dmseay

Inside the pickup it was silent. The two men did not say a word as they drove through Cape Girardeau on 55. They were heading south, back to Memphis. It’d been a long twenty-four hours.

It was two in the morning when he called the police station. He hadn’t heard from the old man all day. Figured he was home, drinking beer, watching television, yelling about things. The bar was closing. Boy took his last shot with a chaser. Tried to call the old man. All day long and into the night he tried. No answer. One of two things had happened the boy thought. Either he’s dead, or, he took off again. Boy wished he was dead.

He sat in the booth at the truck stop, watching big rigs come and go. Drank his coffee and ate cherry pie. Told the waitress he’d have a refill. His bag laid beside him, filled with underwear and socks. He always said you could never have enough underwear and socks. Some of them matched. A few had holes in the toes and heels. It’d been awhile since he bought any. The old man had a way of keeping things.

I’ve checked everywhere, the boy told the dispatcher. Truth was, he didn’t look to hard. He’s about five-ten. Weighs about a buck fifty. Skinny man with gray hair and glasses, he said. Could you just drive over to the trailer and knock on the door? I’ll meet you over there, he told the police. I’ll get over there as fast as I can, boy said. Just give me a few.

Where you heading? the trucker asked the old man. He told the trucker St. Louis. Said he had to meet a woman up there. Old man said it was his high school sweetheart. Asked the driver if he was heading that way. Yeah, I’m going up to Chicago. I could drop you off. Be good to have someone to talk to, he said.

The squad cars lights were swirling red and blue. Boy didn’t know why they sent two of them. The son pulled up next to the trailer. Stumbled out of the car. We’ve been knocking, the officer said. No answer. You got a key? Boy flashed his chain. Excuse me, but, have you been drinking tonight? the cop asked. Boy shook his head no. You kind of smell like you have, he said. Boy just focused on opening the door.

You ever been out on the road in a semi? the trucker asked. Old man said no. Told the driver how excited he was. Driving at night. Straight up north. The old man hadn’t been to St. Louis since his school days. Drove up there in his daddy’s Ford. Then drove right back to Memphis. He was proud of that accomplishment. The radio was turned to a country station. Merle Haggard was singing about heart ache. Both men agreed, they’d seen their share.

Boy looked all over the trailer. Took a gander at the bedrooms and the bathroom. There was no sign of him. Then one of the policemen found a note on the floor. It said, gone to St. Louis to meet my new bride. A silver alert was put out. Boy slept for a couple of hours. Laughing to himself. Dreams about the old man. What a pain in the ass he was. He’d had enough. Boy thought about letting him go. Just let him die out there, he said. He knew he couldn’t do that.

The sun was coming up as the trucker continued his trip. Old man never asked what he was hauling. Could’ve been a truck load of Mexicans making their way north as well. Going to the promised land to seek out jobs in restaurants and lawn services. The old man had an active imagination. The trucker pulled into another truck stop in Cape Girardeau. Told the old man he ran a tight schedule. Said to meet him back at the truck in twenty minutes. He had business to attend to of the physical kind.

Boy made his way to 55. Drove through Arkansas and on into Missouri. Listening to talk radio. More call-ins about the president and socialism. How the buck doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. He wished he could add his two cents to the conversation. He drove all night and pulled into the truck stop at Cape Girardeau.

It had been thirty minutes. The old man lost track of time. He tried to find the truck, but, they all looked the same to him. Just big pieces of steel and metal on tires. Decided to go back inside, cursing the day he was born. Saying out loud how unfair life was. Expressing his anger in God for ruining his life. He ordered another coffee and more pie.

He saw him in the window. There was his old man talking to himself. Boy went inside. Walked up to his table and sat across from him. The two men looked at each other. The old man knew he was in trouble. Come on dad, the boy said. Let’s go home. The old man paid his bill and left a quarter tip.

Inside the pickup it was silent. The two men did not say a word as they drove through Cape Girardeau on 55.

His stomach growled. The old man hadn’t eaten for days. Cupboards were bare. Couple of beers left in the refrigerator. Some out of date orange juice. An empty bottle of vodka. No one came to check on him. There were no phone calls. His boy did not come home. Had been gone for days. Some kind of drinking binge. The old man couldn’t remember the last time he saw him.

He sat in the dark. Tried to sleep, but, his stomach churned loudly. Started thinking of when she was alive. Used to fix him chicken livers fried in Crisco. Mashed potatoes with home made gravy. Biscuits from a tube; she’d ask him to pop it open. The old man was hungry for old times.

There were no lights on 10. The highway was bare at that time of night. Just a few truckers trying to make it home. The old man decided he would try to walk it. Go down 10 to the all night grocery store the next town over. He carried a flashlight. He had not been out of his trailer for months. Boy always ran to the store for him. Picked up essentials; beer, pop tarts, TV dinners, things you could microwave. He wanted chicken livers. The way she used to make them. The old man would not settle for less.

Bars closed at two. Last call had been made. Boy got in a shot and an Old Style. Halfway flirted with the woman seated next to him. She showed little interest. He was trying to decide whether to drive or not. It was a long trip by foot from downtown. Too lazy and too late; he started his Maverick up. Pulled out of the parking lot slowly. Was careful of every move he made. A cop car passed him. Boy was beginning to sweat. Turned on the radio. Some Johnny Cougar song was on. He sang along.

The shoulder of Highway 10 was soft. The old man kept stumbling on the loose asphalt and sand. His legs were trembling. Hands shaking. He came to the bridge that ran over the river. The water made noises. It talked to him as he rested. Told him, this is it old man. You’re not going to make it. He gulped for air. A rain drop fell. Then another. He soon sat there in the pouring rain. Opened his thin lips and let the water fall into his soul. Trucks drove by. Splashed water up on him. He could feel his pants touching his wet skin. He called out, whew. Come on now. Don’t stop, he begged the rain. It cleansed him. Made him feel alive again. And then it stopped. The old man sat there on the concrete. Soaked. He no longer felt victorious. Sadness had come over him. Shame. Here he was. An old man walking a road at three in the morning. You should no better, he said. You should no better. Defeated, he decided to walk back home. He cried out, fuck it.

Boy pulled up in front of the trailer. Lit a cigarette and walked up to the door. It was locked. He knocked. Dad, he said. Open the door. It’s me, took another drag from his smoke. Come on now. Open this door, he banged a little louder. Lights came on next door. He went back to the car and pulled out a Mexican blanket from the back seat. It had colors of red and aqua. Blue and bright yellow. Had tassels the bottom. He wrapped himself up in it and reclined back in the driver’s seat. He mumbled as he fell asleep. Never can count on anything, he said. Never.

The sun came up a few hours later. It woke the boy up. Checked his watch. It was 5:40. Turned up the radio. News came about an old man being killed in the early morning hours on Highway 10. Ran over by a semi. His name was not released.

Cat slept on the couch. Curled up in a fetal position. A big ball of fur. TV was on. Sound was down low. People mouthed words. Johnny Carson laughed, but, nothing came out. Just pictures coming into the living room. The cat didn’t move.

The old man kept looking at his watch. Checking the time. Carson was done telling jokes. It was close to midnight. The Late Show would be on next. He flipped through the channels. Saw there was a movie on the local station. James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause. Didn’t he die in a car accident? the old man asked himself. Again, he looked at his watch.

This was the part where Natalie Wood started to fall for Jimmy. And Sal Mineo was just along for the ride, being a smart ass, maybe a confused kid. I think Sal Mineo was confused in real life, the old man laughed. All those actors were back then, he started to count on his hand. Sal Mineo, Montgomery Clift, Rock Hudson, even Burt Lancaster. All of em. Messed up in the head, he got up and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He looked again at his watch.

It was getting close to two in the morning when headlights came through the blinds. The car door slammed. Another piece of rust fell off the boy’s Maverick. Old man woke up. Immediately he looked at his watch.

You know what time it is? Boy said yeah. Said he got off work late. Long shift at the Quicky Mart. He grabbed himself a beer.

So you just got off work? Boy nodded, yes, in the dark. Speak up, the old man said. Boy told him not to worry about it. Said it was none of his business. The old man continued to just sit there. The movie was over. Sal Mineo had been shot by the cops. The credits rolled. Old man began flipping through the channels again. The Rifleman was on. Chuck Connors was out to get somebody. They messed with him first.

Boy took off his boots. Laid down on the couch. Sipped his Old Style. So did the old man. It was a real father and son moment. The two of them watching TV and drinking beer in the dark in silence. The sun came up and shined through the blinds hours later. Both of them asleep. TV was on The 700 Club.

Refrigerator hummed in the corner. Soapy water sat in the sink. Grease floated to the top. A light above the stove gave off a glow. A yellow hue against a white wall. Cockroaches stumbled home across a linoleum counter of brown and black; some white mixed in, tiger striped. The old man sat at the kitchen table reading a newspaper; talking to himself.

He should open up that pipeline, the old man said. Let that oil flow. I don’t know what he’s waiting on, he whispered. Half the nation already thinks the man’s crazy. Dementia. Something, he said out loud. The old man went over to the refrigerator and kicked it. He kicked it again, you never did work, he opened the door. Rummaged through old items; brown lettuce, out of date eggs, four beers in plastic loops. Some rotten oranges sat below.

The old man looked at beer and closed the door. Said, two’s my limit. All I drink is two at a time, he said to himself. Then he opened the refrigerator door and gave em another hard look. One more won’t kill me, he said. One more.

Trucks ran up and down Highway 41 that night; every night. He listened as they applied air brakes, churned gears, drove at high speeds. The old man used to drive trucks. And forklifts, some Bobcats, backhoes. He went from one job to the next. Never held onto one longer than five years. Started drawing social security at an early age. There wasn’t that much to draw from. Told people he hurt his back. Truth was he hurt all over.

He opened the door and walked out onto the small porch. He breathed in. Lit a cigarette. Took his thumb off the Bic. Blew out smoke into the night air. The nicotine clouds mixed with the blue from the streetlights by his trailer. He had fun blowing smoke up into the dark night air. Turning it white. Then blue. The moon shined down on him.

There was no one to wait up for. Not anymore. There was silence. Every old man’s nightmare. If he’d just played his cards right. If he’d just….He wouldn’t be alone.

Two flags wave in the wind down the street. The yellow one on the bottom has black lettering that says, Don’t Tread On Me. On top of that flys the red, white, and blue. Both gently sway.

The old man took a look outside. Sun was out, just past noon, boy still wasn’t home. He’d been out all night. This had become a common thing. Old man took out a cigarette and lit it with his Bic. He breathed in and coughed. He was always coughing. Took a swig of beer and looked up at an airplane flying over the trailer park. Making all that noise; all that constant noise. Day and night there was a racket in the skies. One day, he said. One day I’ll be done with this shit, he inhaled smoke again, coughed and sat down on the couch. He opened another beer. The phone rang.

After a constant disturbance, the old man got up to answer it. Boy was on the other end. Said he’d got taken in last night. Said he hit a man at Jack’s Place. Told the old man that the bartender was quick to call the cops. Calls from county jail were nothing new.

What’d ya want me to do about it? the old man asked. I ain’t gonna bail ya out this time. Call someone who cares. He hung the up the phone. Ain’t got any common sense, the dad said. Always something. Another beer was opened.

He sat there watching Andy Griffith. The episode where Opie gets a shiner when he sticks up for himself. The old man watched in disbelief. Why didn’t Opie knock some sense into that boy? he asked out loud. Why didn’t he let him have it? Opie’s a pussy, the old man swore. He represents the end of this country, the old man said. All a bunch of pussies from then on, took out his final beer. Drank it down quickly. Loosened his belt and fell asleep. Dreaming of Raquel Welch. The phone rang into the night.

He listened to rain hitting the roof. Two beers deep into a six-pack. Electricity had been cut off for hours. Time spent in the dark. Thunder was heard off in the distance. Strikes of lightening too. The old man opened another beer.

There was a song he hummed. Behind Closed Doors, by Charlie Rich. He even sang the words out loud. ‘Cause no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, he’d sing as car lights briefly flashed by into his trailer. He got up and watched a convoy of trucks from the electrical company pass down Highway 10. He saw their rotating orange lights glowing in the pitch black outside. ‘Cause when she let’s her hair hang down, the old man sang. And she makes me glad that I’m a man, he continued, standing there, swaying back and forth. Don’t mind if I do, he opened another Old Style.

Lightening flashed again. More trucks drove on 10. The old man could hear the water splash from the tires. He laid down on the couch. Remembered when he had a dog that kept him company. How he used to hide under the kitchen table every time a storm came. He’d just lay there and whine. The old man would give him comfort. Rub behind his ears. The old man laughed at the thought of this. Old Blue died a couple of years ago. Every time it stormed he thought about him. He was a good hunting dog too, the old man mumbled. He could track down pheasants like no one’s business.

The gun rack sat over in the corner. An open display of his two shotguns. The old man walked over to em. Opened the case door and reached inside for his gun. Held it up to his shoulder. It felt good. He hadn’t been hunting since the dog died. He opened it up. Thought he saw nothing in the barrel. Pointed it to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the walls ; soaked into the couch. It stopped raining. The moon glowed over his home.

Quiet. No movement. They stood still. Once you get to this point, no turning back. You can’t just say it was a mistake and let it go, turn around and walk out. You have to see it through. They’d come this far.

No sound. The two were surprised when the sirens were heard outside; coming closer. They looked at each other in the dark. Shined flashlights on one another. Nodded their heads. He knew where the safe was. This was an inside job. Kid had worked at the pawn shop for years. Even knew the combination. Boy was a trusted employee. He was like a son. Kid couldn’t think of that now. Just get the money and run, he thought. Take it, he continued silently. Old jew owes you. Kid walked to the back of the store. Stood in front of the safe. Started moving the dial. Flashlight in mouth. Sweat poured down his black face. A cop car came and went. Driving past the pawn shop. Kid’s partner sighed relief.

They’ll be here soon, he whispered. Partner nodded. Began stuffing bags with engagement rings, necklaces, bracelets. Anything he could get his hands on. He panicked and ran out the door. Leaving Kid behind. Whitey had booked on him. Whitey had always left him in the fix. The safe opened, but, nothing was inside. Clean as a whistle. The old jew took all of it that night. He sensed something wasn’t right. The old man knew he’d been lucky for too long. Three squad cars pulled up in front. There was no place to hide.

Two in the morning. Bars in town closing. Joe’s Tavern, The Pantry, Sully’s made their last calls. Drunks head home. Driving pickups and four- doors through town. Radios turned up. Loud music serenades young couples as they cruise down Main Street on out to the suburbs, trailer parks, apartments in the city. Cops watch for the smallest detail. Some mistake to pull them over. Speeding, driving to slow, busted tail light. Most get home OK. Most. There’s always one or two that get caught. Alcohol levels high. Mixture of booze and breath mints. Nothing hides it. Nothing.

Boy got home around three. Pulled through a Taco Bell for comfort. Let the grease run in his veins. Packets of hot sauce on the dashboard. His muffler shook on a pickup that had seen better days. He drove through town, paranoid. Radio turned low. Could barely make out the song. Paid close attention to the road. Looked for flashing lights. Parked his truck in front of her trailer. Looking for love.

She sat in the front room asleep. Remote dangled from her finger tips. Some nature show was on. Animals killing each other. Eating the flesh of their prey. Wild herds in Africa. Running. Chasing each other down. White men with cameras looking-on.

He slowly and cautiously took the channel changer from her hand. She mumbled. Something about going home. Wanting him to go home. Wanting Boy to leave. Drool fell from the corner of her mouth. She wrestled with a blanket.

The couch had folded clothes on it that he knocked over. He sat a soda on the coffee table. Placed the sack of tacos beside it. Girl woke up. Could make out his face glowing in the blue light. He said to her, want one. They’re hard shell. The kind you like. She shook her head. Can’t hear you, he said. She shook her head again and whispered no. He continued to feed himself. Slurped loudly on his Mountain Dew.

I want you to leave, she said. Boy just looked at the TV. Turned the sound down to nothing. Just a picture. An antelope being slaughtered. Go on now, she raised her voice. Get. He took another bite of taco. I gotta work tomorrow, she said. I don’t have time. And no. You can’t stay here. The young man took another drink. You’re gonna have to leave.

Where am I supposed to go? he asked. I’m not sleeping in that truck again tonight. Come on now. Have a heart, he said. If the shoe was on the other foot I’d let you stay.

Well it’s not. Boy finished off his food. Wiped his mouth with a brown napkin that had red sauce on it. Looked at her with a pleading face. I’m telling you to go, she got up and went to the closet. You smell like a six-pack, she said loudly, looking behind hanging clothes.

Now wait a minute, he told her. Just wait a minute. This is my house too, he said. Well, it was mine. Used to be ours. I didn’t ask for much. I just need some sleep, she continued looking past the dresses and the sweaters, the hanging blouses. Come on now. Don’t be like this, he moved in closer to her. Began to hold her. She backed away, feverishly looking in the dark. Feeling her way around.

Finally she found what she was looking for. A shot gun her daddy had given her. She grabbed it and pointed it at the boy. I said get. Not telling you again, she cocked it.

OK now. I’m leaving. And you won’t see me again if that’s the way you’re going to be.

That’s the way I’m gonna be.

Alrighty righty. I’ll be on my way. Just put the gun down.

Not till you walk out that door.

He stood for a second and then grabbed the end of the gun. It went off. She fell to the floor . Boy knocked the gun out of her hands. Threw himself down on her. Began kissing her wildly. She kissed him back. They both rolled over on the floor. The weapon laid there next to them.

Coffee was made in the morning. The sun came through the curtains. Boy laid on the floor. Arms outstretched. Legs crossed over. She sat at the table looking at him. Whispered, what am I gonna do with ya? What am I gonna do?

Dark. It was dark outside. Rain storms were supposed to come that afternoon. Boy sat on the front porch waiting for the downfall. He wanted all his sins washed away. Had felt bad about the night before. Guilty. Like he’d done something wrong. And, he just sat there waiting for his soul to be re-born; born again.

Old man looked at him from the trailer window. Saw him sitting out there with his hands stretched out to the sky. Rocking back and forth. Getting ready to take in the holy spirit. Dad laughed as he drank his coffee and kept peaking through the blinds. Looking at his son. They called him the village idiot.

Thunder was coming in from the north. There was no lightening just yet. A drop or two fell. Boy prayed for forgiveness of his sins; drinking, lying, cheating, living an irresponsible life. He wanted that water to come down on him hard. Drenched in the blood of the lamb. A real baptism. His eyes were shut tight.

The old man opened the door. Asked, what are you doing out here? You’re going to catch a cold and get us all sick. Boy kept his eyes shut and his hands lifted up to the sky. What’re you waiting on some kind of miracle? The boy began to speak in tongues as thunder and lightening clashed in the sky. Get inside boy, the father demanded. I said get inside. The rain began to fall. I ain’t telling you again, the old man put his arms around him and wrestled him to the ground. Boy kept on blabbering in some kind of incoherent speak. I said get inside, rain fell harder. Boy got bunched up in a fetal position. The two of them laid there in the dirt as the storm passed through. No more rain. His soul was clean. The old man held on to him like when he was a baby. The jibber-jab of tongues stopped.

Dad got up and left him there in the front yard. Neighbors looked out there windows. A dog barked. Salvation had come.

They built this house years ago. The job was done by the Amish. Has good bones. However, it’s off square. Angles are forced. Joints don’t exactly meet. Probably has a million nails in it. Painted blue. A tin roof sat on top. Used to keep a beat when it rained. Suburban couple dancing to falling water hitting the house. Made them laugh.

There were no leaks in the house. No cracks. Pretty solid. It was made to last years after they were gone. And the next couple was gone after them. The windows were tight. Had blinds on them. Everyday the couple would open them and let in the morning sun. They’d look outside at the other suburban homes. They all looked the same. And, the peole who lived in them all looked the same. White folks with children. They wore khakis and Polo shirts. Drove minivans and SUV’s. One couple bought a Subaru just to be different. They’d park it in the driveway to show everybody how hep they were. Save The Planet bumper stickers along with rainbows on the back window. People talked behind their backs.

The housing addition was called Lake Shores, but, there was no lake in it. Just a pond that separated the houses. Neighbors waving at each other from their patios. Drinking beers and wine spritzers. Dogs barked at night. Held to being in the yards by electric fences. They wanted to jump in the pond on hot summer days, but, the invisible deterrent would stop them in their tracks. A life time of never getting what you want.

And, this couple, like all the rest of them, thought they had it made. Good jobs, women raised the kids. PTA meetings. Family vacations to Florida. Lines of cars running north to south during spring break. Going to the holy land. Said hello to Mickey. Moms would get tans and dads would get drunk. Fishing on boats out in the Atalantic. Children building sand castles. They thought it would never end.

Maybe the American dream is still alive. Ignorance is bliss.