dmseay

They’re waiting. All of them. Wanting to see a glimpse of hope. Some kind of miracle. They look for signs. Symbols. A shadow on the wall. In a text that they read. A face in the water. His face. A white Jesus.

They’ve seen pictures of him. Paintings. Colorful images of him nailed to a cross. People down below at his feet. Blue eyes and a beard. A crown of thorns. Images of a white Jesus.

Perhaps they like the baby pictures the most. Wrapped in swaddling clothes. Away in a manger. Paintings of Mary holding him. The three wise men bringing gifts from far away. Following a star. Leading them to the white Jesus.

They’re waiting. Waiting. Looking for the white Jesus. The one they see at Christmas time. On Easter when they celebrate his resurrection. They’re waiting. They’re waiting.

The brown stained carpet was ripped in several rooms. Wall paper torn. Windows broken. Birds spoke to each other at four in the morning. An hour and a half before sunrise. The moon was still shining through clouds. Shined on the house that had a sign saying no trespassing. That didn’t stop some from entering.

On walls inside there were words spray painted in red and blue. Short sentences of anger. Stay Out, was stated on one wall. And, We Warned You, on another. There were also drawings of stick figures with blood pouring out of them. Guns and knives drawn on the walls as well. A real scene of violence.

Over in the corner the kid slept. Blankets and coats thrown on him. May’s chill made him shake. The old man kept a fire going in the middle of what was once a dining room for fancy dinner parties. He hoped it keep the young man warm. He’d put his hands up to it and sing throughout the night. Kid liked his singing. Reminded him of his mother putting him to bed when he was younger.

Upstairs a few folks stayed up all night and slept during the day. Pictures hung on the cream colored walls of a family that once lived there. The squatters kept them up as a sign of what used to be. They too once had families. Loved ones. Now they just operated as scavengers. Going through dumpsters and collecting tossed out food for the house. Dumpsters picked clean behind McDonald’s, Long John Silver’s, Golden Corral. The men gathered while women sold themselves to the streets. Bringing in money for cigarettes and cheap vodka.

This house. This old place that some called home would soon be gone. The City Council deemed it could be of better use. Perhaps a parking lot. It will be missed. The vagabonds thought they had it made. Paradise comes in different forms.

I sit here alone. Looking at nature. Green trees. Wild flowers blooming. Tall grass that needs to be cut. Dandelions blown in the wind.

This is peaceful. Humming birds drink sugar water. They fly away with bellies full. Ivy climbs bricks on the house. Weeds are coming up in the gardens. I watch. The sun warms me.

An American flag waves down the street. A “FUCK YOU JOE BIDEN” flag flys beneath it. Kids get on the bus for a last day of school. Dew on grass wets their shoes. Boys and girls with lunch boxes and book bags.

Last night there was a shooting in downtown Chicago. One teen was killed. A curfew has been put in place. Kids must be in by 10 o’clock. Safe in their parents arms. That’ll put a stop to it.

No curfews here in the village. Gunshots are heard in the distance. Away from crowds. Target practice. Bows and arrows used as well. Practice for fall.

And on the river men in jon boats fish for whatever takes bait. Politicians fill television screens with ads. Housewives stay home and watch FOX News. A famous actor suing a former wife. She says he beat her. He doodles on legal pads.

This is America.

I-80 runs from Teaneck, New Jersey and ends in downtown San Francisco. It goes through Pennsylvania and into the Midwest. The cities of Cleveland and Chicago whose souls were lost long ago. Across the Western states, God’s country, where cowboys and Indians still live amongst a pipeline and energy windmills. Northern California ends the trip with homeless men begging for change. And, when you’re done traveling on this long stretch of road, you’ve seen America. The beauty and the horror that is the United States.

Coyotes were heard in the distance. Rabid dogs lived out there in the dark as well. Feral creatures. Gunshots going off at the break of day. Sun coming through painted skies of purple, orange, yellow, and red. Waiting on the apocalypse.

He stood in the bed of his pick-up truck with a pair of binoculars. Looking through lenses at a part of the country whose beauty has not gone away. This was no longer Chicago. No more Southside,or, Millennium Park where youth run from gun fire and squad cars. This was a different kind of wilderness. He listened as the winds blew across The Plains.

Staring at the sun, he realized it looked different out here. Seemed brighter. More intense. There was no haze hiding the burning star. Just a big orange ball touching the earth. Now he’d seen everything.

She lit a cigarette and sat on her front porch. Rain clouds were moving in. A darkness prevailed. She wondered where he was. Hoped he was OK. Said a prayer and then lit another Winston. There’s only so much anger you can keep inside. All of her’s was gone. The rain began to fall. Life goes on.

The phone rang four times. She ran inside. Picked it up just in time. You should see this Helen, he said. The sun. The beautiful sun, she began to cry.

Where are you?

I don’t know. Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. But, God is it peaceful. It’s peaceful Helen. A real peace.

I’m glad, she said. I’m happy for you. Now come back home, she pleaded. I know we haven’t talked in years. Or, done anything a married couple should do. But, I miss my roommate. I miss you, she whispered. It can be different. I’ll change. You’ll change. We’ll make it work.

I’ll call you from California. When I get to San Francisco. I’ll call you then.

How long will that be?

A few days, he said.

There was no call.

He sat in his truck waiting for the sun to rise. The rest stop on 80 was quiet. Not many travelers at that time of the morning. Just a couple of cars with their windows up. Folks inside them sleeping for a couple of hours. Windows fogged up.

In the distance a crack of orange came in the Iowa sky. A little purple along with it. The old man sipped on his vending machine coffee and chewed on the lip of the paper cup. Along with seeing a peek at the sun, thunder was heard as well. Soon the colors in the sky will turn black, he thought. A storm’s coming.

Listening to the thunder, he thought of his wife back home. She’s awake by now, he whispered. Probably looking at the note I left behind, he continued watching as the sky turned a dark gray. What’d I even say? he laughed. Can’t remember what I said. Where am I? he got out a map.

She was pouring herself a cup of coffee when she saw the note on the kitchen table. Written on a yellow legal pad in pencil. There were a couple of eraser marks on the page. Smeared words that didn’t quite mean what he wanted to say. The wife of thirty years read the note silently. It said, Dear Helen, by now you can tell that I’m gone. I don’t know where I’m going, west I guess, and I’m not sure you even care. Maybe it’s a relief to you that I’ve left. I’m not going to file for divorce. You know about the insurance policy. You’re my emergency contact. You’ll be informed if something happens to me. Best of luck, Carl. She took another sip and placed the note in the bread box on the counter. Sat down. And said out loud, he’s lost his mind.

The old man lit a cigarette and rolled down his windows. More thunder. Lightening broke through clouds. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the Atlas. Wasn’t sure if he was in Iowa or Nebraska.Then he thought, I might be in Idaho. He knew he drove all night. But, he couldn’t remember when he left. He took a bottle of Wild Turkey out of his glove box and poured some into his chewed on cup. Then, little by little, drops fell on his windshield. He started to roll up his windows then decided to take in nature. The air was sweet. And the rain soothed him.

Helen sat there in disbelief. She never thought he’d do it; leave. The tall blonde lit a cigarette and poured another cup. She put Bailey’s in it, stirred, and licked the spoon. At first she was concerned. Then, she became angry. What have we become? she thought. Was he really that miserable? she asked herself. The two hadn’t talked for years other than saying hello and goodbye as they came and went.

He spent most of his time at work, or, at the bar watching Wheel Of Fortune. She stayed home and read romance novels, watching TV movies, eating dinner by herself. She used to keep a plate for him in the microwave. That was years ago. Now she just made enough for herself.

Damn him, she yelled. God damn him. She got up and walked down the hall to his closet. Took out his work pants, shirts, socks, every stitch he left behind and placed them in the fire pit out back. She’d wait till sundown to burn them. Kind of a ceremonial thing. Helen spent the whole day running through the house collecting all he had; high school diploma, bowling trophies, sweatshirts, coffee mug that said, Dad Of The Year, on it. Tossed everything except the life insurance policy. All of it was placed in the trashcan. She looked on the next morning as the garbage was taken away.

Carl flipped a coin. A quarter he found in the ashtray. Heads he’d go west. Tails, go east. He followed the rain clouds to the west. Windows down. Sucking in all that clean air. His arm was wet. Didn’t care. He liked the smell of rain.

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.