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That old guitar

It has been almost two years since we have heard from our old friend, Lemuel. At one time, he was Los Angeles' undisputed master of blues guitar, able to coax a myriad of emotions from the old Gibson he treasured more than life itself. Watching him play was like living in a kaleidoscope; notes becoming colors, blazing runs careening off the walls and landing in the heart of hearts, leaving the audience exhausted, and fulfilled. He would have been the king, but for chronic depression hanging around his shoulders like an old black coat.

his gibson SG—
soul rocket to the moon
unstrung

We are screaming across the Painted Desert in a van packed solid with musicians and instruments headed for Tuba City, on the western edge of Navajo Country. The Dine knew it as Tó Naneesdizí, or "Tangled Waters" for the many underground springs that had attracted the desert dwellers of a time long gone. This is the place Lemuel had escaped to when the old black coat became too heavy for him. He made his run for solitude, and hopefully, a little peace.

We have two travel days between the Flagstaff and Vegas gigs, so by unanimous decision, a visit with Lemuel is our agenda. The washed out dirt road tends to appear and disappear, leaving the driver no choice but to utilize psychic navigation until he spots a weathered adobe shack on the horizon. As we approach, Lem's elderly Dodge comes into view, a reassuring sight until, on closer inspection, it seems to be gradually crumbling into the desert floor. We knock on the door, answered only by the wind moaning in the rotted rafters. Scraping dirt from a window, The bass player says: Hey! There? Someone in there? But no amount of pounding and yelling has any effect.

We force the door. There, in a straight backed rocker, is our old friend, Lemuel. The low humidity and nearly constant wind has mummified him; the Gibson still perched on his knee.

unplayed guitar
symphony of silence
written in dust

Originally published in Contemporary Haibun Online

The Ghost Shirt

I am deaf, but for a sharp hiss like air being bled from a tire, only it’s inside my head. It’s hard to breathe with Garcia’s 265 pounds of dead weight on me. His blood trickles down my neck, and what’s left of his face presses against my cheek: a ghastly kiss goodbye. The blast blew the Humvee on its side, and from what I can tell, he took all the damage. Oh, God. Don’t let us be on fire.

Its 110 degrees and I’m getting cold. I know its shock, and I can’t let it take me under, so I think about my boys. The squad jokingly calls me Papi, like my 27 years makes me wiser than they. Mostly in their late teens, not a single one of them really knew their fathers, and after a year in deployment I have been elected to lead them, teach them, praise them, rescue them, lick their sores, and hear their confessions. I know they will come for me if they can. I feel the thud of another explosion somewhere nearby but I can’t tell how close, or what direction. My weapon is underneath me, but Garcia’s body has me wedged in so tightly I can’t move my arms. The smell of cordite is drifting through the gun turret, and I can feel small arms fire hitting the vehicle; the flat “twap” of bullets rattle the frame. It makes me think of those hailstorms we used to get in the spring, and I’m drifting into a dream.

“I still don’t know why you want to fight the White Man’s war for him.” Grandfather’s eyes betrayed the statement, and I knew he was proud I had taken the warrior’s path, as all the men in my family had. It is in our blood, and no matter how assimilated I may be to white ways, some things are so deep they cannot be denied. “Come with me.” he growled, struggling out of his favorite chair. In his room we lit the sage. Grey ribbons of smoke curled upward and spread across the ceiling, filling the air with the smell of purification. The old man opened the cedar chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out a buckskin, rolled up and tied with two pieces of rawhide. He loosed the ties and unrolled the package with a tenderness I had never witnessed in him, and I knew it was the Ghost Shirt. The tattered elk skin showed hard years of grime and wear, but the beadwork was mostly intact, lovingly repaired over many winters so the traditional symbols would retain their power.

“My Grandfather wore this in the Indian wars, my Father in the Great War, and me in the Big One. I gave it to your dad when he went to Viet Nam, and you ain’t seen no bullet holes in any of us, huh?” The Ghost Shirt was made to ward off bullets, and it brought four generations home without a scratch. Too bad it couldn’t have saved my dad as he stumbled onto the interstate in a drunken stupor. The car never stopped, and the cops don’t investigate another dead Indian on the side of the road. Grandfather reverently passed me the shirt.
“Wear it every day, boy. I don’t wanna see you coming home in a box.”

”Promise, Grandpa I whispered, suddenly feeling the gravity of this thing in my hands…

I come out of the dream gently rocking from side to side. Garcia’s body shifts a little, and I realize there are people pushing the Humvee. I am desperately trying to get an arm loose but they are asleep, and I can’t get to my weapon. A couple more pushes and I’m upside down, the weight of the body finally off me, but it’s too late. My door is ripped open and I am being dragged out by the angry mob of locals. They pull me to my feet but I am reeling like a drunk with confusion and fear. I am pushed from all directions. Rough hands tear at my gear, and my helmet is pulled off my head. The silence roars as their mouths move in curses; spit flying in my face as they strip me. The bodies of my squad are already naked, tied by their ankles to the back of a ratty pickup for a victory lap around the town as my fatigues are ripped away.

It takes a few seconds to notice that the mob has backed away from me. Bug eyed and open mouthed; they stare at the Ghost Shirt. I hear the voice of my father whisper his pride as I straighten my battered frame and begin the long walk back to the base. I am sprayed with sand as the 7.62s from an AK47 hit all around me, but I don’t run. Steady cadence, back straight, eyes shining. One of the locals catches up and blocks my way. He raises my sidearm to my forehead and pulls the trigger. I can’t hear the click, but I know it misfires. He jacks the slide and tries again. Misfire. Our eyes meet and I see every superstitious fear this man holds within him as I hiss:

“Out of my way, little man. I’m going home.”