GPP           

"Are you sure this goes to Grover?"

He, the conductor, assures me it does, along what he calls the Boonville line. "I oughta know, pal, I've worked this friggin' railroad for thirty-seven years—thirty-seven friggin' years," he says. But, nothing looks familiar.

I have to say this, the Boonville-line train is one smooth rider. With the ease of an elevator, it slides through the night, along back roads, beside fences, and stops only now and then to set one of our weary free. "Good night, my friend. Farewell."

Poor folks in cars, their progress thwarted by fallen gates, bow their heads and mourn the loss of precious time.

I commiserate with the world!

We, on board, are melancholy. I sense some passengers are nursing illnesses of their own, while others brood over stricken loved ones. Then, there are those who are sick without knowing. It had been that way for me, for too long, doctors say. What I wouldn't give now to go back to not knowing.

The conductor, poor man, his harsh manner only a defense, is obviously carrying a heavy burden, and the three or four drinks he's managed to down in the private space between cars are doing little to help. "Plainview," he barks, wishing we'd all leap out and throw ourselves across the tracks.

I want to touch him with understanding. "Nice train," I say as he heads back for another snort.

"Yeah?" he responds.

"Yeah," say I. "Smooth ride. Oughta call it The Night Glider."

"Wouldn't make much sense at five in the morning, would it?" The doors close behind him.

Couldn't be nice. Too self-absorbed. I know where that's at. Don't worry, pal, I forgive you.

No one will be there, at the station, thank God. I don't want to face them, to tell them. They take things so personal. "This is happening to me, people, not you!" But, I will have to talk about it sometime. Can't leave everything unsaid. At least that's what they say—they and my conscience.

"Hi. Bye. I'm gonna die. Don't ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lie. And don't blow a fuse figurin' why—'cause I'd hate being framed by your misconceptions."

Peace, peace, give me peace!

I recognize this place—that building, that tree. We are headed right. The Boonville line merges with the line I know, the line I used to take to school and to the city, too, when I worked with those ass kissers on the sixteenth floor in that room with no windows. "Excuse me. What's the name of this line—the one we're on now?"

"Boonville-Grover."

"Thank you, very much."

We're just east of Danville on the Boonville-Grover line. We'll be tracing the river now till we pull into town. Ah, Highway 47 Bridge where Freddy's old man used to fish all night. He did catch big trout, but blind casting flatfish and jointed Rapalas doesn't do it for me. I'd rather float a fly at dawn or work a streamer deep along an undercut with short, tantalizing pulls.

Never should've left Montana. They don't throw shopping carts into rivers there, just beer cans.

Big fenced-in parking lot. Ah, American Aeronautics. Ten o'clock—second shift's ready to go home, graveyard's on the way.

Graveyard's on the way.

Not much chance they'll remember me if they read my name. Wasn't there long enough. Too much going on back then—too much over-compensation, too much nonsense, too messed up in the head.

No one knows I'm coming. I still can change my mind and turn around. Imagine the ruckus if I checked out without warning! "Why didn't he tell us?" "Oh, he should've said something." Of course, I'd be beyond caring then, and I wouldn't have to listen, but I'm not now, and they're whining inside my head. That's the problem with being alive—sometimes being alive is a problem. And the old lady will blame Ellen, say it was all her idea – "I know you never thought much of Mickey's family" – which is a crock of shit, but she'll say it anyway. And, she'll harass her by phone. Oh, Honey, I pray they leave you be!

Our father…

Last time I came back was from a sense of duty, too, when the old man was dying. People said ma was overburdened and brother Dom wasn't doing the right thing. I was suffering from Madonna Confusion then—it's a syndrome unique to Catholic boys. I'm cured of it, now.

Ma, believe me when I say this, you're no BVM.

Bitterness. Shed the bitterness. Don't waste your last days like the old man did, spiting neighbors and slaying innocent trees.

Daddy reaches up from the grave to choke the border oak. My hands are in there, too, I guess, squeezing. So are Uncle Joe's. He supplied the copper spikes; I drove them home, "Just below the ground line." The old man made me soak them first, in bleach, I think. Or was it ammonia? Anyway, it was an evil thing to do, and a fitting memorial to the man who, shortly thereafter, departed peacefully from this world, because a tree was doomed and dying by his will.

No bitterness, no bitterness. Dwell on the good times, and the miracle of being. "It's better to have lived and lost…" No, that's not it.

I still want to write a few lines for the mass.

Blessed with more time,
I might have had more fun,
But I could never have felt more loved.

That's all I have so far. It's true enough, thank God for that—thank God for my Ellen—but it doesn't rhyme, and there probably should be more.

And, I should straighten this thing out with God. Yes, most of all, I want to straighten that out. He died and came back. Seems simple enough. Why can't I get it? Died, came back. Died, came back. No ruse, no gimmick. Died, came back. Maybe it'll be clearer toward the end. Even the old man got religion.

The terminal. Probably would've been there already if I had taken the bus. It's too far from town, though, and cab drivers are nosy. Hey, lookee there—The Squeeze Box, and Granelli's, and the fish market's still where the poolroom was. You haven't changed that much, old town.

"Grover, last stop, Grover."

"Hi, Dolly, I'm here… All right, I guess… Yeah, yeah… What was that? Couldn't hear… The train… I didn't mean I was at the house, I meant I'm here in Grover… Not yet. Ain't in no hurry. Thought I'd take a look around, first. See if things are still the same… Miss you, too… So do I. But, I'll be back soon… Mm hm, I'll call you tomorrow… Right. Love you, too. Bye."

Main Street's quiet, no cars, oops, spoke to soon. Turned, thank God. Don't want to see anyone, least not anyone familiar—not yet, not now. Just feel like walking.

River's low. Used to fish this stretch when I was little and you couldn't fish the day they stocked and for days before the season opened we'd run up and down the banks tossing in bread and screaming when the big ones rolled. Whew, I get tired easy. I didn't know what I was doing, then, using lead washers for sinkers, and the few trout I did catch I caught accidentally. Still, I've got a certificate home somewhere, presented by Mayor Roach at the swordfish banquet in the old Dutton Hotel, which is a nursing home, now. I remember, we rode the elevator to the second floor, and I even won a prize, a collapsible, metal fishing net—I even won a prize. The old man called it crap.

Catholic school. I probably should've sent the kid there. How the hell was I to know?

No bitterness. No bitterness.

Library. "Abe the Caveman," inventor of soup, and "The Counterfeit Traitor," all about spies. The librarian recommended it. I never told her I liked it. Never said thanks. If only I had, she might have taken a liking to me and smiled when I came through the door and asked how I was doing and recommended more books. Then, one day, she might have invited me over to her house to meet her husband, a nice man, and because they didn't have any kids of their own…

Town commons. I wonder if there's still a drinking fountain there, and if bums sleep in the bushes and if they paint the benches green in the springtime and if kids tear down the "wet paint" signs and wait to see who gets a green ass. Think I'll rest a minute.

"Wha… what? Monty? And Frank? Fancy meeting you guys here."

"Mickey Rigoletti!"

"Franky Puloski."

"Mickey Rigoletti!"

"Monty McKuen."

Me and these cops, we grew up together. Don't think they stuck spikes in their arms, though. That's only fun if you're unhappy. I was twelve when I got my wings. And oh so proud!

Rights of passage. Death self-inflicted. No bitterness.

"What's goin' on, Mick? What're ya up to?"

"Ya mean here? Now?"

"Pretty late to be out."

"Yeah, Mick, pretty darn late."

"Well, fellas, to be perfectly honest, I think I dozed off."

"I think so, too."

"Hey, I ain't been drinkin'! Smell. Huh. Swear to God, I'm… just tired's all, just tired from the trip. Just got off the train. Hey, I ain't breakin' no friggin' laws, am I?"

"No loitering in the park after ten."

"Oh. Guess I'm busted, then."

"It's not smart to be out alone, anyway, Mick. Only put ideas in some creep's head."

"I'm not real worried about creeps' heads."

"Oughta be."

"Yeah, ya oughta be. This ain't 1959, Mickey. Ain't like it used to be."

"Why don't ya let us give you a ride. Where ya headed, up the house?"

"Not now. They're not expectin' me and, to tell ya the truth, I might turn right around and take the next train out of here. So, don't tell anyone yas seen me, huh."

"Ya mean, you came all this way—shhh, the radio."

"Monty, someone called in about noise in the alley behind Grover Liquors. Check it out, will ya?"

"Okay, Sarge… Gotta roll, Mick. C'mon, let us drop you someplace."

"Too bad they closed the old Dutton Hotel. I never got to stay there. You guys ever go to the swordfish banquet? I went there once and won a prize, a collapsible, metal fishing net…"

"There's a new hotel out by the mall. How 'bout we take you there?"

"Yeah, there's a new hotel out by the mall, Mickey. Wha'd'ya say?"

"Wouldn't want to put yas out."

"No problema—it's right on the way."

"What about the liquor store?"

"Prob'ly rats."

Almost told her last night, the desk clerk, that I was sick. She didn't need to know. And she didn't need to know about the blueberries that once grew in the woods where the hotel stands. Useless information. Plus, she probably heard it before a hundred times. Pitiful creature—got the corner on common knowledge.

Making coffee in the bathroom of the Regency Inn. Watching TV. Five hundred miles from home, ten minutes from them.

I really shouldn't have come unannounced. People have plans, and lives. Well, I won't keep them long. Not with the little I have to say. Not with a handful of ill chosen words, reworked till the feeling's gone. I expect their reactions will be more spontaneous, more natural.

"Morning, Dolly, from the Regency Inn… Drinking coffee and watching Good Morning America… Too late, they were probably sleeping… Yes, I took them, for all the good they're worth… I swear. Hey, Hon, I was wonderin' about somethin'. I look all right, don't I? —I mean, I don't look like I'm ready to hop the next train to Paradise, do I? —Just wonderin's all… Miss you, too… Know what I was thinkin'? I was thinkin' about not tellin'em… You know, just makin' like this was a visit, or somethin'. Wha'd'ya think? —I know, but I wanted to know what you think… But, it won't change anything, really and I could leave them all with one last, nice memory, instead of something sad they'll all wish they could forget. Plus, I wouldn't have to put up with the pesterin'… Think I'm punkin' out? —I know, but I wondered what you think. Get back to ya later. Ciao, Dolly, love you."

"Hey, Ma, guess where I'm callin' from… No—Grover! I come up for a visit… Late last night… The Regency Inn, swanky place up by the mall… It was too late… I didn't want to… I know, I know you would've, but I didn't want to, really, and this place is great—TV, HBO, and it's even got a coffee maker… No. No, I'd rather not, really… I'd just rather not. I'd rather stay here. But, I'm comin' up to see ya… Soon as I get dressed… No, that's okay. I'm gonna rent a car downstairs… It'll be best for me. I've got a lot of driving I wanna do… A couple of days is all… No one else, yet. You're the first one I called… No… French toast? Sounds great! See ya in a while."

Didn't go too bad. Of course, I could never sleep there. Oh, I could, I guess—if I was a saint, but I'm not. And I don't want to be. If she presses, I can say it has something to do with dad. That's true. Then, if anyone asks her why I'm not staying there, she can embellish— "Too many memories of his father dyin'. He really took it hard." She'll be able to live with that.