Mama, put my guns in the ground

The moonlight does not know what it misses. It shines across the old wooden floor, at the feet of a man in a chair that creaks. A shotgun rests on his lap, and his thoughts roam freely. He isn’t sure what they want, and hell jumps across water on a pogo stick, aiming to discover what it means to stand between fact and fiction, if that were the truth. He strokes his white stubble and, for the first time, admits to himself that he is older.

“What time is it?”

“How can you tell?”

“The sun is rising.”

What a half-assed lie, he thinks, blind in both eyes from a childhood wound he has never gotten to the bottom of. Doors open without anyone there and make the same sound as the chair he sits in—another excuse to see the doctor.

“The squalor,” he says. “The squalor you put me in and keep me in till, well, I’ll never know.”

There’s a hissing sound in the yard, but it doesn’t bother him.

“Time’s-a-traveling,” he says. “Time’s-a–traveling.” His hands shake. “It’s the disease,” he says. “Wonder if your mother thought the same of me as I did of her? I can’t relax. It feels plain wrong.”

“As opposed to plain right?”

He sighs.

“You sound alright, but then again, you’re not anyone. Anyone that I know of.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You said the sun was coming up. I don’t feel anything across my face.”

And it would. The sun, the heat, his pesky remarks, they all come up when the moon goes down.

“It was. I don’t see it anymore.”

“The sun? Of course, you don’t,” he says, using some strength and a lot of imagination to get from the chair into his wheelchair. The shotgun still rests on his lap.

“Did Dad ever tell you about when they put him on wheels?”

“No, and to be frank.”

“Whose Frank?”

“You’re such a moron.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a trigger before.”

“I’ve never seen a reason for you to.”

“I don’t like it.”

“What are you going to shoot?”

“I said I don’t like it.”

There is a gleam in the old man’s eye. It reflects in the blue and purple hues that come in through the window between the clouds in the sky, a desperate shovel penetrating the cool dirt and filthy minerals of a former life. Deeper and deeper until we reach his cornea, a black dot with depth no one can measure.

“It feels like my skin is on fire and there’s a brick of ice on my chest. I tried to read and gave up. No point in getting any closer to feelings that surround me…Did you turn off the kitchen lights?”

“They never were on, but how did you know?”

He wipes his forehead with a rag—a garage tampon.

“You’re here,” he says.

“I can see in the dark just fine.”

“Not what I heard earlier.”

“When I tripped?”

“A few trips, I heard.”

He takes a deep breath and wheels around. He knows where everything is, even the sun. He mutters, “It’s buried where you can’t touch it.”

“And if I do?”

“You’d ruin it!”

“That’s a tall order.”

“All you would have to do is rub against it. You’re like dust on a lightbulb, can’t see it until it’s on, and to be frank, I got no use for lightbulbs either.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where I want to. Away from you.”

“Outside?”

“I’ll let you think that.”

The door closes behind him, and he wheels down the ramp to turn off the hose. His son follows him.

“I never know what you mean.”

“You think I like it that way, don’t you?”

“It’s hard to think otherwise.”

He waves his hand. Swats the desert air.

“Well, that’s easy to do.”

“Still hear the hose?”

He sighs.

“Yep.”

“The water bill is a concern.”

The painting scares him because it’s a motel mirror and not someone’s disturbed, passionate creation. Someone’s disturbed, passionate creation hangs elsewhere, swaying above godless earth that values strength over morality because morality has become a superficial by-product of expectation, a tanning cream for those who enjoy the sights and sounds of smegma. For example, the motel room attendant cleans, stops by and sees what he sees, and leaves him alone, sitting on the edge of his bed, thinking anything born like that should be incapacitated, which is easier said than done in a world where he seldom has to speak. He rubs his head for the truth: intimate, dark drapes of solitude, painting darker pictures of a model without a photographer. Curious prudes who slow down when the mail box is full and slender legs walk through irate marriages, smashed seashells, and marble hearts. A storm is coming, he thinks. It burls and flashes, yet he keeps the windows open. The room attendant is with him. She asks about his dreams. He’s got no answer for employees, just a shotgun that scares them.

“My boy?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like a plague, Ariana. He’s not there, and I’m still an asshole.”

According to the Sheriff, there is heavy snow. His vehicle collects most of it. It’s a long drive, or at least he believes that. Hasn’t caught Mother Nature’s hell since he was a boy, but back then, it was fun to catch hell. This is something else. Something he didn’t think could happen this far south, but it has, or at least that’s what he’s been told. This could be a murder—his first.

“Down by the sorghum, Sheriff.”

No one looks him directly in the eye. He turns on his windshield wipers and leans forward, surveying the scene and watching his colleagues clear a path. He leans over and rolls down the passenger side window.

“Where is it?”

They motion to the left.

No common decency. He parks his car, and no one takes off their hat or tells him what is what. He looks down at the body and thinks about who can be claiming who. He doesn’t blink, and neither does the dead. Flies crawl over his face and dry eyes. He nearly vomits, but Deputy Mullin catches him and says, “Sheriff, what are you doing here?”

Soccer, communism, pancakes without syrup, and oatmeal with oat milk; there are some things you just don’t think about, but never did he think he would have to think about this. His legs are in rough shape, and he remains standing while the Deputy squats, pointing to where the bullet entered and left, but the Sheriff doesn’t need to see where a bullet entered and left a man’s head; he looks out across the snow-covered field of his youth.

“You notice the tracks on the way over here?”

“I did, sir.”

“And?”

“Ford F-150. Stopped right here.”

“And then went that way. You see that grass?”

“I do.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

The Sheriff’s thumbs go into his belt loop. He sets the pace, and the deputy walks as slow as he does.

“How long ago do you think this happened?”

“The?”

“Yes.”

“He’s pretty frozen.”

“He’s been that way for a long time, Mullin.” The Sheriff’s neck is in a perpetual rotation, scanning, taking everything in, but to look at him, you wouldn’t think he was moving at all. “Look what we have here, Mullin.”

“What is that?”

The Sheriff closes his eyes.

“I don’t think I want to know what that is, Sheriff.”

“Unfortunately, Mullin, it’s our job. Let the others know.”

“Ok, don’t go anywhere, Sheriff.”

“I’ll be right here, Mullin.”

He sighs. He looks down and waits for the deputy’s boots to stop crunching. He is related to these lifeless bodies. Some know, some don’t. He can’t put two and two together. Why would they do such a thing? He tilts his head and, from another angle, sees that maybe he did not want to do it. That maybe something crawled inside of him, and instead of resisting, he pulled the plug before he could do more harm than necessary. Mullin returns with the other officers. They found the wheelchair.

“Ariana?” says Mullin.

“She didn’t do anything.”

The Sheriff walks away and tosses his badge into the passenger seat of his car. He can’t let them see that. He can’t let them see what’s in the rear-view mirror. He’s got no words for it. Some might say compassion, but he believes it’s murder. He knows it.

He sits behind a new piano. That is why he sits there. He’s trying it out, and three others are waiting to hear what he thinks of their product. They have white hair and mutton chops that rival Tom Jones's and Isaac Asimov's, but not his. He’s bald, younger, and behind him is a portrait of Miles Davis that complements the snow falling on Manhattan. They are on the 32nd floor, and the room is well-lit. He plays, and once he is finished, he smokes a cigarillo as they explain how and why this prototype is the way it is. A phrase he’s heard his whole life, being a little person, or midget, as the other children teased him in middle school, before being plucked away thanks to his musical talents that moved him into the column marked prodigy. He smokes and doesn’t really listen to them. His arms are folded, which enables him to glance at his wristwatch every now and again. There is a sense among all parties that his time is being wasted.

A representative from Yamaha, Mr. Sakiyama, excuses himself, and as soon as the door closes, the others talk. They ask Sebastian what he really thinks.

“It’s shit.”

He closes the key cover and walks out of the room. There is an attempt to keep him there, but the further he gets from them, the more honest they are about needing his endorsement. This gossip means nothing, but it is forgotten when his phone rings.

“Hello.”

His expression never changes. His Father is dead.

“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He dials his assistant.

“Greg, I need a plane ticket to El Paso. Yeah. Thanks.”

He reads what happened on the flight. The paper told him more than he’ll probably get from his brother. Two men on two different planets, as far as Sebastian was concerned, and there wasn’t much concern. He lives his life, something denied to him in Texas, but upon reading how his Father went in Texas, he couldn’t help but acknowledge a familiar sting.

“Would you like anything to drink, sir?” asks the stewardess.

“No thanks,” says Sebastian, glancing from the Times and forcing a smile.

“I just want to say, I’m a big fan.”

Again, he glances, forces a smile, and says, “Thank you.”

The sound of the beverage cart reminds him of who his fans really are, and who was his first.

They took off in the snow and landed in it. The pilot made sure everyone knew nothing had changed. They are in El Paso. Sebastian had a difficult time hailing a cab. One, it was snowing; two, he was shorter than everyone else, but he did get into an unmarked vehicle. Something he normally wouldn’t do; he wasn’t in a rush, but he certainly wanted to get back to New York City as soon as possible. He had to identify his father’s body.

The driver, Adam, looks back and asks, “Are you a famous piano player?”

Sebastian looks away from his phone and looks at the driver’s blue eyes and dark hair.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. From Hudspeth County, no?”

“Where we are going, yes.”

After that, Adam says little, and Sebastian reads his phone, looking for his father, but finds very little in the back seat. When he looks, so does Adam, and the awkwardness is shared. Adam stops checking his rear-view mirror, and Sebastian forces himself to look out the window at the endless caliche he forgot.

“I knew your mother,” says Adam.

Sebastian prides himself on ignoring everything that comes his way, but in the county of his birth, in an unmarked car, with a driver who says he knew his parents, his hairy ears open and consume it all.

“I hope I haven’t said too much,” says Adam.

Sebastian’s glance is captured in yesterday’s paper and discarded. He stares.

“My family?” he asks, “Please, enlighten me with your knowledge.”

It is difficult to know whether he regrets what he says, but it is common to witness his confidence in the truths of his life.

“I love your music,” says Adam.

“And I love your driving.”

“Not the same. Yes, I’m taking you somewhere, but unlike my car, music consumes nothing but what you let it, or what it will. I have to fill up my car, just like I have to fill up my body, but music does not fill me or leave me empty; it articulates those states in ways I wish I could. You have a gift, sir.”

Sebastian has heard this before, but the gravity of Adam’s words and Sebastian’s composition don’t mean a thing until he gets out of the car and walks toward the county morgue. All he can think about is his luck and where he is. Adam drives away, and Sebastian enters the sterile blocks of concrete and identical offices of government employees. No one takes him to his father. He’s let in and discovers it is difficult to get lost. His dad is lying on a metal slab. His face is blown off and covered. A man in a white coat asks, “Is this your father?”

“Yeah. I’m Sebastian.”

“Do you want his wheelchair?”

“He was in a wheelchair? He wasn’t that old.”

“He got shot in the back.”

“When?”

“You’re his son?”

“Yeah.”

“A few years ago. So you identify this as your father?”

“This is him. Is there anything else I need to know?”

“He loved you.”

“Excuse me?”

Sebastian is handed a piece of paper. It is lengthy, but it is his father’s work. He says, “My dad was blind.”

“He was,” says the forensic pathologist. “Imagine what he sees now.”

“I’m Sebastian.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

It’s hard to describe the pathologist without talking about Sebastian. He is a tall man, but Sebastian hesitates and doesn’t see the tall man. He sees a boy in a grown-up outfit. Someone who pretends to do their job and gets paid for that. Someone who walks around and doesn’t think about much.

“I loved your father as well.”

“Who are you?”

He looks at him. Two boys. Two men. “I’m the best friend you never had.”

“How do you spell that?”

The pathologist slides a step ladder that is under his dad and leaves. With all the caution he can afford, Sebastian watches him as he unfolds the ladder and looks down at his dad. His face is covered in gauze, and he wears a trauma beanie. He’s shorter on the table, and wonders if you shrink in death. His family is here, but he will not see them. He has no one, now, or at least that is what he chooses. He looks at his fingers and wonders how long they’ll last. His dad is cold. He’s never felt anything like this. The gauze is wet, and so are his eyes. He thinks of his siblings, of what brought his dad here, and of how that is life. Death. Pain. Talent. Fortune. Without them, the others lose their meaning and value, and when everything worth playing loses its meaning and value, we must dance again. Dance like no one knows whether we are dead or alive, have meaning or value. When we shed our skin, we are closer to what was there all along.

When I was a boy, I had a nightmare and ran to my parents. My mother said it was a dream. My dad said I love you.