Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead

by John Siwicki

  He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines and printed figures.

  Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.

  He sat back and ate the sandwich.

  This is a good sandwich, he thought, and she’s a good cook, then washed it down with a slug of water.

  As he watched and looked around in wonder, nature’s breath caressed the trees, and stroked the tall grass.

  This place feels so . . . tranquil.

  Moments later in a dreamy state with images of raging waterfalls thundering down mountains and waves crashing into far-away shores, his mind floated out to sea.

  Where do long forgotten memories go? he whispered, and closed his eyes as the sandwich fell from his hand.

  MAIN STREET MEMORIES

  For a kid, the best thing about Four Corners, population three thousand, was the hill after the small green and white city-limit-sign on the edge of town. After listening to bike tires roll, crushing the gravel on the shoulder of the road that paralleled the golf course, eyes watered and ears popped! Whether it was going to town in the morning to meet friends during summer vacation, a trip to a store, or chasing a yellow school bus on the way to class, a bike could fly down that hill at a pretty good clip. And this hill dropped like the temperature in the dead of winter, so even on an old banged-up clunker a kid could cut through the air, build enough steam to pass cars, then coast, and land in front of school at the same time the morning bell rang. The public school building in Four Corners was a five-story rectangular box of intimidating dark vampire-red brick, wire embedded windows, and a flat tar roof. It looked like a factory or prison, and maybe was a little bit of both—a factory for recycling knowledge, and a prison trapping imagination. On the lawn out front leading to the entrance of the school, on guard and standing tall, flying high between the zigzagging sidewalks, was the red white and blue flapping in the breeze. Next to the flagpole, a white six by eight foot sign board stood holding messages about upcoming sporting events, recent activities, and local town news. Behind the school was a practice football field with a running track around the perimeter. At the far end, a stream with a six-foot berm built to hold back the rain surge in spring.

  Gray, beat up, dented lockers covered the walls in the halls, and was the first stop for students dropping off things and picking up books, or to talk in the morning. In a few chosen corners of the school there were glass displays with student trophies and ribbons. And behind these clear barriers the trappings of the record holders worth being remembered along with their accomplishments. The ones who had won awards, letters in sports, and were thought most likely to succeed in life.

  On the first day of school, looking like budding explorers, freshmen searched for their classrooms. They marched down and followed a path worn in the wooden floor, a trail blazed by all the students who had studied there before. Some upper classmen prowled the stairwells to verbally and physically harass the new kids. The walk to the shower after Physical Education class or sports practice with only a towel for protection was like running a gauntlet. Odds were high a new kid would get ambushed by someone, or a group of someone’s lurking in a hallway somewhere.

  Up the street from school next to the jewelry store was a small grocery that opened at six A.M. Before email, web chatting, and Facebook, this is where kids met. They talked in the morning before school, found out what was happening, and who was doing what to who. Into the grocery through a cow-bell ringing double glass door they walked as their eyes followed rows of warped shelves holding packages, boxes, and stacks of cans. Heads turned slowly like watching fence posts and scenery from a moving car window. The old crooked wooden floor squeaked under their feet while they perused the aisles for snacks, pens, pencils, and what some really wanted, a pack of smokes. The owner was a short stocky guy who stood vigilant behind a gigantic shimmering brass cash register, his eyes peeled on kids looking for a five-finger discount. There was a sparkle in his eye like the shimmering brass register sitting on the counter, and a smile of contentment on his face when it went—ka-ching! He sold cigarettes to minors along with illegal fireworks: M-80s and Cherry Bombs he kept hidden under the counter. He was in business to make money, and little by little, money he made.

  A stocky police chief and skinny deputy, who looked like the Laurel and Hardy of law enforcement, worked out of the old converted train station. It was a narrow three-story brick building that stood next to the double set of railroad tracks that passed through the center of town. The chief never got excited, moved in a relaxed way, and always seemed to have the situation under control. His uniform was always the same, hat and sunglasses peering under a black visor, dark brown boots with a cuff stuck in the top. Most every day he sat in the patrol car on Main Street reading something; police reports maybe, at least that’s what everyone thought. The tall beady-eyed deputy was a different story. He was always on the look out for some criminal activity no matter how trivial. Unusual things would happen to him, or the patrol car, while on or off duty. He was always in the grip and doubted everyone, especially teenagers. He had a right to be weary of the kids because they played potato-in-the-tail pipe practical jokes on him all the time. Some boys used the toilet in the police station building to stash a bottle of booze. They’d meet after school, crack open the brandy or whisky bottle, and be feeling pretty fine after thirty minutes. All while the police were next door in their office jerking off without a clue.

  At one time the train had been the common mode of transportation; how people traveled from place to place, after horses and before automobiles. The train took passengers to the larger cities for business and pleasure, but now was only loaded with freight. It roared in and out of town twice a day. Behind the drugstore, next to the lumber yard, kids’ played on the empty freight cars parked there waiting to be hooked up to an engine to take them to a far away place.

  From a second floor window of a small feed mill office near the police station, a small crew of guys in faded bib overhauls stood looking out a window that overlooked a line of farmers waiting in their new, and beat-up pick-up trucks. All day the place was surrounded by a lingering sweet nosh sprinkled in the air from the grinders humming inside, outside, and all around the mill. This is where the farmers’ unloaded corn and oats, and had it ground and mixed for cattle, pig, and chicken feed. There were always stacks and stacks of burlap bags piled along the wall. The bags were filled, loaded on the farmer’s trucks, then hauled back to the farm for the ever hungry animals.

  Below a cliff on the edge of town was the two-gas-pump service station, where a greasy hand mechanic asked, Filler-up? then washed the windshield and checked under the hood. Usually in the garage on a hoist, looking like a shoeless kid, was a car without tires. And in the next bay one with the hood up; tools, wrenches, and parts were scattered on and around the oil-stained concrete. The scratched and dented Coke machine out front was refilled and kicked every day because sometimes it just took money. No food sold here; this was a garage, and a temple for grease monkeys—not a super market.

  In the middle of town on a corner covering the entire block sat a big old store built of brick that had been painted in pale-yellow white-wash, over and over, again and again, many times. They sold everything from house-hold goods to furniture, clothes, paint, and toys for all ages of kids. The manager was friendly, always smiling, and worked there with his wife. She sold the clothes, and helped people with things bought on lay-away. Eventually the whole block was bought-out by a company who used it for a warehouse until it was demolished, then made into a parking lot.

  Next door there was a busy restaurant with red and white checked table-cloths that offered free coffee re-fills. The owner was known to complain to the customers, especially kids, if they used too much ketchup on their fries. He had a monopoly on the morning restaurant business seeing it was the only place to eat other than the quonset hut bowling alley next to the river. Both places are still there, and have been bought an
d sold a dozen times, with a new owner ready and waiting to go into the cuisine business.

  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 g
ot 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?