dmseay

Two flags wave in the wind down the street. The yellow one on the bottom has black lettering that says, Don’t Tread On Me. On top of that flys the red, white, and blue. Both gently sway.

The old man took a look outside. Sun was out, just past noon, boy still wasn’t home. He’d been out all night. This had become a common thing. Old man took out a cigarette and lit it with his Bic. He breathed in and coughed. He was always coughing. Took a swig of beer and looked up at an airplane flying over the trailer park. Making all that noise; all that constant noise. Day and night there was a racket in the skies. One day, he said. One day I’ll be done with this shit, he inhaled smoke again, coughed and sat down on the couch. He opened another beer. The phone rang.

After a constant disturbance, the old man got up to answer it. Boy was on the other end. Said he’d got taken in last night. Said he hit a man at Jack’s Place. Told the old man that the bartender was quick to call the cops. Calls from county jail were nothing new.

What’d ya want me to do about it? the old man asked. I ain’t gonna bail ya out this time. Call someone who cares. He hung the up the phone. Ain’t got any common sense, the dad said. Always something. Another beer was opened.

He sat there watching Andy Griffith. The episode where Opie gets a shiner when he sticks up for himself. The old man watched in disbelief. Why didn’t Opie knock some sense into that boy? he asked out loud. Why didn’t he let him have it? Opie’s a pussy, the old man swore. He represents the end of this country, the old man said. All a bunch of pussies from then on, took out his final beer. Drank it down quickly. Loosened his belt and fell asleep. Dreaming of Raquel Welch. The phone rang into the night.

He listened to rain hitting the roof. Two beers deep into a six-pack. Electricity had been cut off for hours. Time spent in the dark. Thunder was heard off in the distance. Strikes of lightening too. The old man opened another beer.

There was a song he hummed. Behind Closed Doors, by Charlie Rich. He even sang the words out loud. ‘Cause no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, he’d sing as car lights briefly flashed by into his trailer. He got up and watched a convoy of trucks from the electrical company pass down Highway 10. He saw their rotating orange lights glowing in the pitch black outside. ‘Cause when she let’s her hair hang down, the old man sang. And she makes me glad that I’m a man, he continued, standing there, swaying back and forth. Don’t mind if I do, he opened another Old Style.

Lightening flashed again. More trucks drove on 10. The old man could hear the water splash from the tires. He laid down on the couch. Remembered when he had a dog that kept him company. How he used to hide under the kitchen table every time a storm came. He’d just lay there and whine. The old man would give him comfort. Rub behind his ears. The old man laughed at the thought of this. Old Blue died a couple of years ago. Every time it stormed he thought about him. He was a good hunting dog too, the old man mumbled. He could track down pheasants like no one’s business.

The gun rack sat over in the corner. An open display of his two shotguns. The old man walked over to em. Opened the case door and reached inside for his gun. Held it up to his shoulder. It felt good. He hadn’t been hunting since the dog died. He opened it up. Thought he saw nothing in the barrel. Pointed it to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the walls ; soaked into the couch. It stopped raining. The moon glowed over his home.

Quiet. No movement. They stood still. Once you get to this point, no turning back. You can’t just say it was a mistake and let it go, turn around and walk out. You have to see it through. They’d come this far.

No sound. The two were surprised when the sirens were heard outside; coming closer. They looked at each other in the dark. Shined flashlights on one another. Nodded their heads. He knew where the safe was. This was an inside job. Kid had worked at the pawn shop for years. Even knew the combination. Boy was a trusted employee. He was like a son. Kid couldn’t think of that now. Just get the money and run, he thought. Take it, he continued silently. Old jew owes you. Kid walked to the back of the store. Stood in front of the safe. Started moving the dial. Flashlight in mouth. Sweat poured down his black face. A cop car came and went. Driving past the pawn shop. Kid’s partner sighed relief.

They’ll be here soon, he whispered. Partner nodded. Began stuffing bags with engagement rings, necklaces, bracelets. Anything he could get his hands on. He panicked and ran out the door. Leaving Kid behind. Whitey had booked on him. Whitey had always left him in the fix. The safe opened, but, nothing was inside. Clean as a whistle. The old jew took all of it that night. He sensed something wasn’t right. The old man knew he’d been lucky for too long. Three squad cars pulled up in front. There was no place to hide.

Two in the morning. Bars in town closing. Joe’s Tavern, The Pantry, Sully’s made their last calls. Drunks head home. Driving pickups and four- doors through town. Radios turned up. Loud music serenades young couples as they cruise down Main Street on out to the suburbs, trailer parks, apartments in the city. Cops watch for the smallest detail. Some mistake to pull them over. Speeding, driving to slow, busted tail light. Most get home OK. Most. There’s always one or two that get caught. Alcohol levels high. Mixture of booze and breath mints. Nothing hides it. Nothing.

Boy got home around three. Pulled through a Taco Bell for comfort. Let the grease run in his veins. Packets of hot sauce on the dashboard. His muffler shook on a pickup that had seen better days. He drove through town, paranoid. Radio turned low. Could barely make out the song. Paid close attention to the road. Looked for flashing lights. Parked his truck in front of her trailer. Looking for love.

She sat in the front room asleep. Remote dangled from her finger tips. Some nature show was on. Animals killing each other. Eating the flesh of their prey. Wild herds in Africa. Running. Chasing each other down. White men with cameras looking-on.

He slowly and cautiously took the channel changer from her hand. She mumbled. Something about going home. Wanting him to go home. Wanting Boy to leave. Drool fell from the corner of her mouth. She wrestled with a blanket.

The couch had folded clothes on it that he knocked over. He sat a soda on the coffee table. Placed the sack of tacos beside it. Girl woke up. Could make out his face glowing in the blue light. He said to her, want one. They’re hard shell. The kind you like. She shook her head. Can’t hear you, he said. She shook her head again and whispered no. He continued to feed himself. Slurped loudly on his Mountain Dew.

I want you to leave, she said. Boy just looked at the TV. Turned the sound down to nothing. Just a picture. An antelope being slaughtered. Go on now, she raised her voice. Get. He took another bite of taco. I gotta work tomorrow, she said. I don’t have time. And no. You can’t stay here. The young man took another drink. You’re gonna have to leave.

Where am I supposed to go? he asked. I’m not sleeping in that truck again tonight. Come on now. Have a heart, he said. If the shoe was on the other foot I’d let you stay.

Well it’s not. Boy finished off his food. Wiped his mouth with a brown napkin that had red sauce on it. Looked at her with a pleading face. I’m telling you to go, she got up and went to the closet. You smell like a six-pack, she said loudly, looking behind hanging clothes.

Now wait a minute, he told her. Just wait a minute. This is my house too, he said. Well, it was mine. Used to be ours. I didn’t ask for much. I just need some sleep, she continued looking past the dresses and the sweaters, the hanging blouses. Come on now. Don’t be like this, he moved in closer to her. Began to hold her. She backed away, feverishly looking in the dark. Feeling her way around.

Finally she found what she was looking for. A shot gun her daddy had given her. She grabbed it and pointed it at the boy. I said get. Not telling you again, she cocked it.

OK now. I’m leaving. And you won’t see me again if that’s the way you’re going to be.

That’s the way I’m gonna be.

Alrighty righty. I’ll be on my way. Just put the gun down.

Not till you walk out that door.

He stood for a second and then grabbed the end of the gun. It went off. She fell to the floor . Boy knocked the gun out of her hands. Threw himself down on her. Began kissing her wildly. She kissed him back. They both rolled over on the floor. The weapon laid there next to them.

Coffee was made in the morning. The sun came through the curtains. Boy laid on the floor. Arms outstretched. Legs crossed over. She sat at the table looking at him. Whispered, what am I gonna do with ya? What am I gonna do?

Dark. It was dark outside. Rain storms were supposed to come that afternoon. Boy sat on the front porch waiting for the downfall. He wanted all his sins washed away. Had felt bad about the night before. Guilty. Like he’d done something wrong. And, he just sat there waiting for his soul to be re-born; born again.

Old man looked at him from the trailer window. Saw him sitting out there with his hands stretched out to the sky. Rocking back and forth. Getting ready to take in the holy spirit. Dad laughed as he drank his coffee and kept peaking through the blinds. Looking at his son. They called him the village idiot.

Thunder was coming in from the north. There was no lightening just yet. A drop or two fell. Boy prayed for forgiveness of his sins; drinking, lying, cheating, living an irresponsible life. He wanted that water to come down on him hard. Drenched in the blood of the lamb. A real baptism. His eyes were shut tight.

The old man opened the door. Asked, what are you doing out here? You’re going to catch a cold and get us all sick. Boy kept his eyes shut and his hands lifted up to the sky. What’re you waiting on some kind of miracle? The boy began to speak in tongues as thunder and lightening clashed in the sky. Get inside boy, the father demanded. I said get inside. The rain began to fall. I ain’t telling you again, the old man put his arms around him and wrestled him to the ground. Boy kept on blabbering in some kind of incoherent speak. I said get inside, rain fell harder. Boy got bunched up in a fetal position. The two of them laid there in the dirt as the storm passed through. No more rain. His soul was clean. The old man held on to him like when he was a baby. The jibber-jab of tongues stopped.

Dad got up and left him there in the front yard. Neighbors looked out there windows. A dog barked. Salvation had come.

They built this house years ago. The job was done by the Amish. Has good bones. However, it’s off square. Angles are forced. Joints don’t exactly meet. Probably has a million nails in it. Painted blue. A tin roof sat on top. Used to keep a beat when it rained. Suburban couple dancing to falling water hitting the house. Made them laugh.

There were no leaks in the house. No cracks. Pretty solid. It was made to last years after they were gone. And the next couple was gone after them. The windows were tight. Had blinds on them. Everyday the couple would open them and let in the morning sun. They’d look outside at the other suburban homes. They all looked the same. And, the peole who lived in them all looked the same. White folks with children. They wore khakis and Polo shirts. Drove minivans and SUV’s. One couple bought a Subaru just to be different. They’d park it in the driveway to show everybody how hep they were. Save The Planet bumper stickers along with rainbows on the back window. People talked behind their backs.

The housing addition was called Lake Shores, but, there was no lake in it. Just a pond that separated the houses. Neighbors waving at each other from their patios. Drinking beers and wine spritzers. Dogs barked at night. Held to being in the yards by electric fences. They wanted to jump in the pond on hot summer days, but, the invisible deterrent would stop them in their tracks. A life time of never getting what you want.

And, this couple, like all the rest of them, thought they had it made. Good jobs, women raised the kids. PTA meetings. Family vacations to Florida. Lines of cars running north to south during spring break. Going to the holy land. Said hello to Mickey. Moms would get tans and dads would get drunk. Fishing on boats out in the Atalantic. Children building sand castles. They thought it would never end.

Maybe the American dream is still alive. Ignorance is bliss.

Boy opened the blinds and looked outside at the sun shining on the wet pavement of the trailer park. Winds had done some damage that night. Trash cans were knocked over. Dogs rummaged through the garbage. Empty cans of Wolf Brand Chilli and plastic grocery bags littered yards and streets. A few shingles were blown away. Tossed out on Highway 41. Trucks dodging boxes too. Road kill laid there. Some dead raccoon. Maybe it was a ground hog.

A bush was uprooted in the side yard. It had brown limbs from the winter. Spring had pulled it up. Boy went outside to look at the damage. Boy and the old man had planted that bush when momma died a few years back. Some of her ashes were laid at the roots. We come from the earth and we return to the earth, the old man said. Then he sprinkled her down into the ground. Boy kept a handful in a plastic baggy.

He tried to stand the bush up in the hole, but, the roots were broken. Split in two. He looked at it. Defeated. Boy took out his Zippo and lit a cigarette. He then lit the top of the bush and down at the bottom. The young man said a prayer to God on behalf of his mother and fanned the flames with an Indian blanket he had in his Dodge. People looked on from their trailers.

The old man came out and saw the burning bush. Asked him, what are you doing? Boy just looked at him. Then went on looking at the fire. The old man repeated himself, boy what are you doing?

She’s gone daddy.

Who is gone?

Momma.

She’s been gone. Been gone for awhile now. She ain’t returning. She’s up in heaven. Singing with the angels boy.

Now she is. She was right here. Keeping an eye on us. Growing a little bit each season. Resting in the winter. Awake in the spring. Devil came last night. Look around you. Those winds. That’s from the devil. He didn’t want her watching us no more. So, he blew her away. God scooped her up. Took her into his loving arms. She’s gone now daddy. She’s gone for good.

The flames on the bush began to burn out. Both men sat there watching. There was a silence between them. Ashes formed on the ground. Gray and blackened chunks of wood in a pile. The old man knew his days were coming to an end. Winds started blowing again.

He told him so. The old man said if you marry that girl you’ll regret it. Said, she’s not one of us. Told the boy that over and over again. But, he went off and did it. They took off to the court house and became husband and wife. Passed the blood test, got the marriage certificate, the whole bit. Even had a girl there to throw rice at em on the courthouse lawn as they came down the steps. Drove off in a ’67 Dodge Dart. Green colored. A four door. Bought it off some Catholic priest for $500. Took off for Chicago. More than a honeymoon, that’s where they decided to live. Moved to some part of town called Canaryville. Out by the truck stop and the stockyards. White trash neighborhood. He told him so.

Boy never listened to the old man. He’d laugh at him. The old man would sit there in his Lazy-Boy yelling about the Clintons. What a mess they made of this country. He hated the whole family. The mother, brother, Hillary, even their daughter. The dad said he could tell she was up to no good. Said we hadn’t had a good man in office since Nixon. Look what they did to him, the old man said. They crucified him. Burned him at the stake. Stripped him of his dignity, he said. You’d think they’d have a little respect, the dad said, then go on mumbling about something else on the news. Price of gas, food, beer. The old man commented on it all. Boy just sat there and laughed.

The old man told him not to marry her. Said, if your mom was alive. She’d have a heart attack. You’d be the cause of your own momma’s death. Not too sure that you weren’t, he said to him. All that screwing around you did in high school. And now you go off and marry some colored girl, dad said. And a baby on top of it, he shook his head.

Well, best of luck to you, father laughed. But, don’t come back here for nothing. Don’t come back here when those Polacks and Irish start making fun of you and your family. Don’t blame me. I told you so.

Heat kicked on in April. Another cold day. The walls inside the house were blank; no pictures. Just bare walls. Folding chairs were set up for imaginary friends to sit in. The old man spent days talking to himself. Talking about the weather, politics, things he’d seen on TV. He’d been that way for a long time. Ever since his wife died. Didn’t go out. Always inside that big house talking to himself. Talking to ghosts.

He took down all the pictures and paintings after she’d passed on. Said he never liked them anyway. Photos of when he was in the Navy. Wearing a uniform. Kissing her on the mouth. Holding her as if they were dancing. Pictures of dogs that had come and gone. An Irish Wolfe Hound named Norman. A German Shepard named Fritz. Colored photos of nieces and nephews playing on a swing set in someone’s backyard. He couldn’t remember. They were all put away in boxes. Piled up in the closet. The old man figured his time was coming up anyway. Thought he’d make it easy for whoever came in to cean up the place after he was gone.

There was one picture he kept in his top desk drawer. She was this blonde he’d met years ago in Virginia. Back when he was criss-crossing the country. Before he settled down. She rode horses and took photos of them for the local newspaper. If there was a riding event she’d be there with her camera. Shooting up film of horses jumping over things; horizantal poles, water holes, making a bee-line to the finish. She’d catch them winning by just a nose. They fell in love for six months. Ended in a terrible fight. She was very passionate. Passion would turn violent. He had to move on.

But, he kept that picture of her forever. Until he could no longer remember who she was. Now she was just some pretty blonde that he looked at once in awhile. It’s scary what we forget.

Heat kicked on in April. Another cold day.

Trains. Three in the morning and trains ran through town. Loud. Made that sound. A train whistle. A horn. It prevented him from sleeping. He never got used to it. Lived here all his life and never slept through the sound of trains coming through town.

He got out of bed. Stumbled to the kitchen. The refrigerator was nearly empty. Some old lettuce, salami, bologna, mustard, and a few beers. Quickly he opened cabinet doors looking for bread. A heel was found. A piece of old wheat bread. He made a sandwich, popped open a beer; Miller High Life. The champagne of beers. Another train was coming.

The TV was still on. No sound. Just pictures. Black and white. Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. The old man was snoring. Held onto the remote loosely. Foot rest was up on the Lazy-Boy. An invisible sign that said, Do Not Disturb, hung around his neck. Boy quietly ate his food. Kept looking over at the old man. Chewing.

Dad was talking in his sleep. About some woman named Charlene. He was telling her to be still. To be quiet. Said, they’ll hear us. Then he’d snore some more. Boy listened. He knew the old man had women on the side. That was years ago. Up until mom died. Then he stopped. Felt guilty. Felt ashamed.

Boy drank more of his beer and laughed at the old man. Looked around in the dark. Wood panel walls. A sliding window. A deluxe trailer. Double wide. Dated. Linoleum was coming up off the floors. Carpet was brown. Worn down. Hadn’t been vacuumed in months. Maybe a year. He finished his sandwich. Stretched his arms up to the ceiling. Put a blanket on the old man. And walked out the door.