dmseay

A lava lamp sat on the counter. Blues and yellows moved in a dance sequence. He picked up the lamp and examined it. Turned it upside down then upright again. A blot of red entered the lamp. It came from the bottom and worked its way towards the top before separating, glowing in two different directions. The young man marveled at this. He placed his one hand on the glass while holding onto a Heineken with the other. He was truly infatuated. Or, was he just drunk.

She came out of the bedroom wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse with black patent leather shoes. The young lady was going for a sexy Catholic school girl look. His focus was on her; he approved.

They had been dating for years. She always tried to make things interesting; clothes she wore, music she introduced to him, restaurants they went to. She wanted everything to be an adventure. He went along with it. He was in love with her; followed directions very well.

Do you think you’re whipped? she asked him as she placed her long arms around his neck. He looked at her, puzzled. I mean, do you do whatever I say to please me? Do it without any regard for yourself? Would you make a fool out of yourself for me? she laughed. He just looked at her and smiled. He knew the truth; he would.

The two of them went out that night to meet friends. A couple they had known for awhile. And like him, he was whipped too. The two boys had beers while the ladies sipped on cocktails. One, with a wedge of lime and the other a floating cherry making its way to the bottom of the glass. They all noticed the couple at the table next to them. The older man with a loud voice. And his young girlfriend looking shell-shocked. They were arguing over nothing. Nothing at all. Arguing for the sake of arguing. His voice got louder; wanting to be heard. She did a lot of head nodding. It was clear that this was the end.

Toxic masculinity, the Catholic school girl said. It’s toxic masculinity. I feel sorry for her, she continued. Women shouldn’t take that, she pleaded. Another example of white men getting what they want. To be powerful, she rambled. They’re only happy when they’re making lives miserable, her friend toasted her statement.

And then she confessed to cheating on the older man. Said he forced her to do it. Lead her down that path. Said she was continuing the affair. She was no longer in love with him. Said she was sorry. The older man kissed the blonde on the cheek and said goodbye.

The two younger men watched as he marched out of the bar. What was that? the lava lamp lover asked. The two women looked at him with smiles. And didn’t say a word.

The old man was asleep in the recliner with the remote in his hand. Television was on with the sound turned down. It was Michael Landon mouthing words. Wearing a cowboy hat. Riding a horse.

The TV was always on. Twenty-four hours a day. If he wasn’t watching it she was. Or, the kid. He watched a lot too. They watched in different shifts. Mom watched in the daytime up until the evening news. Then the boy would take over the remote and watch prime time before going out for the evening. And the old man took the graveyard shift. Alone in his seat with a knitted blanket on his legs. He wouldn’t move till morning.

There was a loud noise coming from the kitchen. Boy had made it home. Talking to himself. Moving objects around in the refrigerator. Finding a six pack of beer in the back. Ice cold. He took all of em. Sat down on the flower pattern couch and picked the beers one at a time from the plastic rings. The boy noticed the remote dangling from the old man’s fingers. Gently he grabbed it. Started flipping through channels. Re-runs of The Love Boat was on. Kind of a Love Boat marathon. Episode after episode of people taking a cruise and getting laid. Always with a drink in their hand. This appealed to him. He had dreams of going on a cruise. Had dreams about Julie, the activities director. Loved her eyes. Thought she was really sharp. The blonde put a smile on his face.

When did you get here? the old man asked as he stretched. Did you just get home? the boy kept looking at the show. That’s my beer boy, dad said. You know the rules, he pointed at the remote the boy had in his hand. Why don’t you hand that thing over? It’s not your turn, boy looked over at him.

You were asleep. You were asleep so I took it. Just like your beer. It sat in there for a week untouched so I drank em, he smiled in the dark.

That’s not the point. You know the rules. You broke the rules. It’s a matter of respect, he looked at the television. A matter of respect. I had it on Carson, the old man said. Carson was on. With Charo.

That was hours ago dad, the kid said. Sun will be coming up soon.

Give me that remote, dad demanded, getting out of his recliner, standing over the boy. The boy teased him with it. Held it off to the side while blocking the old man with his leg. I said give it to me, the old man kept reaching for it. The boy kept laughing. The old man tried to slap boy, but, his wrinkled hand was pushed away. More laughter from boy. Like he was being tickled. The old man walked away from him. Went down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. Boy’s got the remote, he yelled. He took it from me, he screamed some more.

Do you know what time it is? she asked. The old man stood there. He could hear the boy laughing in the front room. Mom came to the door. Do you know what time it is? she looked at him. It’s three o’clock in the morning, she declared. Three in the morning. She shut the door. He opened it and went to his side of the bed. Got down on his feeble knees and searched with his hand for his pistol.

I’ve had enough of this, he mumbled, finally securing the gun in his palm. I’m gonna show that boy who made him, the old man marched down the hall. He stood over the boy again. You gonna give me that remote? the boy laughed harder. The old man pointed the pistol at his head. Give me that remote, he said in a hoarse whisper. Boy just kept laughing. Laughing at the television. Doc and Isaac, the bartender were talking. The kid turned the volume up real loud. Give me that remote, he yelled over and over with a shaking hand. Give it to me.

The pistol was fired. A stream of blood came from the boy’s skull. There were pieces of his head all over the room. The old man took the remote and sat back down. He turned it to Bonanza.

A light over the stove was on. Cats slept in the dark. Blinds closed. They were always closed. Sunlight never shined through. She wanted it dark.

On the cream colored walls were old black and whites. Photographs of her man standing beside a ’57 Chevy, throwing a Frisbee on the beach, giving her a kiss in a diner booth; two straws in one Coke. There were other pictures too. Pictures of a young man in an Air Force uniform, pine trees and dogwoods, mountains and streams, the Mississippi River.

She sat in the front room at night. Always had trouble sleeping. Said old memories kept her awake. Dreams of her lover would wake her. Why didn’t I marry him? she’d ask herself. Why didn’t I do a lot of things? she sipped camomile tea.

In her younger days she had a chance to see the whole country. Her lover had this crazy idea to drive from Maine to California then California to Florida. He’d just gotten out of the service and had a little dough. So, he bought that ’57 and took off. Left her behind. Broken hearts.

She’d get postcards from him. Kept them in a shoe box at the bottom of a cedar chest. Sometimes she’d look at them. Greetings From Pboenix, one said. Hello From Albuquerque; how exotic, she thought.

He’d send letters from the road as well. All of them starting with, My dearest. He always called her his dearest. This tickled her heart. One day I’ll settle down, he wrote. One day we’ll have a family, she’d smile.

And one week the letters and postcards stopped coming. The only mail she got was bills and catalogs. She never heard from him again. She had hope he’d return. The young woman got older and hope began to die. That’s when things got dark. She kept the photos of him on the walls. The only man she’d ever made love to. And she would look at them from time to time. However, most of the time it was too dark to see.

The old man laid in the dark. Turned the TV off. Just reruns. A streetlight shined through the window giving off a little light, but, not much. He kept looking at his watch. Couldn’t quite make out the time; he knew it was late. The cats crawled on him. One sat on his hip while the other stood up around his gray head. She was playing with his hair; pulling it and biting at it. As if she was placed on this earth to be a nuisance to him. He sat up. Again, tried to make out the time. Turned on the lamp next to the couch. Three o’clock in the morning, the old man whispered. Where is that boy at? He laid back down. Mumbling to himself.

He came stumbling in around four. Opened the refrigerator and grabbed an Old Milwaukee. The can was cold in his hand. He rolled it over his forehead. Sat down in the recliner. Tried to quietly put his legs up. I’m awake, he heard the old man say. Just been laying here waiting on you, dad sat up. He popped open the can. Hope you saved me one, the boy nodded. Where you been? His son sat in silence. Am I gonna have to force it out of you? Should’ve beat it out of you a long time ago, the old man stood up and adjusted his robe. He had no clothes on underneath; naked. That’s all he ever wore was that robe. It was old and stretched out, wrinkled. Just like him. I’m gonna ask again. Where have you been?

His son glanced over at him. Glared. Remained silent. A little respect, the old man said. Would that be so hard? he moved towards the kitchen. Pulled down a bottle of Wild Turkey that sat on the back of the fridge. He’d drank that since he was a teenager. Liked the bird on the label. He came back into the front room and offered the boy a shot. The boy kept on glaring at him.

You don’t want a drink? That’s fine. I’m just being a good host. You hear me? the boy looked forward then back at him as if he were exasperated. A cat jumped up in the boy’s lap. He pet the cat with one hand and drank his beer with the other. He had the hiccups. Well now, father said. That’s almost a word. Almost talking. Devil’s making you do that, he said. The boy tried to hold his breath, but, couldn’t stop the hiccups. The old man started laughing. Trying to be so tough and you got the hiccups. Ain’t that something. Sign of drinking too much. I know you were out drinking. Just tell me where? he took another shot of whiskey. Hey. I’m just trying to start a conversation boy. We never talk. That is, you never talk. Just keep quiet. It’s rude. Your mother and me raised you better than this, the boy stood up. Towered over him. Grabbed the bottle from him. And then started to speak. But, nothing came out. Nothing.

Say something boy, the old man yelled. Say something. You trying to scare me? boy kept looking at him. You don’t. You don’t scare me. I can still whoop your ass boy. Keep that in mind, he warned.

Boy took his right hand and slapped the old man’s face. The old man was speechless. He slapped him again. And again. Kept slapping him till his face was red. The old man didn’t hit him back.

You’re all talk, the boy said. Always was. You think you’re important. But, you’re not. Just an old drunk like the rest of us. I will not become you, the boy said. You hear me? Pop just nodded yes.

His mother walked down the hall. The older woman with frosted hair looked at both of them. She saw the bottle and the can. Looked at the boy standing over his dad. What’re you doing? she asked. Get away from him, she came towards them, getting in-between. Sit down, she told the boy like he was some dog. I said sit down.

Boy sat down. Took a swig of beer. Looked at his mother. Don’t you get tired of him? he asked. His know-it-all attitude. His drunken behavior. Don’t you get tired? The old man looked straight ahead. Silence. He didn’t say a word.

Go to bed boy, she said. Go on. Get to bed. Thirty-five years old and I still tuck you in. What a shame. A little respect is due. He is your father.

I wish he wasn’t, boy said. I wish he wasn’t.

The son walked down the hallway to his room. Mom took a seat on the couch next to her husband. She put her arms ’round him and rocked him to sleep while she hummed God Bless America.

Winds whistled down the street. Almost knocked him over. The old man couldn’t have weighed more than a buck and a half. Legs wobbly. Grey hair disheveled. A bottle in his hand; Cutty Sark, or, J&B. Mumbled to himself. Something about the second coming. Asking strangers if they were ready? Shouting out words of the apocalypse, the four horsemen, fire and brimstone. He’d take another drink.

At home she waited. Up all night with a pot of coffee. The radio on some classical station; Bach and Mozart kept her company. She tried to hum along, but, didn’t know the pieces. She just liked the way the music made her feel. Like she was someone else. A high society woman. A person of intelligence. She’d smile and finish off another cup.

The door stayed locked. Day-time, nights, always locked. She’d shut it every morning when he left and open it when he came home. The old woman would hear her husband drop his keys in the hallway. She always knew it was him. She knew that sound. A ring of keys falling to the floor. And the old man swearing as he bent over to pick them up. Shhh, she’d tell him. Your gonna wake up the neighbors, she’d say. He’d come to her. Arms stretched out. Smelling like a distillery. Come on now, she would whisper. Get inside.

And he would. The husband followed the wife’s orders. He always had. Always told her he’d be home by midnight; he was. Said he’d always be faithful; did that too. Promised he wouldn’t blow all their social security. He didn’t. They only had so much to spend. Money was allocated; groceries and his booze. She gave him enough to be dangerous. Then she’d take care of him.

First she would force him to sit down in his recliner with his legs stretched out. The housewife took off his shoes and socks. A quilt was tossed over him. He’d go to sleep to sounds of violins, cellos, keys on the piano. She would turn the sound down and then kiss him on the forehead. Goodnight sweetest, she said every night. Goodnight.

It smelled green outside. Parsley, alfalfa, lettuce, growing in the moonlight. Water dripped from leaves; morning dew. The sky was purple. Some stars shined. Particularly one to the west. Like it was leading him somewhere. Wanting him to come. Take him away from this land. The old man’s land. A farm that’d been in the family for generations. Changing a little through the years; watering, tractors, harvesting. It’d all improved over time. The Mexicans still picked by hand. Cleansed it.

It’d been years since the old man’s death. Some say he haunted the farm. Said you could see him out there in the rows of green at night time. Feel his presence in the barn. Said he still walked around the house in his bare feet. The old man did everything in his naked feet. He’d walk out into the feilds and let his toes sink down in the coolness of the dirt. Sprayed his feet ‘fore he came inside. Said he still did.

You’re born with a love of the land. The old man tried telling him that. Told him to take seeds and watch em grow was magic. And only a certain kind of people had that magic. People grew up in Indio and never left. They’d stay till they died. Bury them in the ground. Their bodies would turn to minerals. Feeding the land that fed them. This was ritual. This was true. Magic.

The boy was growing tired of the land. It was no longer magical. But, he had nothing to compare it to. He’d never been outside of Indigo. Maybe a couple of little towns north and south of Indigo when he was younger. But, no. Indio was all he knew. He’d die here too, he thought. Pass the farm onto his boys when he was gone. Come back and haunt it too. Just like the old man. However, unlike the old man, he’d live a miserable life.

Often he wished he could just drive off the land. Get out of Indio. But, it was too late for that. Shouldn’t have got that girl pregnant. Shouldn’t have married her. His life had become one of regrets. That smell of green made his stomach turn. He wanted to shoot the silver moon in the sky that shined down on em. Some nights he did. The old boy would get drunker than a skunk and go out into the fields with his rifle and fire towards the full moon.

Mexicans would find bullets on the property and wonder if he was shooting at coyotes. Took em years to realize that he was just crazy. But, that’s what Indio did to ya. Made men crazy.

In his will the boy said he did not want to return to the land. Asked if they could drop his body in the ocean. He’d never seen the ocean. He always wanted to.

They honored his wishes. He left Indio.

What is more important to a writer? To be read or to just write. I write about everyday. Send it out on WordPress. Hope it gets through to somebody. And then disappointed when I see my numbers are low. Two, three readers a day maybe. Send it through Twitter. Makes no difference; have people stopped reading? Or, am I not a good writer?

To me writing is cathartic. It’s a therapy. I do it because I have to. And, feel guilty for wanting more readers. The work is what’s important, I tell myself. But, my ego wants more. I want to be noticed. Maybe this is the life of the artist; the struggle with the ego. It is for me.

They didn’t speak to each other anymore. Used to talk all the time when they were younger. Held hands too. Then over a period of time it just got strange. They didn’t even acknowledge each other anymore. She would ask him how he wanted his eggs? For years the wife would do that. Not anymore. That died out with Sunday dinners. She’d make a roast every holy day. They stopped eating together. He’d take a TV dinner out to the living room and watch the afternoon movie. She just stayed in the kitchen. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He’d complain about the smoke for years. The smell of the house. His clothes. He stopped. Didn’t see the point anymore.

The two were bound by a legal contract. That’s the way they saw it. Infidelities on his part over the years almost broke the deal. Anger stirred up inside of her. Until there was just silence. She didn’t even cry. She would just light up another and pour some courage in her coffee.

That was a long time ago. She used to follow him around town in her Chevy Cavalier. It was a four door. They bought a four door with hopes of children. The backseat would remain empty.

And he’d go all over the place. Bars, massage parlors, Chinese spas out by the highway. She’d drive by and see his car parked there in the lot. The old Dodge Charger. Orange. Had a Confederate flag on the roof. His favorite show was Dukes Of Hazzard. He’d speed around town in it. Took it out on country roads and let her rip. He was always looking for trouble. And it usually found him.

They were growing old. He had to sell the car. Needed the money. The old man blamed her for that. Blamed her for the miscarriage too. Said it was all her fault. Shouldn’t have smoked. That’s what killed that baby, was what he told her. You couldn’t go three months without lighting up, he said. You don’t even sneak em. You just smoke out in the open, he yelled. For all to see. A woman with a baby bump smoking a cigarette, he said. Didn’t say anything about coming home drunk and beating her. She used a lot of make-up.

This angry house was now quiet. No one yelled or cursed anymore. Was there ever any love? Maybe. But now it was just a contract.

The old man hurt all over. His body, legs, feet, ankles, arms, were sore from his walk. He couldn’t sleep. The traveler tried sleeping in bed, but couldn’t get comfortable; tossed and turned. He then went downstairs and laid on the couch. A crocheted blanket covered him. Sewed imprints of moons and stars wrapped ’round his wrinkled body.

He watched television with the sound down. An old episode of The Rifleman starring Chuck Conners was on. Black and white images of a Western town. His daughter came downstairs. The steps creaked. Front room was dark except for the light from the TV. She offered him hot tea. Camomile. With milk and sugar. The old man shook his head. Whispered no. You got any Aleve? Advil would be better. Not Tylenol, he said. It’s magic just kind of wore out on me over the years, his face winced in pain. The young woman said she’d look.

She went back up the staircase. He pulled out a flask from under the couch. He’d strategically placed it there early in the evening. The same way he had one placed behind the flush box in the bathroom. He thought she didn’t know. Thought he was pulling one over on her. His girl knew. Sometimes she had fun hiding the bottles and the flasks from him. Then putting them back after awhile. She liked to watch him silently get flustered. She liked to see him in pain.

In this episode, Chuck Conners finds out that there’s a man who isn’t who he claims to be; an imposter. And he’s got Conners’ kid admiring him. This town fake was fooling everybody. Everybody except the rifleman.

I got baby aspirin and Tylenol, the mother said in a whisper as she came back downstairs. It works just as well, she said. I gotta child. Therefore, baby aspirin. And the Tylenol is what I use, she mentioned, handing him bottles. Giving him a choice.

My body just aches, he said. I’m worn out. This might be the last time I see ya, popping both pills in his mouth. Just getting too old for this. All this walking. It kills me, ran his fingers through his gray hair. And the bus. Being cramed on the bus with all those niggers and Mexicans, he spouted. Just makes me hurt more, he drank some water from ice cubes in a Pepsi that’d melted throughout the night. A brown water. Everything was brown. The carpet, couch, walls. Said she liked things that matched. He just kept looking at the TV.

No. I don’t think I’ll be seeing you after this, he looked over at her in the dark. You can turn the lamp on, old man said. I’m not gonna sleep. Second thought, it hurts my eyes, he held the flask and drank quickly as she got up. Said she was going to fix him that tea.

How many miles you think you’ve traveled in your life, she asked from the kitchen. I mean, you took off a long time ago. Years. Momma didn’t know where you went to. She said you just started walking, the daughter brought the tea to him.

Your mother has an imagination.

Had dad. Had. Past tense.

Right. She got the story wrong. Told it wrong. Said it in a way that people would feel sorry for her. Especially women. Maybe a few gentlemen ’round town. No. She told it wrong, he said.

She did huh?

I was kicked out. Put out of my own house. She saw to that. I got proof, he snarled. Barking like an old dog. Ask your uncle. He’ll tell ya. She came to having a problem with men.

She came to having a problem with you.

Whatever.

You never contributed. Out chasing whores all night. Always drunk. And then one night you got real drunk and left. Never came back till it was too late.

Too late for what?

To make amends. To say you were sorry, she cried. This time he drank from the flask in full display. No shame in it. Still hurting. He laid down. Mumbled, that’s not what happened. And fell asleep.

She covered him with the blanket. Pulled it up under his chin. And kissed him on the forehead. She could taste his sweat. Tasted like Wild Turkey. She patted him on the head and whispered, goodnight.

He slept till the sun came piercing through the front window. Quietly he got dressed and took a drink. He placed his things in a bag. Then he walked out the door. It was the last time he saw her.

Train horn sounded. She laid there in the dark. Could hear it chugging on the tracks. Blowing its horn. Making all kinds of racket. Pulled blanklets up over her head. No one slept beside her. Used to have a man. They were supposed to grow old together. Till death do us part and all that stuff. He didn’t remember his vows.

Often at night she’d stare into the black. Never any light. Kept it dark. Outside a street light shined. Glowed like a candle in church. Curtains blocked it out. It was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The young woman didn’t want to see anything. She wanted silence too. But, even ear plugs didn’t work. She’d lived by those tracks for nearly twenty years and she still couldn’t get used to the midnight noise. Couldn’t block it out. Same way she was unable to stop thinking of him. Memories came to her in the night.

She knew he was unfaithful. Slept with anything not nailed down. He had women all over town; throughout the country. Found out about one woman in Las Vegas. Said he was always going there with the boys to gamble and smoke cigars. Drink Hennessey from a snifter. That’s where she thought all the money was going. That’s what she thought.

Found photos of women on his phone in various states of dress. Some wore nothing at all. There were emojis by the pictures; a pair of red lips, $100, a tiny blonde with a wink. He had no answer for this. Just filed for divorce. Said he no longer loved her. Let her have everything; house, car, kids, he just wanted out. She’d heard he moved down to Dallas. Said he sold insurance down there. Bought a convertible and left town. He had a woman down there too.

And she laid there in the dark thinking she wasn’t good enough for a man. Maybe her hips had gotten too wide. Perhaps her breasts sagged a bit. Could’ve grown jaded; cynical. You just do things on your own, the woman told her young daughter. Can’t rely on anyone, she said. People will let you down. Especially men, the kid would listen. They’ll promise you the moon, but, never deliver, she was broken.

She laid there in the dark. Listening to the trains go by. Never wanted to see morning. Didn’t want to see the sun reflect off her Ford in the driveway. All that money and he left her a Ford. A Taurus none the less. Gave it to her daughter. Let her drive around town. She just wanted to stay in the dark.