dmseay

There was no sound. No cars up and down the street. No garbage trucks making noise. The train was not running through town. It was just quiet.

He stayed up all night long listening to the silence. It did not put him at ease. Nor did it give him peace. The quiet night scared him. Made him think of the disasters to come. War, famine, sickness, people begging in the streets, all of this crossed his mind.

Paranoia got hold of him. The old man couldn’t think straight. He wondered if he was married, had any kids? Didn’t know his age. Thought there were soldiers outside his door.

This eerie feeling of death loomed over him. He thought, maybe it’s time? he whispered. Went back to the bedroom and pulled the drawer open on his nightstand. There it was. A pistol with a bullet inside. He looked at the gun and placed it to his sweaty head. He smiled.

The silence lasted forever.

The house was bare. No more television. Couch was tossed out to the curb. Chairs stacked in the back of a pick-up truck. Soon they’d be gone too. Salvation Army or some charitable organization. He no longer had any belongings.

Placed a few pairs of underwear and shirts in a backpack. Wore the same shorts daily. Figured out West he wouldn’t need any long pants. His days of church going were over.

He left behind a home. A brick building he called a home. Had been there all his life. His mom and dad lived there. So did his grandparents. And with the stroke of a pen, it was gone. His property. His history.

It was the beginning of summertime. Night air was cool. The old man pulled his truck into rest areas along the interstates and stretched out in the back. Used a sweat shirt for a blanket.

Many nights the radio would put him to sleep. Jazz on some local public radio station. Playing songs he grew up with. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans to name a few. He would hum along.

And he drove all over the country. Colorado, California, Texas, North Dakota. He followed no maps. Just drove where ever the spirit lead him. And, that’s all he wanted. Just to drive and listen to jazz. This was his American dream.

Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. A mother bird sings to her children. Trees are budding early this year. Grass is starting to green. He is alone.

Death surrounded him. Friends, lovers, a dog. It was one after the other. Like a plague, it was bad news on a daily basis. And still war raged on.

Old women pray at church for peace. Thousands have left behind family and neighbors. Young men gear up for battle. Tanks roll down streets. Murder most foul in the name of oil. Dead lye in corridors.

Jets fire upon buildings and bridges. No where to run. Half a million people knock on neighbor’s doors. Refugees; cold, hungry. Waiting. Wanting. This is war.

Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. He is alone.

It’s strange how every ending is the same beginning. The same start as you had last time. Not knowing what the future holds. Grasping at anything tangible. Wanting for hope.

He had been in this situation before; several times. Backpack and bus ticket in hand. Without a clue as to where he would land. The ticket said Denver, but, it could have been Albuquerque. Might have been Tucson, or, Indigo, California. A name is just a name. A town is just a town. He knew this to be true. His history proved it.

The fat man gave up on being stationary. He had to move. And when he got there, he’d have to move again. Maybe up in the wine country where he could pick grapes with the Mexicans. Perhaps down South. Standing at the crossroads. Waiting to sell his soul. And for what? Another meal? Some bedbug sleeping room in Memphis? He was far from Graceland. He was far from grace.

His fortune never came. Got close a couple of times by marriage. Money? What is money? They went on vacations. Country drives on weekends. A house built in 1867. They were young and successful. At least she was. He went along for the ride. Then one day it was over. The fat man left in the middle of the night. Kissed her on the cheek and walked out of a marriage, a partnership. She went on dreaming.

And now he was back where he was before; on a bus heading west. Leaving troubles behind. Taking on new ones. Every ending is the same beginning. There is no change.

Brown trees and electrical wires lined the interstate. Gas stations with semis parked in back. Houses that were falling apart. Bent guardrails and signs saying Quiet Zone. No Air Brakes. Fasten Your Seat Belt. It’s The Law.

He watched America go by from the back of a Greyhound. Thought of what he was leaving behind; wife, kids, responsibilities. All in broad daylight. Just walked down to the bus station and bought his ticket; a one way to New Orleans. Maybe he was middle-aged crazy? Maybe he’d just had enough.

Into the night she kept calling him. He didn’t answer. Nor did he check his voice-mail. Messages that said, I don’t know where you are. But, come home. We can work it out, were erased. He didn’t want to hear her voice. Or, any voice. He just wanted quiet. No more fights. No more yelling. Just quiet.

His head was placed against the window. The night had taken over. Some stars in the sky. The moon followed him. His phone rang again. This time he answered it. He could hear her breathing on the other end. Didn’t know what to say. There was silence for two minutes. Just silence.

Where are you? she asked. What’re you doing? she whispered. The kids think you’re at work. I haven’t told them anything. Just come home. Wherever you are just turn around and come home, she pleaded.

Again there was silence. Semis kept rolling past. Billy got an A on his History test. Thought you should know, she told him. And Julie is going to be on the basketball team. She made it. I told her you were gonna be so proud. Come home. Please come home.

I can’t. I just can’t, he said. I gotta work out some things on my own.

We can work them out together. Don’t do this.

I have to.

Silence.

The graffiti on the brick wall said L/K. It was written in blue with a drawn red pitchfork underneath and a black crown up top. The old man kept looking at the art as he stood there swaying back and forth with piss on his pants.

An alley cat crossed behind him hissing. Thought for a moment it was a bobcat. Someone said there was one loose in the city. But no. It was just a homeless cat checking garbage cans for a midnight snack. He was familiar with the process.

He zipped up his pants and made his way down Main. Bumping into parking meters and light poles that shined down on him in a color of yellow. It was midnight. He had to make last call at Danny’s. The old man wanted to spend all his money that night. Wake up the next day with a fresh start.

Danny’s was almost empty. It was a Tuesday night. The factory workers would be in at seven when he opened for the day. Now it was just him, a couple of home boys, and a hooker with molars missing. She wore a blonde wig.

Give me a shot of Rye and an Old Style, he said. The old man watched as beer was poured from the tap making it foam over the glass. The devil’s juice was placed before him. Before he raised the shot glass, Pete asked for $5. The old man gave him $6. Keep it, he said. I always tip. Don’t I Pete? The middle-aged bar keep nodded his head. I tip, or, I don’t come in. Them are the facts, the old man said. If you don’t have enough to tip, stay home, he drank his shot.

Work today old man? Pete asked. The old man said he had. Told him he got a job down at the Civic Center throwing away boxes for the boat show. Said he’d worked hard all day. Said he made $70 for his labor. Big man, Pete said. Better save some for tomorrow, he added.

The old man took a swig of beer. You should see all them boats Pete, he said. They got fishing boats, pontoons, speed boats, all kinds. One of these days I’m going to get a boat, they both laughed. Now really Pete. I can pull this off, Pete turned his back on him. Hey, he yelled. I’m talking to you, Pete motioned for him to keep it down. If I say I’m going to get a boat, then I will, he blurted out.

Keep it down old man, Pete told him. I don’t wanna toss you tonight. The old man mumbled to himself. He finished his beer and ordered another round. The bartender said no. Pete cut him off. He told him to go find a good place to sleep. Go down to the river, Pete said. Nice and cool down there. Good for you.

You tossing me out Pete? Pete nodded yes. One day I’m going to have a big pontoon boat out on that river. With women and kegs. And you my friend will not be invited, Pete pointed to the door.

Come back to fight another night old man. Come back another night, Pete followed him to the door and sent him on his way.

A pontoon, the old man said as he stumbled down the street. I’ll name it Suzy. Just ’cause I like the name.

His sleep was disrupted by dreams. Vivid images and a loud soundtrack in his head. Rolling in the blankets, he talked out loud. Where are you? he would ask. When are you coming to bed? the old man called out. And, there was no answer. Just the sound of a television in the other room. Voices. It was Johnny Carson talking to Raquel Welch. Again the old man yelled, When are you coming to bed? the dream continued.

The hallway was dark. Just a blue light shined from the outside. It was a streetlight coming through the window. In the living room she was rocking herself to sleep in the cushioned chair. He looked at her. Held her hand. Could feel her warmth. He whispered, Get up. Wake up. Come on now. Come to bed, he said. She did not move. He placed his fingers in her mouth. Drool came from the corners. The young woman did not flinch. Just sat there asleep, rocking back and forth.

A breeze blew into the kitchen. The window was open and the curtains swayed. He reached across the sink to close it, but, the old frame would not budge. The warm winds of summer kept blowing in. No sound. Just air moving.

He walked back to the living room and she was gone. Off to bed I bet, he thought. Yes, off to bed, he said. Lying down, he noticed that the blankets were all kicked off the bed. Her pillow was wet. He started to shake an invisible body in the dark. A ghost. There was no one. He woke up to the sounds of a television. It was Johnny Carson talking to Raquel Welch.

There have been many times I’ve sat here, looking outside and wondered. Thoughts of hitting the road again. Heading out west of the Mississippi. Way west. Oregon, California, New Mexico come to mind.

Travel by bus. Maybe take Route 66 again like I did when I was a kid. Heading to Los Angeles with no money to speak of. Looking at the red clay of West Texas and New Mexico. Walking in the snow at Flag Staff. Seeing orange trees on boulevards in Phoenix. Living amongst poverty where ever I go.

I’ve seen the East Coast. Left Fauquier County to travel north. D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York. Lived awhile in Manhattan shelters and The Bronx low income housing. The homeless scattered on sidewalks. Begging for a buck. Down and out on their luck. Mentally ill citizens of this country head to Manhattan as a kind of Mecca. On hands and knees constantly. This is their prayer.

Boston, Cambridge, Burlington, Portland, Maine, small towns in New Hampshire, I was free there. No money, just a want to survive from one day to the next. Calling friends and relatives, an ex-wife to wire money to me. Anything. A hundred would be sent, fifty other times. Enough to eat on for a few days; a homeless man eating in Indian restaurants, downing beers in college crowd pubs, gambling in casinos up in Montreal. Hoping I’d hit it big. No bed to sleep in.

Truth is, I’ve never hit it big. But, I’ve been damn lucky.

He hadn’t seen her for awhile. It’d been years since the two of em talked. He was no longer thin and in shape. And, she no longer had hair of ginger. Middle age had creeped up on both. A paunch on him. Bigger waist on her.

She sat in the lounge waiting for him with a cigarette dangling from her thin lips. Didn’t matter how much lipstick she applied, they still looked thin. Jeopardy was on the television up in the corner above the bar. She didn’t get one answer right. Just sat there in silence mouthing incorrect responses. She was never book smart.

Her phone rang. It was her husband back home. Calling to tell her hello and he loved her. She listened to the voice-mail. The time was 5:00. The news was coming on. Local stories about a silver alert, some fire on the south side of town, super market prices going up, a dog found his master. Another cocktail was ordered.

He saw her through the window. Sitting there. Her round legs crossed. At first he thought of turning around and leaving. Thought about getting in his Dodge and driving all night back to Little Rock. Never talking to her again. Those conversations he had with her behind his wife’s back. Midnight talks of old days. He decided to at least say hi.

There was no hug. No kiss on the cheeks. He stood beside her chair, looking at the television. Mike And Molly was on. They laughed a bit. Just a chuckle. After all those steamy talks, he had nothing to say. Neither did she. He shook his head. Told her, no. Said he couldn’t go through with it. She nodded in agreement.

Driving throughout the night, he did not think of her. Did not long for her. The telephone affair was over. He knew it. She knew it. There would be no more calls.

At midnight her cellphone rang. It was her husband. Asked how her meeting with old high school friends went? She said, fine. She said, fine. He told her he loved her and to drive home safely. She said, I love you too.

In the morning. After midnight. He would awaken to noises of the streets below. People coming home from taverns. Cops cruising the avenues. Youth wasted.

He heard cats clawing trashcans. The garbage pick up. Diesels moving backwards. Making that warning sound of beep, beep, beep.

It was these noises that kept him awake. Didn’t even try to sleep. He’d read his Bible and curse at the sounds of outside. Was the same thing every night. Followed by a few hours of absolute silence.

The old man would place the good book on the table next to his chair and stretch out just a bit. Curled up with a blanket.The lamp turned down. And for three hours he could sleep. He could dream.

These dreams this man had. Vivid images of how things used to be; a house, garden, dogs, and a wife. The woman he shared his life with. She was his rock. In all his times of instability, she kept them together. Made life easier. With her, he slept throughout the night.

But, angels come and go. They’re only in our lives for a short time, he said to himself on her day of rest. Her ashes sat up on the mantle. Undisturbed in an urn with Mother Mary on it. She had gone.

The sun would wake him. Along with birds chirping, dogs barking, and diesels running through the streets. Early morning dew on the window glass. He wished night would last longer. He remembered his dreams. He always remembered her.