Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead (3 page)

Between the bars on Main Street, that opened at 8:00 A.M., was the bank. A gray concrete building with massive columns, thick wooden doors, marble counters, and barred windows. It became a youth center for kids to hang out. It was run by a savvy old-timer who drank whisky and smoked cigars. He talked their language, enjoyed life, and let a local artist paint Easy Rider murals on the interior walls. After a few years he sold the place, and now it’s a chiropractor’s office.

Anchored on the East end of town, the movie theater with a tall obtuse vertical triangular sign framed with flickering bright lights above the box-office. A line of people below always waited to buy tickets for the show. And on sale inside the theater behind a glass display, candy, popcorn, and drinks. On either side of the concession counter were doors with porthole windows. Anyone tall enough could peek through, and get a glimpse of the film playing. Once a year a parade would begin at this spot. It has become a real-estate office.

People walked the sidewalks at night on air, liberated and carefree, posing in store windows, watching their dancing reflections play out a drama for the eye. At night the blanch streets had little traffic, then the roar of an engine and screech of tires would break the midnight air. A growing aroma rose into a haze carried away on the breeze. It floated up and melted into the midnight sky under an evening rainbow created by neon lights that hung on top of the city. All around a symphony played a piece of music conducted and composed by an unknown being. Written just for this city, played again and again. A re-enactment done over and over like a theater production, a natural performance in the invisible world of shadows. During this curious time all people read and heard the same information, thought the same thoughts, and saw the same parts of the puzzle. Some were caught in a web, trapped with no escape. Running, barely staying ahead of an unrelenting pursuer, knowing if they’re caught—it would be the end.

Above, stars flickered and hypnotized people into thinking that if a wish was made when one fell in the sky, their dreams would come true. They hum a familiar melody, but can’t think of its name. Hollow echoes of car engines bounced between the buildings in every direction, then rumbled off the street, and vibrated through the town. A sign with big red letters on a restaurant writes the name PIZZA WORLD over and over like a torch waving through the air. A whiff of mouth-watering cheese, oregano, and a tinge of alluring pepper crawls up the nostrils of the people in the street.

These places, farms, settlements, villages, towns have the same familiar old and new structures, and certain buildings that never sleep because they possess a peculiar personality of their own. It comes from the architect, designer, or the person who had the original idea. Over time people who inhabit these spaces leave a piece of themselves behind. It stays with the place until it’s demolished, and in some cases a feeling hovers there forever as a memory, image, and long forgotten story. HELLO-GOODBYE

In Four Corners everyone knows everyone from the information that filters through town. A kid walking down the street minding his or her business might be asked if they were a son, daughter, brother, sister, related to, or a distant relative of—so and so. Nine times out of ten the askers were usually right, but in some cases wrong.

A conversation may go something like the following, and always revolve around family.

Got a brother?

No, haven’t got a brother.

Sister?

No, haven’t got sister, either.

What’s your name? Who are you?

I’m Sam Young.

Who?

My name’s Young, Sam Young.

Sam Young?

Yeah, Sam Young.

Don’t know that name. You new in town? What does your dad do?

Sam said what he always said because that’s what he was told, and all he remembered. He died a long time ago.

Died a long time ago?

Yeah, long ago when he was young, and I was very young, really too young to remember.

What did he do?

He was a soldier in the army.

That’s quite a coincidence.

What? Sam wondered, thinking there would have been a question about rank, or if he had been killed in action.

A coincidence your dad dying when you were young, and your name’s Young.

You know, you look a little like the barber in town. You could be his son.

No, I’m not the barber’s son.

You really look like him. Anybody ever tell you that?

I’ve heard that before.

Yup, look just like him, same hair, eyes, and that bend in your nose. You’re a dead ringer for the barber. I can’t get over how much you look like him.

I get my hair cut there, but I’m not his son.

Well, you look a little like that famous architect, too. You know, the guy from town who started that school near Ellsworth. Disappeared or something, didn’t he? You could be his son?

No, not his son, but I know who you’re talking about. His name’s Alan Rogers. I went on a class trip to his architectural school. We watched him teach a class on using terrain in the design, and after that we toured another house he had built at the base of a hill next to a stream.

You also look a little like that troublemaker’s kid? The one who’s always being arrested and locked up? He was put in prison for a while. What’s his name?

You’re thinking of a guy called Holiday.

Holiday, that’s it! What a name for a trouble-maker, Holiday. In jail now, isn’t he?

Why would you think that I look like him? Why would anyone think I was Holiday’s son? Well, whatever, if you think so, Sam said. I’ve got to get going.

He’d walk away to the person’s muffled voice echoing the conversation.

Small town cross-examination happens every day, and sometimes stirs good or bad memories. After enduring the barrage of questions about who you looked like and what was happening in your life, the sidewalk interrogator moved on. The dialogue was shared, and spread through the grapevine like a virus. With the cycle complete, the narratives, stories, and rumors returned to the creator sometimes more fantastic, changed and morphed into jaw dropping tales and yarns. That’s the way it used to be, and still is around small towns, some cities, and in certain places in this crazy, extraordinary world.

Sam had met all of these men. Holiday, too with his friend, Steve. He had never forgotten what happened that day. Steve heard Holiday took in stray cats.

Steve had a litter of five kittens seven weeks old, so they went to Holiday’s place to give them to him.

Steve knocked on Holiday’s trailer door, but no one answered.

Maybe no one’s home, but try again, Sam said.

Steve knocked a couple more times, then said, I think I hear someone moving inside.

I hear footsteps. Someone’s coming, Sam said.

A grubby unshaven guy with matted hair, looking half-asleep, kicked opened the door with a bare foot. He was wearing a T-shirt covered in stains that said, “SHIT HAPPENS!”

Yeah-yeah-yeah, what do you want? he said in a twangy voice, then let out a shit breath yawn that would have knocked over an elephant. The boys cringed and turned to avoid it.

Holiday farted, then let out a hyena like cackle, and said, I got it coming out both ends this morning boys. He raised his shirt, patted and rubbed his stomach, then reached down in his pants, and scratched his crotch. He raised his hand to his nose and took a whiff. Damn, I stink!

Is your name, Holiday? Steve asked.

Depends, Holiday said, and tugged on his crotch again.

What do you want?

We heard you take in kittens.

Kittens? What the hell are you talking about kid?

A friend told me you take kittens, and find them homes.

We heard that you always find them a place to live.

Holiday took another deep breath, yawned, and said, Yeah, yeah, I do. I do that. You got some kittens?

Yup, Steve said, and raised the box. Got five little kittens right here in this box.

Let me see them, Holiday said, and took off the cover. Well, aren’t they some cute little rascals. Sure, I’ll take them. Go put’em over there in the back of my truck.

Hope you find them a good home, Sam said.

Oh, don’t you worry, they’re in good hands. Yes sir! In damn good hands. Holiday laughed as he turned, and went back into the house. After about ten minutes he came back out wearing a pair of dirty gray overalls with the sleeves cut off. You kids still here? Worried about the cats, I expect.

Just a little, Sam said. But you seem happy to get them.

Where will you take them? Steve asked.

Who will you give them too? Sam asked.

Well, come along with me, and I’ll show you.

The boys followed Holiday around to the back of his place where car parts, assorted pieces of junk, and piles of old tires were stacked up.

Let’s go over there, Holiday said, gesturing to a pile of big rocks near a slight slope. There was more junk scattered around, car parts, old appliances, stereos and TVs.

Okay, let me have the cats. Holiday pointed to some tire rims, and said, You young fellas are going to have a front row seat. Sit down, right here on these tires, and make yourselves to home.

What’s going on? What are you going to do?

You’ll see, Holiday said, laughing and smirking as he picked up two kittens. Okay what should we call these two rascals? C’mon now, you guys got names for them, right?

Not really.

No? Okay, let’s name this one, Smash, then Holiday turned, and said, Batter up! The kitten slammed into the pile of concrete blocks. He laughed after hearing the thud of the kitten hitting the stone. And this one Crunch, then he threw that one at the blocks. Neither kitten moved, and blood trickled from their mouths. Holiday grabbed two more, and did the same while laughing and cheering. You fellas want some kitten stew for dinner? He walked over and picked up the kittens, and held them by their tails. While waving them in the air, said, I’m a pretty good cook. He watched them dangle. Hungry?

Stunned—the boy’s jaws fell open.

Sam jumped up. I’m getting the last one before he kills it, he said, and grabbed the black and white kitten from the box. Let’s get the hell out of a here!

They ran. Sam carried the little kitten close to his chest with its claws buried in his skin.

Holiday chased the boys, but couldn’t keep up, finally waved them off like he didn’t care.

Come on back when you got more kittens, then walked back to his trailer laughing.

That guy’s a lunatic, Sam said. Who told you he takes kittens and finds them homes?

No one really told me. I just heard it around town. What are we going to do with this one?

Letting it go would be better than giving it to Holiday.

I’ll find it a home, or keep it, Sam said.

Sam had one more experience with Holiday when he was walking home from school one day. Holiday drove by slowly, and asked, You want a ride.

Sam said. No, thanks.

Holiday, asked again, and said in a friendly way after he recognized Sam, I’m sorry about what I did to the cats. I’ll give you ride anywhere you’d like to go. Let’s be friends.

Okay, Sam said, and, just as he grabbed the car door handle to open it, Holiday floored the car and drove off in a cloud of dust, dragging Sam in the gravel until he let go. Sam watched Holiday wave as he picked himself up. He vowed to stay away from Holiday after that.

LIFE GOES ON

 

Whenever Sam got into a conversation about his dad, sketchy images of him lying in a coffin in the funeral home popped into his head. His father was the first dead person he’d ever seen, and it was his first funeral. He didn’t like talking about it. And when the subject came up, would say, Don’t want to talk about it. His dad’s brothers, sisters, and friends were at the funeral that day. A crowd of mourners mingled outside the funeral home when he arrived with his mother. Sam studied the throng of old and young faces in suits and uniforms. As they got closer the crowd parted and made way for them to walk through the makeshift lane, then into the dark parlor where the powerful aroma of sad flowers hit. He’d never had so many eyes staring at him at the same time.

Why do they want to see a dead person? Sam wondered.

Waiting at the end of the gauntlet was a thin, pale faced man in a black suit who opened the door to the entrance. The man’s face, and his pencil thin moustache, forever burned in Sam’s memory. He’d never met him, didn’t know his name, but didn’t like him—he was an undertaker. A man who carried death on the air around him. As Sam entered the parlor his eyes locked forward on the silver gray metallic casket at the far end of the room. It was surrounded by mounds of flowers on either side. There was a kneeler for people, so they could say a prayer, and have one last look. After they stepped through the door, a swarm of people made their way in. Sam and his mother walked the final leg, stepping slowly down the narrow aisle between the metal folding chairs, and sat in the front row.

Go up and say a prayer, his mother said. You’ll never see your father again. Go up, Sam, she whispered.

The body had already been on display for a few days, and this was the last chance for Sam to see his dad before he’d be put to bed in the earth. He stood, and made his way to the kneeler. There on his knees he studied his dad’s frozen face and hands. He wondered if he should touch him one last time. Sam clenched his hands in prayer, but couldn’t remember his dad ever hugging him. All he wanted now was for his dad to sit up, and give him a great big hug. He remembered being around him when he built their garage, worked on their car, and went on fishing trips to the backwaters near the Mississippi. He’d never gotten a real hug, and never went to the hospital to see him before he died. One Saturday morning after breakfast, while just sitting in the living room at home watching cartoons, he got the news that his dad had died. It was delivered by an aunt he rarely saw—why she was there he had no idea. Then, like being clubbed over the head with a 2x4—the shock of it set in.