dmseay

Cars, trucks, semis, motorcycles run up and down 41. Some go fast. Faster than 65. Others stay in the right lane the whole trip. Never passing. Never taking a chance. They’re happy with where they are in life. Or, too nervous to make a change.

I can see the beasts out on the highway from my house. Diesels running fast. Never slowing down. Running through red lights at 41 and 10. Some slow down to fuel up at the truck stop right there. They stop and take a nap out back. Engines running. They keep warm.

They’re all going somewhere. Maybe down to Terre Haute. Others heading north to Chicago. I wish I was heading somewhere. Another city to try out. Maybe take 80 all the way out to San Francisco. Could go on old 66 down to St. Louis. Or, out to California. Traveling at night in California. Going through towns like Indio; the farming communities. Smells of citrus and alfalfa under a purple sky. I could go on 95 again. Make a run on the East coast. Stop in Philadelphia. Go on north to Portland, Maine. Knew a girl once who lived in Lancaster. That’s a bit off the path. She was a bit off the path.

She was a waitress at at bar. Used to run with bikers. Said she was a nice Jewish girl. Don’t let her fool ya. Could only make love to the music of Dr. John, or, Barry White. I prefer Coltrane myself. Yes, I prefer Coltrane.

I see the traffic on 41. Everyone going somewhere. Those days are over. They have been for awhile. Now I eat pizza from Sumava. No more New York slices. No more road trips. Fishing on the Kankakee. The river’s always rising.

There is too much time. Days and nights grow longer. Sleep is short. A train rolls by under the black ink sky. And, he sits there in a wooden chair waiting for time to go by.

In the end there is nothing. We take no possessions with us. Bodies burned to ash. He is alone. Thinking of the past. A lifetime thinking of the past. What has he attained over the years? Some books, coffee pot, twin bed, a pillow to rest his head. These are the items he has. This is what he owns. Who will he bequeath them to? No one. All will be tossed in a back alley dumpster. He knows this. He knows.

The sun is a warning. Another day has begun. The orange star’s light breaks through the window. No shades. Just a closed window. It’s always been shut. Keeping out fresh air. Smells from the outdoors. A child’s voice is muffled. He waits. Drinking coffee. Old cold coffee made days ago. There is no cream. No milk. Just a black substance. The sun warms the room. But, he does not smile. Nor does he cry. His memory is like a movie. Just rolling pictures of places he’s lived. Towns he has traveled through. And, in each town the man was always followed by the sun and moon. What is he waiting on? The sun to burn out? The moon to no longer shine? Just dark. Maybe he’d prefer it to be dark.

Seated in his chair. His feet firmly on the floor. Back straight up against the wooden rods. His head falls forward. Body bounces on the tiles. He’s waited long enough. Day has turned to night.

On Highway 6 heading west. Snow covered corn fields. Rows that summer made now white. Green stalks turned brown. Cut down short. A red barn stands alone.

Sign says 2 for $6 Fish. Soon it will be Lent. March will take us to April. Easter. The death and the resurrection. Just like the seasons; death and rebirth.

Standing on the side of the road. Waiting for the winds to stop blowing. A semi slows down .Offers the old man a lift into Chicago. They talk of Genesis. Conversation of Eve. Beware of Eve, the trucker said. She’ll get you every time.

He remembers old lovers. His head against the window. Looking at snow on 6.

He used to watch The Price Is Right everyday. Said he liked the girls. Liked to watch them fondle the prizes; watches, knives, roller skates. Liked Drew Carey. Bigger fan of Bob Barker. Said he was old school like him.

The old man had big dreams of spinning the wheel, winning a car, or, some trip to Jamaica. Said he liked the warm weather, sand. Having a cold one on the beach.

So he sat there Monday through Friday and dreamed. Dreams of being married to one of the showcase models. Dreams of taking her away in the new car he just won. Playing golf with Bob Barker. Said that would do him just fine.

He used to talk alot. Big plans. Telling tales about leaving town. Going places like New York, San Francisco, Chicago. Said he had a woman in each of those towns. Real women, he said. Not like ’round here, he’d take another shot. Pool balls ran all over green velvet. Chalk flew.

Supported himself in all kinds of ways. He said he played billiards with the best of them. His specialty was eight ball. The tall lanky young man was always the last to knock the magic black ball in. Said he spent his money as fast as he made it. Spent it on booze and women. Had nothing to show for it but marks on his neck.

The kid wore a cowboy hat. Nice one. Brown. Had a leather band going ’round it. Said he won it from a guy in Dallas. Couldn’t pay up. So he took his hat. Looked like a movie star. He did take pride in the way he looked. Straight legged jeans and fancy western shirts. Chicks dug him. Least he said so.

Called himself Dean. Didn’t catch the last name. I kept thinking of Dean Moriarty. Crazy roustabout. Said he was heading out to Denver. Just like Dean Moriarty in the book. Was gonna get his kicks out there for awhile. Said there was a doll waiting for him. Cute little blonde girl. One of many I suppose.

You never know with guys like this. What’s true and what’s a lie. I gotta feeling it was all lies. He talked too much.

The body sat there. Stretched out in a wooden chair. Arms dangling. All the windows were open. A warm breeze blew through the house. The coffee pot was still on. There was bread in the toaster. A stick of butter softened.

No one else was in the house. It was just him, an eighty year old male with no signs of foul play. It was amazing that the body never fell to the floor. His gray head tilted. Shoulders over the back of the wooden chair. It was as if God placed him there.

No pictures hung on the walls. Under his glass coffee table laid a stack of Playboys. Back when the women were naked. The detective scanned through one. It was Dorothy Stratten. Naked. The blonde that screwed that Jewish director. Was killed by a jealous boyfriend. People have hard lives.

Looked like a heart attack.They placed the long body in a bag. Zipped it and sent it off to the morgue. No family, lawyers, or friends to get a hold of. Just him. And a stack of Playboys.

He heard the train coming through town. Real fast at first then slowing down as the brakes squealed. The sun was out reflecting on the snow. He shoveled bit by bit to the rhythm of the train. And when it stopped, so did he.

Taking a brake, the old man took out a flask of whiskey from his coat pocket. Sweat rolled down his weathered face. Old and lined, seasoned, with a nose that was swollen and ruddy. He took his drink then could hear the train starting up again. The short, squat, man got back in the groove; placing the snow off to the side. He was becoming short of breath, but, kept going. As if he were on a mission.

And, he was on a mission. He wanted to die. Leave this world behind. It was suicide by shoveling.

Faster and faster he went. Keeping up with the music of the train. Breathing heavily. He figured he was worth more dead than alive. His wife watched from the front living room window.

They had talked about it. The married couple of forty-two years decided this was best. No longer able to make house payments, or, keep up with bills, the insurance policy was taken out; a hundred grand in his name. They figured she could live on that.

Soon, the old man was bent over in the driveway. He tried to shovel one more pile, but couldn’t. He fell over in the snow. Held onto his heart. And yelled out, so long Marie.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and waited. Waited for the right time to dial 911. She looked through old pictures of when they were young. When he had hair. And, she had all her teeth. Trips across America with the kids. The kids that barely talked to them anymore. She smiled. It was a good day to die.

These days. Remembering you. What was that coat you wore in winter? Your eyes were blue.

Walking along a path. Reminded of our walks, our talks, a dog led the way. Picking up sticks amongst the brown pine needles. Smelling their scent. Peeling back the bark. Shaved with a knife. Whittled down to nothing. What were we looking for?

Never ending always ends. Till death do us part are only words. We say them in vain. Our lives lived together coming to a halt.

Where are you? With another? The purple sky tells a story. It is a love story. Of how we make promises. If only those promises were kept.

She used to walk up and down North Avenue every night. Like it was her calling. Black chick with a blonde wig. She stood out from the rest of them. And tall, she could’ve played forward for the Bulls. Red lipstick.

I watched her from Friar’s Grill on Milwaukee. It’d be around two, just after a night of drinking. Everything looked good. Or, it was all so ugly, I found a beauty in it.

Surrounded by the night’s finest. TV whores, pushers, twinks, junkies, BMW’s cruising down North. Looking for a taste of the night. Some country song playing as I ate my liver and onions. A buck left in my pocket.

Heard she had her regulars. She didn’t just do it with anybody. The most expensive girl in Wicker Park. Men would drive by in junkers, beaters, she shook her head to all of them. Watching behind glass, I could see her saying no. She still maintained the same pace as the cars. Slowly moving. But, she looked straight forward. Never at them. She was a heart breaker.

One night she wasn’t there. Then one night turned into a month, then a year, then forever. Word was she cleaned up her act. Quit hooking it. Got rid of the wig and the platforms. They said you wouldn’t recognize him anymore. Said he was still in the neighborhood. Just no longer wore a dress.

Winter light. Sun covered by clouds. Only ice sheets of streets shine. They glimmer in frozen rain. It is dark.

These weeks of darkness. Make us hollow inside. Trying to fill the void, we sleep like bears in the forest. Under blankets. A pillow softens our dreams. Dreams fueled by wine and cough suppressant. Snoring away the days.

Next month is March. The sun will flirt with us. Dancing in the sky. Moving east to west. It’s all an illusion. Earth does not stand still. And, the winter light does not last but for a season.

I’m ready for a Guinness.