dmseay

A tattoo said Fearless on her right arm. She was everything but. Took off with some motorcycle gang when she was seventeen. The young redhead liked the way they worshipped her. Like she was some kind of goddess. A virgin hand picked by Zeus to satisfy their needs.

They rode all over America. Her green eyes shined in the night. Glowed against camp fires in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, on in to California. They’d let loose on Highway 1 all the way down to Tijuana where they’d drink cheap tequila and ramble off into whore houses. Leaving her behind. Sitting on a barstool taking drags from Marlboros. She didn’t belong to just one man. Shorty belonged to all of them.

That’s why she didn’t cry. No one could claim her. Tossed around like a sack of pure white flour every other night. Riding on the backs of Harleys. Confederate flags waved in the air from the handle bars. She felt free. But, not fearless.

Other women in the gang felt the same way. A tough act, but, inside they were just scared little girls. Leaving one abusive father for another. They’re right when they say freedom isn’t free.

Freedom bites you. It kicks you in the stomach. Makes you feel like you want more. More air blowing in your face. More punches taken. Anything to prove you’re fearless.

The tattoo on her right arm said fearless. You decide.

He shot his wife in Mexico. Some small town over the border near El Paso. Never said where he buried the body. All kinds of bare land around there. Maybe he dumped it in the river. Hard to say.

She was young. A Mexican girl no more than eighteen. He drove down there from Oklahoma specifically to marry her. The girl’s parents sent him pictures. Said it’d cost him $500 American. The middle aged man sent letters to her and the family. Saying he’d be a good man. Said he’d take care of her.

I got picked up in Carthage by him. Thumbing a ride to Dallas. He told me all about her. Told me he was in love.

We drove through the night into Texas. Crossed the Red River. The fat man pulled over at a rest area. We talked. Said he’d been married before. A blonde woman from Missouri. Joplin, I believe. He confessed that he’d killed her. Said she got on his nerves. Said she cheated on him. There was a paranoia about him. A mistrust in people. Women in particular.

But, he told me he liked talking to me. Said my listening put him at ease. I don’t talk much.

I left in the early morning before sun up. I was back on the highway . Hitching by day break. Didn’t think of him again until I saw a news story about a year later. About some American accused of killing his bride. Didn’t need to see a picture. I knew who it was. I knew.

Nebraska gets strange at night. Darkness falls on the land. The moon shines. You can smell corn growing. Hear wild dogs barking as lights flash from cars driving down highways that cut through small towns. Ghosts walking on the side of the roads. Crosses marking where death took place ; an old man trying to cross the road, baby girl tossed from a car, a road worker killed by a careless driver. All these ghosts in Nebraska nights. He drove on.

The old man was heading west to Colorado. Wanted to go to Denver. Had never been there before. Read about it in Kerouac’s book, On The Road. He was captivated by the adventures of Sal Pardise and Dean Moriarty. He wanted to see streets where Dean stole cars. See bars that Kerouac drank in. He wanted an American story to unfold before his eyes.

But, first he had to get through Nebraska. The old man pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot to sleep for the night. A few cars were parked in there as well. Couples sleeping in the front seat with the windows down. Taking in the Midwestern air. Loners, like him in old rusted pickups napping in the back beds.

He used a rolled up jean jacket for a pillow. His rested head fell right asleep. Eyes closed. The old man dreamed. Dreamed of Coltrane playing just for him. Blowing out Naima along with Body And Soul. The two of them alone in a room; a private concert. A bottle of scotch on his table.

The dream faded into loves of his past. Women he had been with. Women with stories about them all. Blondes from Chicago, Puerto Rican girls living in the Bronx, southern belles in Virginia. All of them visited him that night. And, he was pleased to see them all again. Each giving him a farewell kiss.

Soon the sun was up. Rising in an open Nebraska sky. The moon faded away.

Do you believe in ghosts? Or, are they just dreams? What feels real and what feels imaginary? Maybe there’s no difference.

He felt something that night. Maybe it was the whiskey he shared with Coltrane.

Uncertainty. There was always this uncertainty. He was never sure of himself, or, others. Always let his emotions get in the way. His prejudices stopped him from seeing truth. He spent most of his life in fear. The unknown gets us every time.

There was a gun under his bed at night. A snub nose pistol. Always had a fear that one day he’d have to use it. The old man kept it loaded. Middle of the night there were always noises. These noises kept him from sleep. A car going by, a motorcycle at midnight, noises from down the hall. A couple fighting. Some drunk knocking on his door in the early hours of morning while the moon still shined. He laid there with one eye open and his hand under the mattress, clutching the weapon. Waiting for someone to bust his door down. Any excuse to use it.

He never spoke of these fears. Kept to himself. Sitting in the front room each day drinking cans of beer and shots of schnapps with the pistol beside him on the end table. Watching TV in silence. He hated the sounds of voices. Particularly those coming from the television. Everyday he’d point the gun at the set. Telling bad guys to make one false move. Bandits coming to town. A villain on Gunsmoke. Some cheat in a poker game on ESPN. He’d have his finger on the trigger. Waiting for the right moment.

This uncertainty he had. A real loose cannon. Talked to himself. Had conversations about how the world was closing in on him. The uncertainty of life. The only sure thing being that we all die some day, he said. And, today was that day. It was a good day to die, he thought. Bury his fears.

He pointed the pistol to his right temple. Began babbling incoherently. The TV showed a gunfight in the streets of Laredo. Some western was on. He pulled the gun away from his head. Pointed at the man on the television with the black leather on him. And, he fired. A smile came to his face. He saved his soul. The television was dead. Blasted right in the middle of the screen. Heard sirens out in the street. He was sure they were coming for him. He laughed. Walked in glass on the floor and went back to his room. Placed the firearm under his bed and dreamed.

The old man didn’t hear anything anymore. Just quiet. Silence. No more knocks on his door. The couple down the hall quit fighting. Traffic noise had stopped. Maybe the world had ended, he whispered. Maybe.

She never expected anyting from him except the truth. Faithfulness was not his strength. She never asked. She knew in the back of her mind that he was cheating on her. Not just once, but, several times. She just never wanted to confront the truth. In the end, it eludes all of us, she thought. This fear we have of finding out. And, we talk to no-one about it. We just carry-on.

He died in the winter of 1989. Several people showed up at the funeral. Family, friends, former soldiers, co-workers, an ex-wife. They all came to show their final respects. She held onto an American flag. Their son placed his arm around her to give comfort. But, she was smiling the whole time. Almost laughing.

They didn’t have the guts to show up did they? she asked. Her son shook his head. The ladies. The women over the years that he carried on with, she whispered.

The boy just looked at her. The cat was out of the bag now, he thought. He held onto her tighter while the preacher man went on and on about what a fine Christian man he was. A true soldier for God Almighty. A man of virtue and moral fiber. A family man if ever there was one. The minister went on and on. The son and the mother looked at each other and smiled.

They knew the truth. Had for years. It was an unspoken in the household. Sunday lunches with women he’d carried on with. Sitting right across from mom. Holding their husband’s hands. Silent. Spoke when spoken to. That was the kind of woman the old man liked. Did he love his family? He said he did.

Love is one thing. Respect, another. Maybe he couldn’t help himself, the widow thought. Maybe he was some kind of wild animal that had these urges. Couldn’t control himself. Kind of like King David. Always wanting more, she told her son after the service. They sat having coffee and looking at the folded flag. She laughed . That flag was the only thing he was faithful to, she said. Sure wasn’t faithful to me.

The tall oak was split in two last night. Has burn marks on it this morning. Limbs lay in the street. The rest stands like a torched monument. An abstract statue with a deeper meaning. Bark and chips of wood are being swept up by men in uniforms. Chainsaws are buzzing. Soon it’ll just be a hump. A memory.

That tree was over a hundred years old they said. Over time his family had watched it grow. His grand parents and parents looked on as it reached towards the Midwest sky. Storms had come and gone, but, it had withstood the test of time. It made it through tornadoes, blizzards, high winds. It was a survivor. The oak stood as a symbol for his family. And now, just like his family, he was the only one left.

The old man stood in the window last night when the tree went down. He saw the lightning hit it. Heard the crackle. Saw the smoke in the early evening hours. It was a white smoke. A holy smoke. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was the same feeling he had when he saw his grandpa laying in the casket when he was just a kid. He’d made it to a hundred too. Survived the great war. Sitting in a trench. Killing rats as they scurried along. Eating them for supper. Praying for the gunfire to stop. Digging graves for dead Americans with more shots being fired. Never a moment of peace.

Cancer got him and his pop. Dad fought in World War II. Marched through Northern Africa and into France. Saw the ruins of war. Buildings destroyed. Famine. Bodies piled high. He told his son, Some day you’ll see it too. Some day. Wars will never end.

And, he was right. The old man served in Vietnam when he was just a kid. He was a Marine. Pop gave him a Bowie knife before he left. He didn’t come back with it. Now he’s got cancer too. He’s had it for awhile. It just keeps on lingering, festering inside his lungs. Some say it was the agent orange that did it to him. Others say it’s the two pack a day habit he’s got going for over fifty years. Doctor says he’ll be dead soon. Gone from this life.

The tall oak was split in two last night. Now it’s just dust.

The grass turns brown in August. Actually, late July. Rain comes in the spring and everything’s green, vibrant. But, by the middle of summer everybody’s done given up on it. The blades burn in the sun and die. No more water. Place becomes a desert. Dirt’s hard. Almost clay like. Mom’s tomatoes start to rot on the vine; lack of attention. Rabbits and coyotes eat em in the middle of the night. Sometimes a groundhog will make his way up to the back porch. Halves and quarters of green tomatoes eaten and left behind. When you don’t tend to things they die.

The boy was asleep on the couch again. Came in late. Out all night. Drinking. Looking for women. That combination will eventually kill him, momma thought. All he does is stay drunk, she whispered over the voices on the television. Talk show people. Regis and Kathy Lee yaking it up. Talking foolishness. The audience laughed.

The old woman kicked the boy in the leg. There was no movement. Get up, she said. Wake up, she shouted. Boy looked at her and then placed his head between his arms; face down in the sofa. The plastic cover had sweat on it. You gonna look for a job today? she asked. Get up. Wipe your ass. Take a shower boy, mom yelled. He just laid there in a pool of salty water.

You want some coffee? she poked at his ribs. The boy shook his head. Asked what time it was? Time for you to get a watch, she said. Now come on. Get up, momma turned and walked into the kitchen. She saw squirrels out on the back porch munching on tomatoes. Rotting on the vines. Looking like grapes. You can never have anything nice, she said. Never.

Boy got up and buttoned his shirt. It smelled of perfume and sweat. His breath reeked of beer. He sat down at the kitchen table. You gonna mow the lawn? she asked. Boy began to laugh. I said, are you gonna mow the lawn? He pointed at the coffee pot.

That grass is dead mom. It’s brown. Hasn’t grown all month.

It’s summer time. You cut grass in the summer time.

Not if it’s dead you don’t. That grass is dead. We ought to give it a funeral. A proper send off, he went to the fridge and got some cream. You should’ve watered it, he stated. And continued to water it. Just like those tomatoes. They’re dead too mom.

I know they’re dead, she yelled. You don’t have to tell me. But, it’s summer time. And in the summer you cut grass. I’m tired of giving you money for nothing, she declared. Finish your coffee and go mow, she stormed off to her bedroom. The boy shook his head.

I’ll need gas, he raised his voice.

There’s a twenty on the counter. Go get some.

He walked over to the counter and eyed the bill. Boy put the twenty in his pocket and walked out the door. She heard it slam.

She got up and looked out the front window. Her boy was walking down the road. She watched him till he vanished.

He’d stay up all night watching shadows on the wall. Animals he’d made with his fingers. Rabbits, birds, cats, a Texas longhorn would appear from his fingertips. Almost like a magic act. He’d just lay there and look at them. Talking to them. As if they were pets.

Late into the night he could not sleep. His pets, shadows, had gone away. He lit a cigarette and watched smoke climb through the lamp lit room. Sitting there. Thinking of nothing.

The old man walked down the hallway to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He began to laugh. The absurdity of watching shadows. A waste of time.

He looked out the window and stared at the blackness of outside. That is real, he said. Not pretend, he smiled. Night is black, he thought. Night is black.

This is a lonely life, laughing, he lit another smoke. He went back to his bedroom and turned on the exposed bulb. His animals returned. He had someone to talk to.

Stepping into a mess. Always avoid stepping into somebody’s problems. ‘Cause once you’re in, you can’t get out. Try as you might, it’s a difficult process.

He felt bad for her. She said her husband beat her. That was her claim. And sometimes he’d see bruises on her. Black and blue ’round the wrist where he’d grabbed her. A black eye.

They’d sit at the bar and she’d tell him all about it. Like he was a psychiatrist or something. Maybe a priest. She had sins to confess as well.

She told him about another man she was involved with. Owned a used car lot. She wouldn’t say his name. But, there was only one used car lot in town. Fred Jones Automotive. He had those silly commercials on at three in the morning. Wearing costumes and a man in a monkey suit. Eating bananas while Fred talked about savings and clean, clean cars.

The two talked about her leaving him. He said she’d be better off with the used car man. She’d smile and stir her drink. She said, They don’t make them like they used to. My daddy. He was a true man, she said. Stayed with my mom for fifty years. Never even thought of leaving. My momma never had a bruise or a scratch on her. She was loved.

Never step into a mess. Keep your nose clean. He kept thinking that as he sat there listening to her ramble on. The more she talked, the more scared he got. He was starting to get emotionally involved. He wanted to punch this guy. Wanted to take care of her.

I’m meeting my lover tonight, she said. Thanks for listening, he nodded. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He listened to her talk for hours and she paid him with a kiss.

He watched her walk out of the bar and get into a shiny Lincoln. He laughed. Ordered another drink. Told the bartender to be careful where he stepped. Avoid problems, he said. Now I got a headache on my hands.

Every once in awhile he’d see her around town. She’d wave. He’d nod his head. They never really spoke again. He avoided that mess. Went on about his life. But, every time he saw those used car commercials, he’d think of her. Hoped she was alright. Months passed.

The evening news said she was missing. Anyone with any information should contact the police. He thought about calling. Then decided to stay out of it.

Fred Jones came on the TV and was smiling as always. He wondered what he was smiling about ? Wondered what had happened to her. He popped open another beer. Put on Bill Evans. And listened to the music.

He drove his pickup across Arkansas in the middle of the night. Listening to radio the whole time. Picking up stations out of Little Rock, Hope, Texarkana. Country staions and Gospel. When he got bored he’d listen to talk radio. People from all over calling in. Talking about politics and homosexuality. The old man would grin and nod his head. Things ain’t like they used to be, he whispered. No, they are not.

By day break he’d made it across the state. He was in Texas with the sun coming up over small towns, farm lands. It was his goal to shoot it straight through big T and drive on into New Mexico where the red clay looks like a painting. For some reason he wanted to go to Taos. He’d never been there. Just liked the way it sounded. Thought he could get some real authentic Mexican food there. Sounded Mexican. And, if he was lucky, pick up an Indian woman. He liked their high cheek bones and dark skin.

The old man was once married to a white woman. That was years ago when he lived in Chicago. Had a home on the southside of town. Sold it after his wife died. Made a fortune. Well, a working man’s fortune.

That’s when he decided to take off. See America. See what it was like to be free. Like an antelope or a deer. Just running everywhere wild. Take his squaw with him. They could sleep under the stars, wrapped in blankets of different colors.

He got to New Mexico and looked at the red mountains of clay. Thought about how long he was going to stay in Taos. Maybe a week. A month. As long as it took to be at peace.

Peace is a hard thing to find.