dmseay

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.

Black rooftops taking in sunlight

Shadows of trees

Grass is high

Dandelions blown in the wind

Weeds stand tall.

A bird sings

Sounds of lawnmowers fade in and out.

Shredding dead leaves of winter.

Patio parties with gin cocktails

A lime in every glass

Talk of vacations

Weekend trips

Smells of charcoal and burnt marshmallows.

Band Aids on knees

Sunscreen faces

Bug spray lingers

Minds wonder

Who’s sleeping with who?

Ted and Alice stop by

Bringing wilted salad

Wearing Izod

White with stripes.

Pornography watched on phones by boys upstairs

The air conditioner runs

And war is just around the corner.

He’s hiding. Could be anywhere. Behind the couch? Maybe there in the closet. Could’ve gone outside. Dashed behind a tree. Perhaps in a cave. Might’ve driven off into the night. He was always threatening to do so. Always.

The old man poured himself another cup of coffee. There was no creamer in the house. Who forgot to replace the creamer? he asked himself out loud. He settled for it black. That’s the way his boy drank it. Dad hadn’t seen him in days. Weeks had gone by without any notice of him. Like a kid playing hide and go seek. He’s gone. The old man counted to a hundred and he took off. Leaving a job and unpaid bills behind. The Dodge was gone.

Maybe he hooked up with some woman, the old man thought. Could’ve. It’s possible. A train went by. Might’ve ditched the car and took off on a train like Dean Moriarty, he laughed. But, anyway he was hiding from the old man. This time for good.

It’d be a lie to say this wasn’t like him. This was just like him. He wanted out of that house so bad. He longed for freedom. The open road. Said he’d be happy with just a duffel bag and some clean underwear. Maybe some books. A watch his grandfather had given him. The boy didn’t need much.

Sun was coming up outside. The old man sat at the kitchen table with the radio on. Some talk station. Telling him the end of the world was coming. He hoped the boy was aware of this. You can only run so far from the hand of God. He’ll catch you.

Street lights went out as the birds began to sing. Start of a new day. Maybe this’ll be it, he thought. Never see him again. See him in the after life. The old man made sure of that when he was a kid; had him saved. No matter what he believes now his sins were washed away, he believed.

So, where was that boy? I’m going to count to a hundred and if you don’t appear I’m giving up on you, he yelled.

Nobody heard him. Nobody.

Standing in the rain looking in. The windows have flowered curtains drawn back making a perfect view. Bowls are passed. Meat is cut. Mom and dad sit at the ends of the table. Kids drinking milk; a boy and a girl. She has pony tails and he’s wearing a Speed Racer tee-shirt. Dad has loosened his tie from work. Mom has a smile on her face. Her cheeks are rose colored. Blonde hair in a bun. She eats delicately. They all eat delicately. Savoring each bite. And here I am standing in the rain. Watching. Looking at America. People unaware of just how close we are to catastrophe.

Pie is served. Coffee is poured. Kids have left the table. Mom and dad retire to the living room where a television is turned on; some singing competition featuring the best of today’s youth. Mom keeps smiling while dad falls asleep in his recliner. I wonder what he is dreaming about? Perhaps his secretary in the mini-skirt. Maybe he’s thinking of stock dividends. The market was up today. Just you wait.

Upstairs the kids play video games. The boy keeps looking at his phone. His sister seems set on destroying the world. Killing as many as possible on the screen. It is his turn. In one stroke he wipes out an entire colony. This is what dreams are made of. They high-five each other.

Mom has entered the room. She kisses the boy on the forehead and closes the shades. Then she hugs her daughter. Mom’s job is done for the day. She draws the curtains in her room and comes downstairs later in a thick white robe. She turns off lights in the living room. Dad remains asleep.

Goodnight America.

Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.

Looking. Watching.

Old men walk down Michigan Avenue and stare at their feet.

Nothing moves swiftly anymore.

Trains rattle above.

The sky is lit in reds and blues and yellows too. All this time, wondering when it’s going to fall.

Jewels behind bars.

Fake furs stashed away.

The bean watches us all. Reflecting what we are. Shining in the sun on a cold day with feet frozen. We long for spring.

April showers bring May flowers.

Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.

He’d lay there in bed with just the night light on. A blue glow coming from a wall. Falling asleep off and on while she laid next to him. She had plugs jammed in her ears. At times he would snore, talk loudly in his slumber. She tuned him out. No noise. Just dreams filled her head.

She always had dreams. Every night a movie rolled within. Pictures from the past. Men she’d been with; fallen in love with. There were a few. Boys from high school. First crush. Home coming dances. The night of her prom. One said he’d marry her. A smart kid who went off and joined the Marines. Wanted to see the world. She settled for this one next to her; a grocery manager. She knew he’d never leave. Always have a job. Not much, but, something.

And in some of those dreams she was driving away. Loading up the Dodge and taking off in the night. Leaving her husband to go on an adventure. Driving to Spokane, Albuquerque, Dallas, somewhere far, far, away. Starting all over. Then she’d wake up. Asked herself, Can you start all over at fifty-four? she laughed quietly. Turned over and looked at her choice for a husband. Rolled away from him as far as she could. And stared at the blue light.

Thirty years of marriage. Used to not be able to keep his hands off her. Now he just laid there like a used tire. No more tread; fat and flat.

And, she had lost her shape as well. Given up. Both had settled. There were bills to pay, routines to keep in order. He liked his eggs sunny side up. Coffee with cream. White toast. At night he’d have a beer and they’d watch TV ’till ten. Then go to bed where she’d dream. Just dream.

I watched her today on the swingset. A woman going high in the air. Sand underneath her. Blonde hair blown in the wind. She flew solo.

Looking at her, I wondered what her game was? Why was she by herself ? Did she have a man at home cutting grass or tinkering with a car ? Or, watching golf ? Was she trying to regain youth ?

Her feet dragged in the sand. She had landed. Sitting there twisting in a seat. Holding onto chains. Maybe she had been all her life. Grasping at something. She did not laugh. No smile.

Then she walked away. Perhaps back to an empty house. Maybe an apartment she once shared with a lover. I watched her walk away. I wonder if she took a shortcut home.

She was gone.

Barrels of Kentucky Fried Chicken were all over the trailer. Red and white containers lined up on the coffee table, the kitchen counters, and on the floor in the bedroom. Some filled with extra crispy and others original recipe. Some just had a mix of both.

The old man sat on the couch eating a drumstick and watching TV. It was the local news reporting that a seventy-two year old man had just won the lottery. The old man took a swig of beer and cursed the television set. They call that news, he said. Who cares? Most of it’s gonna be taken away in taxes anyway, he scoffed.

In all there were ten buckets of chicken around the house. The old man got his social security check that day and wanted enough chicken to last him throughout the month. All he did was watch television, drink beer, and eat Kentucky Fried. He didn’t get mac and cheese or mashed potatoes, just chicken. A commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken came on while he was watching the news. He sang along. Get a bucket of chicken…finger lickin’ good…have a barrel of fun…goodbye ho hum…get a bucket of chicken come on everyone…get Kentucky Fried Chicken…have a barrel of fun, he conducted the music with his drumstick. Boy came in and grabbed a thigh.

Where’s momma? the boy asked. The old man kept eating his grub. I said, where’s momma? The old man looked up at him. Do you know where momma is? Dad took a slurp of Old Style.

It’s not my day to watch her, the old man said. She could be anywhere. Could be across town. Could have left the country. She might be on Mars, he grinned. Boy took another piece of chicken. The old man shook his head. We gotta preserve some of this. We have to hold onto it. Can’t be eatin’ all the food the first night. We gotta save some for the end of the world. The four horsemen will be here and the devil will be let loose and I’m not gonna starve.

Every month on the first you say the same thing dad, the boy said. You make a case for the end of times. What’re you going to offer Jesus a breast when he comes back? You got some crazy ideas old man.

Another news story came on about a hold-up at the liquor store out on Highway 41. They’re always robbin’ somebody ain’t they? People are poor. We’ve become another Mexico. I don’t know why they bother to come over here. America’s gettin’ as bad as their country. Whites are no longer in charge. That’s the problem. Blacks got a hold of everything. Used to get my chicken from a smilin’ white girl. Now it’s some nigger with his hat cocked to the side. Can’t understand a word he’s sayin’ through the speaker. Just a bunch of mumbo jumbo, the old man opened another can of beer.

Outside the sky grew dark. Clouds had become black. The old man felt the wind shake his trailer. This is it, he said. This is it.

Momma told him she was proud. Said she didn’t care if he dug ditches. Said he’d be the best at it. Told him not to listen to people. Folks get jealous. Real angry when they think you got it better than them. That’s what she said.

Some would call us white trash, she lit a cigarette. Trailer park trash. Same thing, she took a swig of beer. You close your ears to em. They don’t know any better, momma said. Soon you’ll be out there on your own. Away from all this, she pointed at the other trailers. Join the Army. Go see the world. You come back, we’ll still be here. Or, get a job with the State. Filling potholes. Good pay. And insurance, she knew he’d have to make a living with his hands. Just don’t let me down, she said. I put too much into you to do that, she opened another beer.

Daddy was gone again. Went on one of his trips he said. Told momma he’d be back in a week or two. Took off to another state. Some place in Iowa. He used to get letters from Davenport all the time. Laced with perfume. She’d smell em before she hid them in a drawer. He’d find them. She didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. It was a given that the old man had two separate lives. One with the boy and momma. And, another one with her. Kind of like having a split personality. Daddy kept a lot to himself.

When he was home the two didn’t talk. Father and son had no communication. He didn’t talk to momma either. It was always just quiet. Even the TV was silent. Dad would stay up all night watching a colored screen. Drinking Old Style. Smoking Marlboros. He’d work a job for a month then take off for weeks. Left in the middle of the night. Like some kind of ghost.

Mom brought home the bacon. Worked at the motel as a cleaning lady. She’d bring home small soaps and tiny bottles of shampoo. Brought home towels too. You could say she had a wandering hand. Always looking for a bargain. If it was free, she’d take it. She figured she was owed those items. Benefits, she called em.

Momma told the boy she was proud on his graduation day. Told him he could do it all. He nodded his head. Didn’t ask where daddy was. Went down to the recruiter the next day. He was going to see the world.

He watched the trees shake from inside his trailer. Green leaves tossed to the ground. Limbs breaking. Little kids running home under dark clouds. The promise of a storm.

Out on the highway trucks came and went. Running their course. North and south with their hauls shaking and bright lights on. The old man could hear the air brakes being applied. Heard the engines run high at the stop light. Soon the windshield wipers would be slapping a song. Back and forth across the glass. Rubber squeaking. He wondered where his boy was? Thought about him as the skies grew darker and darker. Hail stones began being tossed from the clouds.

Boy took off some time ago. Said he wasn’t returning. Said he was gone for good. Took a six pack from the refrigerator and took off into the night. It was storming on the night he left. Seems like storms are awfully common in the month of May. Spring time comes and tornados start to pop up in the Midwest. Lots of days of rain. Some folks can’t handle it. Or, they use it as an excuse to move on to another location. Somewhere out West. Boy had a dream of heading off to Alaska. Said he could handle the cold. Looked forward to the midnight sun.

His father let him go. Told him he had dreams when he was young. Wanted to work on a fishing boat. Pull in tuna all day. Wheel them in with those large nets. But, he never left Indiana. Seemed like there was a net here he was caught in; a wife and a kid. Made the mistake after high school of sticking around for a summer. Got a girl pregnant and then that was that. All those dreams came to an end.

The wind blew harder outside. Semi jack-knifed out on 10. Crash was loud. Scared the dogs penned up down the road. You could hear them yelping and barking from a mile away. The old man hoped his boy had made it out to Alaska. Hoped he made it out to God’s country. He wanted the best for the boy. Always did. All though he never showed it. Neglected him on purpose. Wanted him to be tough and hard as a rock. Thought paying him attention would make him soft. Steered the boy away from his mother as well. Wanted him to be independent. Do things on his own. Another fire truck came to the scene.

Rains began to hit the asphalt. Puddles formed. The river was rising. A flood would soon take over the trailer park. Benches and folding chairs floated away. The old man looked on as a child’s tricycle sunk. Dirty murky water creeped up on the trailers. Memories would soon be gone.

But, the old man sat there looking at the walls  in the dark. Lit a candle. Made shadows with his fingers. Thought to himself that maybe it was time to go out West. Look for the boy. See if his dreams came true. Then he thought, maybe the boy doesn’t want me to find him. Water seeped into the trailer. It was time, he thought. Maybe it was time.