Saturday, February 17, 2018

the radio plays static, reminding me i am in a low place

I stop off at the spot where the Double Deuces used to be. The bar that used to be here is leveled now, just a concrete slab with some pipes sticking up, weeds growing in the cracks. I stop here to sit on my truck's bumper and smoke a cigarette, staring at the places I imagine used to be a kitchen, a dance floor, the bar. The pink hat crumpled on the pavement in the weeds, the condom disintegrating on the pebbles. Concrete slabs and stacks of rusting rebar. Lines painted on crumbling asphalt, indicating parking places for a building that no longer stands. I stare hard at the details, exhaling the day.

My dad called me a couple weeks ago, telling me that day might be his last day. I took it in stride, as typical Dad fashion, and I asked him if he wanted me to come right then. I was prepared to come right then. I had been sick that day, but I was feeling better, and I could see myself throwing on some jeans, getting in my truck, driving out to his cabin. It takes about an hour and a half from my house. But he said no. Just come tomorrow. He had a doctor's appointment. He was sure it would be fine to wait until then. So I waited. And I went to work, and I got everything done that I could before leaving to drive to his cabin. I joked about what to do if I found a dead body. I googled it. But when I arrived at his cabin, he was alive as ever, and greeted me with the words, "We need to leave in about five minutes." I know, Dad. I stripped his bed and threw his sheets in the washing machine, filled up the sink with hot soapy water and dirty dishes, cleared out my truck and put the passenger seat all the way back. We left for his appointment with plenty of time.

He's getting old and I'm spending more time with him, doing his laundry and dishes, running the vacuum cleaner over his carpets, bringing him casseroles, running him to doctor visits. He keeps his house hot and I work pretty hard while I'm there, so no matter how cold it is outside, it always feels refreshing to step outside. Sweeping his porch feels like an escape. Stepping into the second bedroom, through the blanket he's hung in the doorway, the air feels cleaner because it's colder. Sweat runs down my neck and itches.

My dad's house smells like an animal's den. Every time I visit, I wash his sheets and his dishes, take out his trash, and run the vacuum cleaner. I usually sweep the porch, and I almost always bake a casserole. There is usually time for one additional special project. My last special project was to scrub his range top. I had turned on one of his burners and it actually ignited, there was so much gunk caked onto it, so I had Amazon deliver some new drip pans and on my next visit, I attacked the gunk with some SOS pads. I used up 3 SOS pads on that range. The grease and gunk was pretty thick. 

The visit before, I cleaned his refrigerator. I took the drawers and the shelves outside on a forty degree day to scrub them, gulping in fresh air and sunshine while I scrubbed at dried-up goo.

Laundry I've done is still sitting on his dryer, folded in stacks I stacked. Someday soon I will take on his dresser. I haven't opened the drawers. I've just wiped the sticky dust off the exterior.

Driving home from his house, I pull into the lot where the bar used to be, and I hope I'm inconspicuous but I probably make the neighbors wonder. I don't know, everybody probably knows everybody out there and maybe it looks weird. Or maybe they don't care. The people across the street have horses and burros, and sometimes I see a guy out there feeding the animals. A rooster crows over and over, and there is a pink motel in the next lot, possibly falling in on itself. It looks like a good place to get murdered. I sit on my bumper and roll the crackles out of my neck, focusing hard on the details of what used to be a bar.

I drive with the windows down and let the wind rush through the cab of my truck, dragging out the smell of my dad's house. My hair whips into my eyes and I think about the speed limit, how long it will take to get home from any given point, the roadside attractions I will probably never stop at. 

48 minutes. 36 minutes. 28 minutes. The Bass Pro shop in Broken Arrow is a welcome sight. The tire store on Sheridan is a sign I'd better get over to the right lane because my exit is coming up. 

Merle Travis, Country Legend. Various lake resorts. Signs pointing to other towns. The U.S.S. Batfish memorial. A flea market. 

I sit on the bumper and I don't cry, but I feel worse for not crying. I feel like gravity is pulling me extra hard. I feel heavy. The air drags at me when I move. I finish my cigarette and get back in the truck. There is always an irrational moment of fear as I start the truck, a feeling like the engine won't catch and I will be stuck here, like maybe I have always been stuck here, every small town I come into is just the small town I thought I had left, I am trapped - and then the engine turns over and I let out my breath and put the truck into gear and hit the gas. I have NPR on the radio, but that far out, the signal comes and goes. You can only get good reception at the tops of the hills out there. The radio plays static at the Double Deuces, reminding me I am in a low place.

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