At the truck-stop on Halloween by Justin Hyde

After taking a piss I walk outside to stretch my calves on the curb. Lady who tends the buffet is sitting at a circular stone table having a cigarette. I sit down across from her. Old as my grandmother, but she’s painted her face like a cat. Even has a fake pair of cat ears on her head.

“Nice day,” I say, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt to let the sun on my forearms.

“Very nice,” she says. She’s holding her lighter and cigarettes in one hand. There are two fun size snickers bars in front of her.

“For a while there I thought we’d skipped fall and gone straight for winter,” I say.

Her fingernails are half covered in chipped, dark purple nail polish. Beds of her nails are salmon pink. They’re sunken very deep around the nails.

“Live here in Des Moines?” She asks.

I tell her I live in Des Moines. She hands me one of the candy bars. I thank her for it. We sit silent. Behind us hundreds of big rigs are refueling. She laughs to herself. Her teeth are worn very low. I can see the roots. She tells me about putting her cat face on that morning. Her boxer ‘Mei Mei’ got scared. Started barking at her.

“I told her ‘Mei Mei it’s just momma’ but she wouldn’t get within ten feet of me. I started with a tail too, but Mei Mei snuck up, nipped it off and tore it to shreds.

“You get many trick or treaters last night?” She asks.

(Today is Halloween, but we had trick or treating last night.) I tell her I work third shift and was asleep while it was going on.

“We used to get a-lot of trick or treaters at the house. We live in an apartment now. Didn’t get a single one. Just my granddaughter down from Ankeny after she got done over there,” she says, slowly blowing smoke up into the air.

She scratches nail polish off one thumbnail with the other thumbnail and tells me when they had the house they put on quite a show. She dressed up as a witch, even had a broom. Her husband had a Frankenstein costume. The yard was full of pumpkins. She carved them all herself.

“Back at the house we had plenty trick or treaters. But it couldn’t be helped. Wasn’t Carl’s fault.”

“Your husband?” I ask.

“Poor devil,” she says.

Tells me Carl lost his left arm because of diabetes. Lost his job driving a Wonder bread route along with it.

“We get by alright on his disability and my check from here, but we couldn’t make the mortgage. The apartment’s fine, we get along just fine at the apartment,” she says, smiling.

I ask her what they did with the house.

“Bank had a foreclosure auction,” she says, taking off her cat ears and setting them down on the table. “I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Had it right there in the backyard. Carl says I’m sentimental. Well, we lived there twenty-two years, raised our daughter there. Figured I had a right to see who was gonna buy our house. That doesn’t sound crazy does it?”

“Not crazy at all,” I say.

“Well, all that showed up was this big family of Asians. Didn’t even have an auction. But the Asians bought it. Carl says I’m sentimental, just cause myself heartache, but I go by there every now and again, just to see what they’ve done with the place. Sentimental, I don’t know, but it’s not crazy is it?”

“I wouldn’t call it crazy, like you say, you lived there twenty-two years.”

“And raised our only daughter there. Well, sometimes I get off the number seven at Merle hay and walk through the neighborhood. Like I say, just to see what they’ve done. Well, they don’t’ put no lights up for any of the holidays. Far as I can tell they don’t mow the grass ever.

“But here’s what gets me,” she says, leaning in close. “Every time I walk by the place it’s the same one. He’s barefoot, smoking a pipe, squatting down at the edge of the driveway like some stray dog. I timed it once. He just sat there squatting barefoot, right there where my daughter had a lemonade stand. Twenty minutes he was squatting there. It’s obscene, just obscene,” she says and lights another cigarette.

four poems by Justin Hyde 

on your way to buy black velvet
 
texas stop at Douglas Ave
former president carter on npr
refuting that condoleezza asked him
not to meet with hamas.
 
rubber neck the semi jackknife on Lower Beaver
coffee like hornet spray past your lips.
 
thirty years old:
no checking account,
one pair of jeans,
stretch marks the size of gotham
festooning your waist,
a dead end graveyard shift job
locked in a pit
with third string crack dealers
unmedicated schizophrenics
murderers
and baby rapers.
 
you’ve made a mockery of your life.
 
eleven out of thirteen this pleases you.
 
on the other two days you listen to AM radio
 
read philosophy
 
and switch from bud light to black velvet
 
until the fever breaks.
 
before we stopped speaking to each other
 
my father and i
went for walks:
 
not around the block
or half hour hikes
in the woods:
 
we’d go on ten
fifteen milers:
 
it’d be an
all day affair.
 
that day
was a twelve miler
to the pizza buffet
and back.
 
halfway home
we passed a bike rack
in front of the mall.
 
would i
steal one of those bikes
if i was bone tired
and thirty miles from home?
he asked.
 
told him no
(i was eleven
and couldn’t imagine
stealing anything)
 
he didn’t
believe me:
 
told me
he’d stolen one
off an indian reservation
after a night of drinking
when he was
in the army.
 
well old man
if we spoke to each other
i’d tell you
you were right:
 
i’ve stolen bicycles
cars
kegs of beer
even a crossbow:
 
i’ve lied cheated
and pissed on the hearts of women
like urinal cakes
with surprisingly little
remorse.
 
on the deck at 7:14am
 
crack a tallboy,
feel a little sun
after another third shift
in paradise.
 
neighbor’s boxer
puts his paws on the fence,
five sharp barks.
 
you rarely see these people,
they’ve been there a month,
come and go in an old white van,
leave this poor guy outdoors
 
water and food dish
mostly empty.
 
he’s got no collar,
you massage his neck,
look over the fence,
 
empty.
 
grab some bacon wrapped in tinfoil
out of the fridge,
 
at
two hundred and thirty-three pounds
 
you can’t one-hop these fuckers
anymore.
 
crouching down at the spigot
you glance into the basement window.
 
looks like an old man
in a wheelchair
is stuck in the corner.
 
you tap on the window.
 
you lean in closer.
 
overhead
 
a jet splits the sky.
 

my golden parachute
 
a dusty brown couch
in my parent’s basement
 
&
 
all the generic bran flakes
i could eat.

Three Poems by Justin Hyde

unbeknownst to me until recent unexplained insight following an unplanned physical altercation

i’ve always been
an emotional guy.
it’s only
after an upbringing
in the taciturn shadows
of two beaten dogs
who deserve some level of commendation
for doing a better job than their own parents,
only after that
and decades of self study thereafter
that i’m able to focus
miles of anchored chain loneliness and
overwhelming flashes of empathy
for the deafening echo inside each
individual human prison
into apricot shaped grenades
like this one
right here
cupped in my palms.
they come without call,
pin already pulled.
soon as they do
i throw myself on them
so as not
to make a scene. Continue reading