Billy @ MindSay

Years and years ago, when I worked in the travel center in the tiny town right off the interstate, there used to be a gentleman by the name of Billy that would come in and get coffee. Billy was a small, gaunt man with a nice Southern drawl and a big bushy Yosemite Sam mustache. He was just… sweet. From the top of his head to the bottom of his cowboy boots.

 

Once upon a time, Billy drove a truck- a big rig- until his health wouldn't allow it anymore. And his health had crumbled quickly in a short period of time-plus his eyesight was bad he said; so, he relegated himself to working in a shop fixing truck tires and taking them short haul. Billy was going to wander into that store at any time of day or night- you could bet on it. I used to tell people to pay Billy no mind- he came with the building and was part of the furniture. He always came in to get a cup of coffee, maybe a lottery ticket; but mostly to be around other people.

 

Billy had no family. Literally. He grew up in the arid wastelands of Texas and his mother passed when he was seven. His dad-an abusive drunk- quite literally dropped him off in front of a grocery store when he was eight saying he didn't want him anymore. The guy just pushed him out of the car and drove off. So Billy grew up in foster care. One of the stories he would tell me laughing is that- back then, out in the middle of nowhere, Texas- they still had one room schoolhouses. He and his younger foster brother threw a string of firecrackers in the old cast iron wood stove they used to heat the room and nearly burnt the whole damn place down. I remember him chuckling about how his teacher paddled both their asses red.

 

Anyway, Billy was in foster care until right before he was 18. His foster parents, knowing they would not be privy to payments from the state much longer, unceremoniously turned him out on his ass to make room for new blood, er a new charge from the state. No place to go, no family to turn to, Billy did what most people of indigent means and/or no options have often done throughout history- joined the military. And just in time to be sent to Viet Nam.

 

The special thing about Billy- having no family, no attachments to speak of- he had a unique value for the military. Billy did what I've heard a vast number of men lie their asses off about- he was put in Special Ops. Unlike the liars, he wasn't taught kung fu or how to kill a man with his pinky. But he was used to do a lot of dirty work.

 

Before I really knew Billy I thought he was just an old man. Sweet and sometimes silly- but just an old man. Another driver I was talking to, who had known Billy for years let me know, "Hell, Billy's only in his fifties. Not even fifty five yet." Bullshit, I thought to myself. He's seventy. At least.

 

But I wasn't going to ask. Billy was just my sass partner. He'd mouth off, I'd mouth back. He'd laugh and so would I.

 

He'd say: Girl, you better watch it, I'll chase you down and gitch you-

I'd say: And do what Billy? You could catch me but you wouldn't know what to do with me. You'd throw me down, get one leg over and forget whether you was gettin' on or gettin' off.

 

He'd slap the counter and cackle. I could joke like that with Billy. There was a blasphemous camaraderie between all of us there. (If you couldn't talk smack you had better clear on out.) Occasionally, I'd buy his coffee because I knew he didn't have a lot to spend. He'd tell me I didn't have to. I told him if he'd come in and let me hassle him every once in a while I'd take care of his coffee for him. He agreed and that was our deal.

 

As time went on working the third shift, there were nights when Billy would wander in, 3 a.m., face white, clothes disheveled. He'd get coffee. He'd either stand by the counter or go to the trucker's lounge in back and watch TV. Those were times he didn't seem to want to talk. I would just work. I figured he couldn't sleep. No big deal. He would slip back out after awhile. Wave a goodbye. The next day- he was Billy again.

 

On a particularly freezing night when the roads were iced and no one was out, Billy came in. Same disheveled look. It was about midnight. I was working the back of the store and was sweeping the lounge while he watched TV and smoked those damn non filter Camels.

 

"You want that TV louder, Billy?" I asked.

He grumbled a no.

"You look like death, Billy. You want something to eat?"

He barked a no.

I kept sweeping. After a moment he said, "I'm sorry, darlin'."

It was no big deal, I told him. And it wasn't. He asked me to come sit with him in the booth for a minute. Alright, said I. No big deal. I thought he was just tired.

"You don't look like you slept right, Billy." I said sliding in right across from him.

"I don't sometimes." He never looked at me. I noticed he was shaking ever so slightly.

 

Something was up but I never was good at 'helping' people, or 'talking' to people if something was wrong. I'm still not. All I know how to do is just sit with someone. I go where they go. I figure if they have something to tell, they'll tell me. I'm just not good at knowing how to help people if they don't ask me or tell me specifically what they want me to help them with. So I just sat with Billy, the low hum of the TV in the background.

 

I don't know where he really started talking. I do but I thought it was just going to be general conversation, until the broken sentences turned into a long confession. It started out with "Dreams, just dreams,' and 'things I did'. Slowly it went to his life in Texas and meandered to his time in Viet Nam. I learned Billy served three tours in Viet Nam. I also learned that the things Billy did there were the reason he never took a wife or had any children. He didn't go into specific detail but he didn't need to. He told me enough. He didn't cry but when he finished telling me what he told me, he looked at me once but lowered his head again:

 

"I was never proud of none of what I did."

 

All I could think to say was, "It was a long time ago, Billy." But immediately I knew that was a most irrelevant statement. It was with him. Always. That's why he kept coming in at God awful hours of the night looking like he had seen… a ghost. In truth, from what he said, at night he saw a lot of them. Sometimes they would let him sleep. Sometimes… they wouldn't.

 

Later on, doing the calculations in my head from what he told me, I figured out Billy was 52. Fifty two. The lines in his face, the sunken cheeks. He was so thin. It made me want to weep. It was like someone had sucked the essence of life right out of him. My 78 year old grandmother looked younger than he did.

 

After a bit of time, Billy started having more problems. He wasn't around as much. He would pop in during the day but rarely during the night. I finally found out from one of the local drivers Billy had been wasting his days sitting around down at the VA hospital waiting to see a doctor. In the previous months, he hadn't been feeling well- missing work and such. That wasn't like Billy at all. So his boss drove him to a private practice doctor. The doctor ran tests and it was the worst of the worst. Cancer. I was sure it was those damn non filter Camels. But it wasn't.

 

It was Agent Orange. Billy was sent to the VA for treatment.

 

Of course, rather than help Billy, the VA jerked him around and started doling out different anti-depressant medications and switching the dosages. What little he was around he was never coherent. He giddily and loudly revealed one night in front of God and an entire store full of people it wasn't his eyesight that robbed him of his CDL and his ability to drive a truck but too many DUI's.

 

As with all things, some days were better than others- and for a while things did seem back to normal. Then, on a very rainy evening, one of the younger girls that worked second shift told him she would give him a ride home to where he stayed down the road and…when she thought he was getting out of the car, he turned and attacked her. She came back to the travel center fifteen minutes later, crying, the top of her shirt torn. He had grabbed her and stuck his tongue in her mouth, she said. She was shaking and sobbing. I saw them leave together and with the alloted distance in mind, she had to have come right back. I could see with my own two eyes she wasn't lying... and I knew he had done it. When I saw the two of them leave out the door and scamper through the rain to her car, something dark and foreboding hit me. I didn't understand what the feeling was about at the time and I let it go.

 

I knew that wasn't the real Billy. I knew it was just a stupid combination of all the damn medication he was on. Nonetheless, I got to call the police. I got to call the manager. I got to notify the girl's parents. Billy was arrested and Billy was banned from ever coming back in the travel center.

 

Life went on-at least for a little while. A few months later when I got the opportunity to walk away from the job, I did. I never saw Billy ever again.

 

I still wonder about Billy. I doubt that he is still alive. Not after all this time. Not with cancer and those damn non filter Camels. Not with his lifeline to the 'normal' world cut from him. Not without somewhere to go at 3 a.m. when the voices come and the nightmares start. For someone who went through the life he went through, he sure was sweet and I'm sorry he never got the life he deserved. He was a throwaway to so many people. I'm sorry things ended the way they did with my friend. It shouldn't have gone down the way it did because he deserved so much better. What I always remember most is that there are so many people in this world who have no reason to be as mean and hateful as they are when Billy had every reason to be but was the farthest thing from it.

 

So, Billy- if you think no one's noticed, if there’s an inkling that you've been forgotten, that might be the case.

 

Just not by me.

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene -
the cafe awning and the wicker chair -
but I was surprised when I discovered the painting
of his mother among all the colored dots
and jumpy brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists at the Musee d'Orsay.
And I was even more surprised
after a period of benevolent staring,
to notice how the stark profile of that woman,
fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
now fixed forever in the earth, the stars, the air.

I figured Whistler titled the painting
Arrangement in Gray and Black
instead of what everyone else calls it,
to show he was part of the Paris scene,
but when I strolled along the riverbank,
after my museum tour,
I imagined how the woman's heart
could have broken
by being demoted from mother
to a mere arrangement, a composition without color.
The summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay, and the wide boats
teeming with spectators slid up and down the Seine,
their watery reflections
lapping under the stone bridges
and I thought to myself:
how fatuous, how off-base of Whistler.

Like Botticelli calling The Birth of Venus
"Composition in Blue, Ocher, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko labeling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."
as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I had come to rest -
it would be like painting something droll,
say, a chef being roasted on a blazing spit
before an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."

By that time, though, a waiter had appeared
with Pernod and a pitcher of water,
and so I sat there thinking of nothing -
just watching the women and men
who were passing by,
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs -
and of course, about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, once I had poured
some water into the glass of anise - milky-green.

Like a target drawn across my chest,
She’s a bullet in Russian Roulette
You said you’d never turn your back on me
Rescue me! Rescue me!
Would you stand by me, or bury me?
Bury me!

Why don’t we end this lie?
I can’t pretend this time
I need a friend to find,
My broken mind, before it falls to pieces…

This suffering!

Every time,
You tried to leave me blind
You’ll never close my eyes,
You’ll never close my eyes and watch me die!

And when she spins the bottle round and round,
Every time it leaves me gagged and bound
You said you’d never turn your back on me
Rescue me! Rescue me!
Would you stand by me, or bury me?
Bury me!

Why don’t we end this lie?
I can’t pretend this time
I need a friend to find,
My broken mind, before it falls to pieces…

This suffering!

Every time,
You tried to leave me blind
You’ll never close my eyes,
You’ll never close my eyes and watch me die!

Misery, won’t get the best of me
‘Cause now I’m calling, yes I’m calling on your bluff
Throw down the cards, I’ve had enough!

Why don’t we end this lie?
I can’t pretend this time
I need a friend to find,
My broken mind, before it falls to pieces…

This suffering!

Every time,
You tried to leave me blind
You’ll never close my eyes,
You’ll never close my eyes and watch me die!

Something cool happened the other day.  I was listening to music (as I often do when I hunt) when Micheal Jacksons Billy Jean came on.  Hmmmmmm..... catchy tune with a beat ... so I clicked on dance and Nitron startesd to dance.  Not only did he dance he danced to the beat of Billy Jean.   So I got Piper(Nitron's Wife) to dance to Billy Jean too low and behold she too danced right in time to Billy Jean.... I incourage you to try this out it's prett darn cool,  funny as heck too.