he took off. Leaving a job and unpaid bills behind. The Dodge was gone.

Maybe he hooked up with some woman, the old man thought. Could’ve. It’s possible. A train went by. Might’ve ditched the car and took off on a train like Dean Moriarty, he laughed. But, anyway he was hiding from the old man. This time for good.

It’d be a lie to say this wasn’t like him. This was just like him. He wanted out of that house so bad. He longed for freedom. The open road. Said he’d be happy with just a duffel bag and some clean underwear. Maybe some books. A watch his grandfather had given him. The boy didn’t need much.

Sun was coming up outside. The old man sat at the kitchen table with the radio on. Some talk station. Telling him the end of the world was coming. He hoped the boy was aware of this. You can only run so far from the hand of God. He’ll catch you.

Street lights went out as the birds began to sing. Start of a new day. Maybe this’ll be it, he thought. Never see him again. See him in the after life. The old man made sure of that when he was a kid; had him saved. No matter what he believes now his sins were washed away, he believed.

So, where was that boy? I’m going to count to a hundred and if you don’t appear I’m giving up on you, he yelled.

Nobody heard him. Nobody.

Standing in the rain looking in. The windows have flowered curtains drawn back making a perfect view. Bowls are passed. Meat is cut. Mom and dad sit at the ends of the table. Kids drinking milk; a boy and a girl. She has pony tails and he’s wearing a Speed Racer tee-shirt. Dad has loosened his tie from work. Mom has a smile on her face. Her cheeks are rose colored. Blonde hair in a bun. She eats delicately. They all eat delicately. Savoring each bite. And here I am standing in the rain. Watching. Looking at America. People unaware of just how close we are to catastrophe.

Pie is served. Coffee is poured. Kids have left the table. Mom and dad retire to the living room where a television is turned on; some singing competition featuring the best of today’s youth. Mom keeps smiling while dad falls asleep in his recliner. I wonder what he is dreaming about? Perhaps his secretary in the mini-skirt. Maybe he’s thinking of stock dividends. The market was up today. Just you wait.

Upstairs the kids play video games. The boy keeps looking at his phone. His sister seems set on destroying the world. Killing as many as possible on the screen. It is his turn. In one stroke he wipes out an entire colony. This is what dreams are made of. They high-five each other.

Mom has entered the room. She kisses the boy on the forehead and closes the shades. Then she hugs her daughter. Mom’s job is done for the day. She draws the curtains in her room and comes downstairs later in a thick white robe. She turns off lights in the living room. Dad remains asleep.

Goodnight America.

Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.

Looking. Watching.

Old men walk down Michigan Avenue and stare at their feet.

Nothing moves swiftly anymore.

Trains rattle above.

The sky is lit in reds and blues and yellows too. All this time, wondering when it’s going to fall.

Jewels behind bars.

Fake furs stashed away.

The bean watches us all. Reflecting what we are. Shining in the sun on a cold day with feet frozen. We long for spring.

April showers bring May flowers.

Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.

He’d lay there in bed with just the night light on. A blue glow coming from a wall. Falling asleep off and on while she laid next to him. She had plugs jammed in her ears. At times he would snore, talk loudly in his slumber. She tuned him out. No noise. Just dreams filled her head.

She always had dreams. Every night a movie rolled within. Pictures from the past. Men she’d been with; fallen in love with. There were a few. Boys from high school. First crush. Home coming dances. The night of her prom. One said he’d marry her. A smart kid who went off and joined the Marines. Wanted to see the world. She settled for this one next to her; a grocery manager. She knew he’d never leave. Always have a job. Not much, but, something.

And in some of those dreams she was driving away. Loading up the Dodge and taking off in the night. Leaving her husband to go on an adventure. Driving to Spokane, Albuquerque, Dallas, somewhere far, far, away. Starting all over. Then she’d wake up. Asked herself, Can you start all over at fifty-four? she laughed quietly. Turned over and looked at her choice for a husband. Rolled away from him as far as she could. And stared at the blue light.

Thirty years of marriage. Used to not be able to keep his hands off her. Now he just laid there like a used tire. No more tread; fat and flat.

And, she had lost her shape as well. Given up. Both had settled. There were bills to pay, routines to keep in order. He liked his eggs sunny side up. Coffee with cream. White toast. At night he’d have a beer and they’d watch TV ’till ten. Then go to bed where she’d dream. Just dream.