dmseay

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.

Bones begin to hurt. Walking used to be easy. Moved with a purpose. Now it’s a struggle to get across the street. Feet ache. Joints sore. A limp occurs. Dragging one foot. New shoes are no longer cool. I long for old sole friends.

Use it or lose it. That’s what they say. I think I lost it there on Van Buren. No longer able to keep pace. People move ahead of me. Fly by me. Go around. They glide against red lights that say don’t walk. I used to do that. Now I’m confined to the curb until a green says go. The legs tremble.

Chicago is a walking city. So is New York. Towns of my youth. I hiked all over them. Now I yell out, a cab, a cab. My country for a cab. And, there are none to be found. Yellow taxis once filled streets. Now you call and wait. An hour of waiting. Might as well have another drink. And wait. Life has become waiting.

Today I retired my walking shoes. Ripped soles. Holes in mesh. The cushion is no longer thick and comfortable. I’m no longer thick and comfortable. I’m growing thin. Maybe it’s time to sit for a while. And wait. Let the others go ahead. The pretty ones. Handsome boys. Let them get it out of their systems. I’ll sit and watch. Waiting. As people pass by.

Park benches make good friends. Stone or wood. They both feel good on old bones. I watch now. No longer in the game. It is easy. Just sit back and view. Life’s a movie. It goes from point A to point B. Look at it. The end always changes. Some are not as fortunate. They will not wait. Youth will have killed them. They will not grow old. Their bones will not hurt. They’ve left us. And here I sit. No plots have I made. It is simple. Just wait.

He was onto him. Knew the steps he was taking. Leading to no good. Had been all his life. The old man always knew he was trouble. Even back when he was a kid in school. Stealing bubble gum money. Being a bully. Boy would fight just for the sake of fighting. Maybe he liked getting punched. Maybe?

This time, the boy stayed away for awhile. Took off after an argument with the old man. Something about remembering their old dog’s name. The one that died when he was a kid. Boy said his name was Pete. The old man said it was Floyd. Then that conversation lead to another argument about what mom’s favorite dinner was. Boy said chicken fried steak while the old man stated that it was spaghetti with Ragu sauce from a jar. The kind with the chunky vegetables in it.

You don’t remember anything do ya? boy said. Certainly don’t remember anything about your family. You’ve always just thought about yourself, boy took another drink of Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. I remember things about you, he said. How you’d leave at night time and not come back for days. Sometimes weeks. Leaving me and mom here to fend for ourselves. She raised me. You didn’t.

I’ve always kept this family afloat, the old man said. Contributed every dime I made. Gave it all away to you and mom. Where was mine? So, I took off sometimes. Can you blame me? But, I always knew you were going to be a problem.

How so?

Well…

I said, how so?

You’ve just always been a fighting kind. Maybe you got that from me. I was always getting in fights when I was younger too. Then I married your mom. That straightened me out.

Did huh? You’d like to think it did, boy took another drink. Said, I’m leaving for good this time. I’m not coming back.

You’ll be back. You weren’t made to last too long on your own. Always coming back here. I don’t know why you leave at all.

Boy walked out the door and started down the highway in his Maverick. He was listening to some song by Steve Earle.

Do we go to heaven when we die? Get to see our loved ones again? Pet dogs from the past. The hand of Jesus touches us all. Pearly gates and St. Peter and Paul. Waiting for us. Is that what happens?

Boy had come home late again. The old man was watching a movie with Gregory Peck in it. Black and white pictures on the screen. The sound was down low. Robert Mitchum was talking. His lips moved,but, the old man couldn’t hear what he was saying. Just the two men arguing about something. It was obvious this was about good and evil.

The old man heard the boy cursing outside. Fumbling with his keys. Trying to get the one in the hole. The old man laughed quietly. Same thing every night. Boy trying to open the door. He started knocking. The old man took his time to walk over to the entrance. Who’s there? he asked. The boy was in no mood to play around.

You know damn well who it is, boy said. Now open this God damned door.

Are you gonna huff and puff and blow the door down? the old man asked.

Dad. Open the door, the boy demanded. He opened it. And standing there was boy with a bottle of Miller High Life in his hand. A forty ounce. Boy unscrewed the top as he walked through to the other side. Had a seat on the couch. You think you’re real funny, he said. Don’t ya? The old man chuckled.

I wanna thank you for keeping me amused, the old man said. Since your momma died there ain’t much to laugh about. But, I can always laugh at you.

You can huh? The old man nodded in the dark. You think I’m funny? boy asked. Think I’m some kinda fool? the old man just sat there watching Peck and Mitchum fight. You never took me serious, boy said. You never did.

That’s ’cause you never took yourself seriously. I raised a fool. I tried, but. It was no use. You’re just an unfortunate. Haven’t got any sense, dad said. Boy took another drink. You gonna share that? Boy looked at him and laughed. That’s not very Christian of you now is it? Give me a sip, he said.

Boy handed him the bottle. The old man held it against his forehead and then drank from it. He handed it back. You’ll go to heaven when you die son, the father said. God takes pity on fools. Goodnight. The old man lumbered down the hallway of the trailer. Looked at pictures of his wife and dogs. A photo of his son. Shook his head. Heaven will take us all in.

A candle burned in the living room. Casted shadows on the cream colored walls. The flame danced just a bit. Wax dripped down the sides making a pool of orange on the plate below.

Outside utility crews worked into the night up and down Highway 10. Electricity had been out for hours. People called and cursed the company. Air conditioners running high was the cause they said. Summer’s heat had come.

The trailer park was pitch black. Sun didn’t come up for hours. Just voices of people outside waiting. Waiting for the miracle of light. They spoke loudly about a number of things; the weather, sports, news from this past year at the high school, Bobby and Cindy’s daughter got pregnant.

Old man peeked through the blinds and lit a cigarette. Went and grabbed an Old Style from the cold black hole. Ice was beginning to melt in the freezer. Water dripped on the linoleum floor. He grabbed towels and placed them in front of the refrigerator. Soon they’d be soppin’ wet.

Outside a loud boom went off. Kids had grabbed some fireworks parents bought for the 4th of July. Bright colors lit up the sky. Red, blue, yellow, green, all were mesmerizing the trailer park crowd. The old man sat on his front stoop and looked on.

Everybody was getting along. A party had started. Some kid from down the street brought his boom box and played heavy metal songs on it. Guys in sleeveless tee-shirts brought out cases of cold beer in coolers. Girls in tight shorts danced and carried-on. Some moms in robes joined the festivities. Smoking cigarettes and cursing Com Ed. But, in all truth, they were glad the lights were out. More fireworks went off. More beer was drunk.

And then, like magic as the sun came up, lights began to come on throughout the park. Street lights glowed, tin trailers shined. The old man yawned. Another day had begun.

They waited on a subway train. Down below the earth. Graffiti marked walls. Rats ran through tunnels. A scratchy voice rang out which train was approaching. Red line goes north, blue line to O’Hare, purple line to Evanston. Maps on the walls were color coded. Telling tourists where to go.

The two talked of old times. Long ago, years when they used to get off at Clark and Belmont and walk around the neighborhood at midnight. Gaslight, Duke of Perth, L&L Tavern, Sheffield’s, a three in the morning burrito at the Mexican joint under the El. The man and woman remembered the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot being filled with post punk rockers wearing leather and safety pin earrings, Doc Martin’s. Mohawks and green hair with tattoos on their arms. Dog collar necklaces.

It’d been thirty years since they’d seen each other. His hair was thin. She had gained weight. An awkward hug as the train came to them. She would go out to the suburbs. He would travel to Jefferson Park. They thought of each other on their journeys home. They swore they’d never grow up. Never have kids. Always go out on Thursday nights and go to work hungover.

Her train went north. Past Wrigley Field, billboards advertising candidates for office, up to Argyle where streets were filled with Asian joints, past Howard where they used to get Jamaican meat pies.

His train traveled west. Under ground then rising at Milwaukee and Damen. The heart of Wicker Park. The neighborhood Nelson Algren wrote about long ago. Once filled with Polish diners and bars, delis and shops. Now a gentrified nightmare. The hep celebrating a diversity that’s not diverse at all.

And they said they’d always be in love. Things change.

He’d lay in bed listening to her sleep. Breathing in and pushing out. Soft pops from her wet mouth. Blonde hair tossing on a cotton pillow. Covers on her side. Various words or sounds being made. She was in a dreamlike state. Unaware that she had won.

And he sat up on the edge of the bed. It sank a little on his side. Looking into the dark. Unable to see. Only the outlines of objects; a dresser, nightstand, make-up table, a basket with items, keepsakes, he’d kept in it. He fumbled around and found a tee- shirt hanging on the doorknob. Put the shirt on backwards. He felt a tightness around his neck. A cat spoke.

Opening the door, he could see a little light coming from the kitchen. It came from over the stove and led him down the hallway past the second bedroom, past the bathroom, pictures on the walls of her mother and father, a son. The cat spoke louder. Brushed up against his feet as he stood in there trying to decide if he was awake or not. A blood stain seeped through the front of his underwear. It was getting worse.

There was no worry or wondering what was going on inside him. He knew. No doctor told him. The man had not been diagnosed. He kept it to himself. Refusing to let her do laundry. Saying it was high time he did his own. And he would cough blood every once in awhile into white handkerchiefs that he would throw away. He left no evidence.

She still slept throughout the nights. Knowing. You cannot hide from a lover. They know you inside and out. But, she did not question him. Or, beg him to get medical attention. They just spent their days together as much as they could. Holding hands and drinking wine.

Coffee was made and he sat down with a cup at the kitchen table. The smell filled the house. Enough to wake her. She joined him. It was still dark outside. They listened to birds singing.

Inside the pickup it was silent. The two men did not say a word as they drove through Cape Girardeau on 55. They were heading south, back to Memphis. It’d been a long twenty-four hours.

It was two in the morning when he called the police station. He hadn’t heard from the old man all day. Figured he was home, drinking beer, watching television, yelling about things. The bar was closing. Boy took his last shot with a chaser. Tried to call the old man. All day long and into the night he tried. No answer. One of two things had happened the boy thought. Either he’s dead, or, he took off again. Boy wished he was dead.

He sat in the booth at the truck stop, watching big rigs come and go. Drank his coffee and ate cherry pie. Told the waitress he’d have a refill. His bag laid beside him, filled with underwear and socks. He always said you could never have enough underwear and socks. Some of them matched. A few had holes in the toes and heels. It’d been awhile since he bought any. The old man had a way of keeping things.

I’ve checked everywhere, the boy told the dispatcher. Truth was, he didn’t look to hard. He’s about five-ten. Weighs about a buck fifty. Skinny man with gray hair and glasses, he said. Could you just drive over to the trailer and knock on the door? I’ll meet you over there, he told the police. I’ll get over there as fast as I can, boy said. Just give me a few.

Where you heading? the trucker asked the old man. He told the trucker St. Louis. Said he had to meet a woman up there. Old man said it was his high school sweetheart. Asked the driver if he was heading that way. Yeah, I’m going up to Chicago. I could drop you off. Be good to have someone to talk to, he said.

The squad cars lights were swirling red and blue. Boy didn’t know why they sent two of them. The son pulled up next to the trailer. Stumbled out of the car. We’ve been knocking, the officer said. No answer. You got a key? Boy flashed his chain. Excuse me, but, have you been drinking tonight? the cop asked. Boy shook his head no. You kind of smell like you have, he said. Boy just focused on opening the door.

You ever been out on the road in a semi? the trucker asked. Old man said no. Told the driver how excited he was. Driving at night. Straight up north. The old man hadn’t been to St. Louis since his school days. Drove up there in his daddy’s Ford. Then drove right back to Memphis. He was proud of that accomplishment. The radio was turned to a country station. Merle Haggard was singing about heart ache. Both men agreed, they’d seen their share.

Boy looked all over the trailer. Took a gander at the bedrooms and the bathroom. There was no sign of him. Then one of the policemen found a note on the floor. It said, gone to St. Louis to meet my new bride. A silver alert was put out. Boy slept for a couple of hours. Laughing to himself. Dreams about the old man. What a pain in the ass he was. He’d had enough. Boy thought about letting him go. Just let him die out there, he said. He knew he couldn’t do that.

The sun was coming up as the trucker continued his trip. Old man never asked what he was hauling. Could’ve been a truck load of Mexicans making their way north as well. Going to the promised land to seek out jobs in restaurants and lawn services. The old man had an active imagination. The trucker pulled into another truck stop in Cape Girardeau. Told the old man he ran a tight schedule. Said to meet him back at the truck in twenty minutes. He had business to attend to of the physical kind.

Boy made his way to 55. Drove through Arkansas and on into Missouri. Listening to talk radio. More call-ins about the president and socialism. How the buck doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. He wished he could add his two cents to the conversation. He drove all night and pulled into the truck stop at Cape Girardeau.

It had been thirty minutes. The old man lost track of time. He tried to find the truck, but, they all looked the same to him. Just big pieces of steel and metal on tires. Decided to go back inside, cursing the day he was born. Saying out loud how unfair life was. Expressing his anger in God for ruining his life. He ordered another coffee and more pie.

He saw him in the window. There was his old man talking to himself. Boy went inside. Walked up to his table and sat across from him. The two men looked at each other. The old man knew he was in trouble. Come on dad, the boy said. Let’s go home. The old man paid his bill and left a quarter tip.

Inside the pickup it was silent. The two men did not say a word as they drove through Cape Girardeau on 55.

His stomach growled. The old man hadn’t eaten for days. Cupboards were bare. Couple of beers left in the refrigerator. Some out of date orange juice. An empty bottle of vodka. No one came to check on him. There were no phone calls. His boy did not come home. Had been gone for days. Some kind of drinking binge. The old man couldn’t remember the last time he saw him.

He sat in the dark. Tried to sleep, but, his stomach churned loudly. Started thinking of when she was alive. Used to fix him chicken livers fried in Crisco. Mashed potatoes with home made gravy. Biscuits from a tube; she’d ask him to pop it open. The old man was hungry for old times.

There were no lights on 10. The highway was bare at that time of night. Just a few truckers trying to make it home. The old man decided he would try to walk it. Go down 10 to the all night grocery store the next town over. He carried a flashlight. He had not been out of his trailer for months. Boy always ran to the store for him. Picked up essentials; beer, pop tarts, TV dinners, things you could microwave. He wanted chicken livers. The way she used to make them. The old man would not settle for less.

Bars closed at two. Last call had been made. Boy got in a shot and an Old Style. Halfway flirted with the woman seated next to him. She showed little interest. He was trying to decide whether to drive or not. It was a long trip by foot from downtown. Too lazy and too late; he started his Maverick up. Pulled out of the parking lot slowly. Was careful of every move he made. A cop car passed him. Boy was beginning to sweat. Turned on the radio. Some Johnny Cougar song was on. He sang along.

The shoulder of Highway 10 was soft. The old man kept stumbling on the loose asphalt and sand. His legs were trembling. Hands shaking. He came to the bridge that ran over the river. The water made noises. It talked to him as he rested. Told him, this is it old man. You’re not going to make it. He gulped for air. A rain drop fell. Then another. He soon sat there in the pouring rain. Opened his thin lips and let the water fall into his soul. Trucks drove by. Splashed water up on him. He could feel his pants touching his wet skin. He called out, whew. Come on now. Don’t stop, he begged the rain. It cleansed him. Made him feel alive again. And then it stopped. The old man sat there on the concrete. Soaked. He no longer felt victorious. Sadness had come over him. Shame. Here he was. An old man walking a road at three in the morning. You should no better, he said. You should no better. Defeated, he decided to walk back home. He cried out, fuck it.

Boy pulled up in front of the trailer. Lit a cigarette and walked up to the door. It was locked. He knocked. Dad, he said. Open the door. It’s me, took another drag from his smoke. Come on now. Open this door, he banged a little louder. Lights came on next door. He went back to the car and pulled out a Mexican blanket from the back seat. It had colors of red and aqua. Blue and bright yellow. Had tassels the bottom. He wrapped himself up in it and reclined back in the driver’s seat. He mumbled as he fell asleep. Never can count on anything, he said. Never.

The sun came up a few hours later. It woke the boy up. Checked his watch. It was 5:40. Turned up the radio. News came about an old man being killed in the early morning hours on Highway 10. Ran over by a semi. His name was not released.