Ishmael (revised)

[KB.]

Ishmael pulled the yellowed letter from the back pocket of his worn out till they were comfortable jeans. He was blind, had been for a long while now, but he didn’t need sight to read this letter. He had read it a thousand times before he lost his sight, and he had remembered it in his mind a hundred thousand since. It was a story an old friend had written to him and about him. The meat of it was about roads and pathways; Muses and Sirens. The bread was about leaving, losing, and unpicked daffodils. Pianos and long lovely legs were the pickle on the side. Ishmael took the picture he kept wrapped in the folds of that story and felt the rough edges and bent corners.

Sight wasn’t needed for this piece of history either; it was in color, but the subject was all earth tones; hair as black as Kentucky coal, creamed coffee colored skin, and eyes the color of an antique writing desk made from dark oak; oak that had been tended with years of care and polished to a color so warm you could feel the heat. Her hair was short; shoulder length, and it framed her face so wonderfully. Her face was soft, no sharp edges to be found. Her right eye, the left as he saw it, was half covered with that hair, and a strand of that silky coal hung down from the middle of her head to meet another lock of hair coming from around that hidden eye. One eyebrow was arched like a lover’s back after midnight.

Her lips were slightly parted, her teeth showed a bit, oh those lips made him ache all over; especially his ears. She was looking straight ahead; all the way through him. Those antique eyes haunted him every night. They followed him, they were his eyes. He would catch glimpses of things that had no other explanation. Things he had never seen, and would never conjure up on his own. Sometimes he felt like they were close, right behind him even. He could feel them looking at him through his little stand of willow trees as he fished for a fish that always managed to get away.

He heard the overly loud growl of that old Harley coming up the road, and he felt those eyes slip away from him. They always did when that steel horse started its gallop. There would be a battle filled with thunder and lightening bolts that not even the Greeks could have imagined when those two finally met up. He folded his picture back into his story and stuffed it hurriedly back into its safe haven in his back pocket. She, the rider on the Harley couldn’t take it from him as long as it was there, but if she ever caught him with it out; it would be gone like the rest of it. He figured it was a good thing she had to ride that bike wherever she went.

This woman pulled up and let the Harley calm down. He imagined she looked like something out of a Neil Young song; a Harley, long blonde hair and wind. He remembered the bike from a decade past. It was low and not quite sleek; it would be classified as a “soft tail”. The chrome was everywhere, he could feel the sun reflecting off of it onto his wrinkled face; the paint was a candy coated black with deep green highlights. It shimmered like an oily black snake in the sun; there was a seat for him on the back, and the leather was always warm regardless of the season. The front wheel was strung out low on an extended fork. Her long legs were no doubt caressing that space like it was an old love gone for far too long. He turned away from the smell of it and her, and continued on with his fruitless quest for a fish. “You want a smoke love”, she asked him, and he did. He nodded his head ever so slightly, and listened to her reach into one of the twin leather saddle bags that hung below his spot on the back. Ishmael heard the match strike and the sound of her making sure the cherry was hot and complete, he heard her exhale, and he reached out for the cigarette. He placed it between his dry lips and enjoyed the old familiar habit. He could taste her on it, she tasted like a vice; it was a raspberry vodka flavor, mixed with a splash of cream and coffee liquor. She made him thirsty.

He wondered what she looked like now, had the years caught up to her as they had him, or was she stuck in the same dimension as Thaddeus. He could run his scarred hands across her face and find out for himself, but he was afraid of what it would do to him. He never knew with Jolene anyway; she could be a countless number of women depending on the day, the drink, and the memory. The woman she had been was long gone, the one that he could remember the visual details about. She had been tall, long legged, and almost too skinny. The first time he saw her he thought he was looking at salvation made physical.

She had been holding a newborn babe in her arms, smiling with clear as the July sky blue eyes. Her smile was a little crooked, it wasn’t perfect but it was beautiful, and her hair was wrapped loosely on top of her head. Sunlight blonde with honey colored streaks of brown running through it; her skin was pale in a healthy way. She had looked up in his direction and he smiled at her, smiles didn’t come quick or easy with him; it had that day. She smiled back, and brought her attention to the child again. She would become more familiar to him over the next year; he would count the freckles on her shoulders, and be amazed at just how long those legs really were. She always tasted like that vice though; his thirst grew to the point of drowning him. He had good memories of her before she became Jolene; an early morning sprawled across his chest singing Aretha Franklin to him as the moon doused them in its forgiving light. Her taking more than the fair share of a cigarette until she started singing that song.

He remembered sitting outside the center of his universe and aggravating her along side her own beautiful son; they had made a good team that day. He wondered what had happened to him when his Mother had turned into Jolene. He wondered what had happened to them all when that change had occurred. Those days were long gone and all that remained was this shape shifting siren, he imagined bones followed behind her like some warning from Alighieri himself, “All hope abandon, ye who enter in!” He cursed to himself about whales, hell, metaphors and hyperbole.

Jolene looked at this man that had aged when others did not; why had he not fallen under the same rules as the rest of them had? She hadn’t aged since he had last seen her with his own eyes, and Thadd hadn’t changed since he had shown up in this place all those years ago; no one aged here. No one except poor Ishmael. He looked like the old fisherman he wanted so badly to be; his face was leathery from the sun, wrinkled to the point of looking like one of those wore out saddle bags she kept his cigarettes in. The beard had grown to the point of him looking more like Hemingway than Ishmael. Papa probably fit him better anyways; an old man and his sea. You get to pick your own name when you realize that you have arrived here; names held power in this place, and once you made your decision it became your burden.

They didn’t tell you that when you arrived, hell you didn’t even realize you had arrived sometimes. She watched as Ishmael smoked his cigarette, and she could see the change in his weary face as he tasted her on it. She smiled with satisfaction; she knew what she was to him, and how she made him feel. She thought she did at least. He sat there with his old cane fishing pole, trying to catch that elusive fish. He needed an ocean and a boat, not this little pond hidden by a few sad willow trees. His hands were always dry and cracked. His beard was full of white and gray; peppered by memories. He had not one strand of hair on his head and the skin was a nice chestnut brown from the sun, no wrinkles up there. He always sat cross-legged; his legs were long and skinny just like his finger. He wasn’t quite what you would call spindly. His lips were full, but as dry as his hands. He had sat there for almost a decade, skinny as a rail, and dusty from the years he had been waiting on that fish.

She wanted to help him to the back of her Harley and take him out of this place before he withered away into nothing. There was no where to go; no matter which road you took, you would always end up at those cross-roads, and from there regardless of direction you would still always end up right back where you started. The scenery would change, the details would be different, and new people would be met. You could drive forever, walk for days more, and then take a left; you always ended up right back at those crossroads. Some of the people in this limbo called it purgatory, some said it was a dream, and some wished it was just the imagination of a man outside somewhere that had gotten too big. Whatever it was it was killing her old love, slow and with an almost physical sense of purpose. No one had ever died here, sometimes folks disappeared; but no one ever died. They got sick, they ached, they wished for their old lives back; but never did death come for them. They had banished Ishmael out to this spot; afraid that he was contagious. The only relief he got was when she would show up to take him for a ride, and bring him some supplies. A man needs his vices. Maybe it was her that was killing him; she allowed that thought to break free every once in awhile. She shook her head; it couldn’t be that.

She looked at him as he turned to face her, asking for another smoke. She repeated the earlier ritual, and watched as he reached out with some sixth sense and found the cigarette with out one problem. “Do you want to go for a ride love, I can take you out by the crossroads and we can pick a different direction this time”. He turned his face towards the pond as a thick ripple rolled across the water, “What is the use of it; they all lead right back where we start. Even an old blind fool like me can see that”. “Maybe not this day Ish; maybe this day we will see a turn we missed before or an overgrown path that we can manage our way down even if we have to walk”.

“I’m tired Jolene, not today. Go ride down that highway and torment Thadd instead, and if he gets the courage up to talk with you tell him to come visit and play some music for me. It gets too quiet out here at night”. “You know no one ever finds Thadd, he does the finding. You also know he will stop by tonight since you uttered a call for help out loud. He hears it all, always has”. She saw a tear start in his sightless eyes and as the ripple faded without a single tug on that bait less line of his he turned to face her again, “Well get gone regardless; you are making my head ache. I can taste you on those smokes, and it is making me thirsty”. She swung her long legs across her bike and before she started the beast up again she decided to return the spite, “When he gets here you two make sure to make yourselves miserable with talks of old loves, missing eyes, and unquenchable thirsts. Maybe when you catch that ****ing fish it will have his other eye in it and he will let you keep it for yourself; you nasty son-of-a-bitch”.

Ishmael listened as the growl of her Harley faded off into the fast approaching night. He checked his back pocket to make sure his story and her photograph were still safe. He did know Thadd would drop by tonight, and he would bring him some music to listen to; he figured he should have something to eat prepared when he got here. As he set about cleaning the few catfish he had caught he felt those eyes again. He could see the fish in front of him. His knife moved with a sure and shake free hand; they were ready to be cooked and he used his Zippo to make a fire. As he put the first of the fish on a spit over his fresh fire he heard tires on gravel; he also heard Norah Jones singing “Heart of Mine”. He allowed himself a small sideways grin. As Norah got closer the sight left him again, and the smile did as well. Why did it always leave when another showed?

Thadd opened the door to his old Fairlane and walked over to where his old friend sat cooking their supper. “Hey Ishmael, how did the day treat you; did you catch that fish yet?”, “I’m still here Thadd, so that means the fish is too, thanks for coming to see an old fool, and thanks for bringing some music with you”. Thadd looked around this little place that was supposed to be the sea; it failed miserably. He ignored the fact that Ish had aged a year in the month since he had been by to bring a serenade. He also ignored the fact that he felt eyes on his back. He sat down and accepted the fish that his friend motioned towards; it tasted like whatever he could imagine. He imagined it just tasted like catfish today. They ate their supper in silence, and when the sun was finally settled down into its slumber they leaned back against the tree and Ish pulled out his harmonica. He played a tune that wasn’t meant for a harmonica, but it was a favorite to them both. He even sang a bit, it was more of a rhythmic talking, and it fit his voice well, “You can run on for a long time”, he talked it all out.

“Well Ish that was a nice way to the end the night, you always did know how to make a man feel safe in the night”, “Hush Thadd, you know no one ever dies here, I figure you are as safe as all the rest of them”. “What about you Ishmael, how safe are you”? “Long as I have my story and my old picture I’ll be fine, always have been”. “No cursing about metaphors tonight old man”? “Not tonight Thadd, I’m tired and my head aches like a nine pound hammer was used on it. She came by today, brought me a couple smokes and tried to get me to ride off with her again”. “How did she look Ish”? “How the hell am I supposed to know Thadd, you tell me; you got one good eye left”. “I haven’t seen her Ish; I haven’t seen her since she got here. She doesn’t ask for help out loud, and I stay away. I don’t have the will power you have old friend; I would be on the back of that bike before she finished asking me if I wanted to try and get out of here”. “You can’t go anywhere Thadd, and she knows it as well as I do; it is a siren’s song. You will end up bones that spell out a dried up warning to the rest of us. Stay away, even if she does ask out loud. Just stay away”. Thadd saw the pained look in his old friend’s face; he felt like he should reassure him that he would stay away. He knew he wouldn’t if that call came though; best he could do was lie. “I’ll be alright Ish; don’t worry about me, that’s my job. I’m going to head out; thanks again for the supper, and good luck with the fishing tomorrow. Good night”. “I don’t worry Thadd; I gave that up a long time ago when I picked my new name. You know the rules of this place. Good night to yourself; play some Norah for me when you head out”.

Thadd started his old Ford thought about Norah singing “The Prettiest Thing”, it fit the night; a song about seeing things, pictures, and a heavy mind. The music flowed from inside the car, and Ishmael could hear it even after the sound of the car was gone. His ears worked at least, or maybe it was just memories filling his head with lyrics.

Ishmael sat in the chilly silence of the night and wondered what if anything he should do. Time did not work in this place like it did where he came from. It moved slower and faster at the same time. People existed as various forms of themselves simultaneously. Some folks in this place had only one form here; those were the strongest of the inhabitants. Some people existed as one person, but could change into a million others. He had no idea which of the whispered explanations of what the place was held the truth; he supposed it was probably a witch’s brew of it all. He imagined he was dreaming of purgatory.

He thought back to the first day he had found himself here; he had been trying to get to Boise; this was not ****ing Boise no matter what the signs along the road said. That was by his best guess almost twelve years ago. That would make him forty-two, and coming close to forty-three. He looked far older; he was getting old when no one else here ever did. He was dying. He knew why he was dying, he had finally figured out what was going on here. That made him a virus in the scheme of things, and now the fabric of the place was trying to push him out. Things were following a cycle here though, and soon he would stumble back into this place as the same man he had been twelve years ago. He knew that, and that was why he was dying. He also knew if he could figure out how to survive long enough he could break it all; he might be able to set them all free again. He felt the eyes come back close to him, and as he looked up he could see the stars. He had lived in a lot of places where you could never see the stars at night; Houston was the worst of those and St. Louis wasn’t much better. Here they lit up the sky; tiny pin pricks in the atmosphere.

Those eyes were a blessing when they came to him, but they made him melancholy. He could see when they came close, but the only thing he wanted to see was the face those eyes belonged to; no matter how fast he tried to turn around they always disappeared before he could focus. This night he didn’t tempt the Muses anymore, he simply rolled his pallet out and laid himself down to dream in color until the sunshine hit his face. As he drifted off he thought about Sisyphus, or Sid if he was around friends; he wondered what he was doing. Sid was the closest incarnation to what would be the newest citizen coming through any day now. He would be the most important to his plan actually having a chance to work. Thadd would have to keep the women busy; Jolene was everywhere. He sighed knowing it would never work out as he planned, but you had to make a plan. He bid the sweet borrowed eyes goodnight and let himself fade away for awhile.

As the sunshine hit his face the next morning Ishmael decided to find a way into town and go visit Sid. He wouldn’t be able to stay for long, someone would notice him in eventually a mob out of some old black and white horror movie would show up to run him off with pitch forks and all. He said out loud he needed a way into town, and he knew that Thadd would be listening to the wind and be along soon. That poor man, he had no idea how much the name he had chosen would affect him here. Ishmael supposed it said as much about himself as it did Thadd, if he could be heard then he was a lost cause after all. He shook his head at the God damned absurdity of it all. He wondered what song came over the radio when one of those uttered out loud pleas for help came through.

Thadd heard something in the cool just after dawn breeze; Ishmael was asking for him again so soon after he had last. He turned the radio up as B. B. King came over the radio singing “Chains and Things”; when he got to the crossroads he headed left and turned the volume up higher than normal. Ishmael wanted to go into town; this day was going to be full of mishap and most likely violence. The people who stayed in town were not the same as the ones who had to roam the outskirts. They had told Ishmael to leave more than two years ago; when the fact he was aging had become clear to them all. Ishmael hadn’t been back more than four or five times since; and he never stayed for very long when he did go back. He supposed they were going to see Sid, and that meant Jolene as well. Thadd hoped he could just wait in the car, Jolene made him nervous; reminded him of where he had failed. She had stumbled into this place a year or so after he had. When she first appeared she was just like he remembered her from before; but she had changed after she picked her name. She would cycle through every lost soul he had ever felt the need to try and save. It made him physically ill to look at her. Deep in his guts and chest it hurt him.

Ishmael heard the radio before he heard the car, good song for the way the day would probably turn out. He got up and wandered his way over to the old Ford; Thadd opened the door for him, and shut it after he got in. He settled in as Thadd turned the radio down just a bit and started towards town. He could feel the presence of the church to his right as they passed by, and along with that church he felt those eyes. He turned to Thadd and asked if he felt them as well, in response the radio started playing Amos Lee singing “Southern Girl”. Ishmael wondered what it was like to be able to do that, how splendid that must be; your thoughts sent out to the world as a song. It would take them an hour or so to get into town, not because it was that far away; that was just how long it took. Walking, driving, or on a leer jet it would take an hour. Sid would be at the bar that was his place in this world; he was the only one of them that stayed in town. Jolene was his burden, and just like old Sisyphus he had to push it to the top of the mountain and feel his body crumble as it rolled back down again; time after time.

The radio had been silent for a few minutes, “Are you that empty headed Thadd; I don’t hear any music”, “I’ve just got it on mute is all old friend, I suppose I could play Sunday Morning Sidewalk in honor of our young companion we shall soon see”. “That works for me Thadd, let it play”.

The song ended right as they pulled up to the poor excuse of a center of the universe. “At least walk me to the door Thadd, you aren’t too afraid of old ghosts to do that for me are you”? “Shut up old man, ghosts are the realest thing in this place; you told me that the day after I got here”. Thadd gently grabbed Ishmael by the elbow and walked him up to the door, he knew all Ish had to do was ask him to come in with him and he would have to do so, it said something about his friend that the request wasn’t made. He wondered how he could clean those fish like he was looking right at them, but couldn’t manage to find his way up three broad steps into a place that only had one door.



KB