3 of 12 - Track 3 Like the 309
Posted: Sun Jul 01, 2007 4:20 pm
This leads into a fantastic version of Johnny Cash doing Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could read My Mind"
Like The 309
John Henry coughed as he stood up to check the chicken he had on the stove. It was a deep racking cough. He thought to himself that it should be awhile before he saw old Death come around the corner for him; but he had to move their meeting up a bit for his own reasons. John was from Georgia; Valdosta to be exact. He had tried to move out west for a few years because of his cough; the drier climate would be better for him. He had found himself finally settled down in this town which wasn’t quite the west; but it was as far as he got. He was a dentist by trade but the practice had failed, and now he was a gambler. The gambling had recently failed so badly to make him look like a genius as far as his work on bicuspids was concerned. He owed dangerous people a lot of money, and he knew soon enough that he would be contacted in a rude way. He thought about the fact he was dying slow anyway and decided to make the most of it. John pulled the corn from the oven and placed it on the cooler side of the stove.
John wasn’t the crying kind, but he could hear the train whistle calling him and it tugged at his heart like a dog playing with an old Frisbee. He turned his electric fan on and placed it on top of an old wooden box to make it level with his head. It wasn’t hot, but he was sweating like a whore in confession. John sat there for a moment feeling the cool, oscillating breeze wash over him like rain onto hot pavement. The steam rose from him. He couldn’t breathe like he wanted to, it was his own fault. He had tuberculosis and he had never stopped smoking. The disease, lazy wastrel it was; took its toll in small increments. The smoking, drinking, gambling, and women just made it all exponential.
John stood up in rhythm with his shaking, coughing body. He went to the kitchen and turned the chicken off; he opened a junk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper, a pen and an envelope. He knew the name of the man that would be stopping by for a visit tonite. They shared a woman in a surreal way. The man coming to visit got to wake up next to her, and John got to see her during the day as he drank cheap whiskey and tried in vain to drown his mind in failed sobriety. She talked about her man and knowing what it was he did every night. She had told John after he confided in her about the debt he owed. John had seen her man, and knew he stood no chance against him if he did come for him; which he would. At one time he might have; but those days were long stolen away from him by his disease.
John wrote Patrick a letter; it was a hard thing to write a letter like this to a man he had never talked with; but he had seen more than just the love of confrontation in that man’s eyes. He had seen a love for a woman; and he figured he could maybe save two people with his demise. John had no ill will towards the man coming for him this night. He knew at the most he would get his head thumped like an old glass marble; he had the money so he probably wouldn’t even get that. The money he had though; it was not enough to pay off all of the other people he owed debts to.
John finished the letter, and stared at his request wondering just how silly and far fetched it sounded. He wished he had a woman to kiss him hard and draw his bath water; he had a nice bottle of wine, which would have to suffice. He heard the whistle of the train, and thought about Georgia pines; tall and green.
He wished that woman could have read his mind; he would soon be a ghost and he would never be free as long as he was a ghost she could not see. He felt like a movie star in the middle of a three way script; here enters number two. He thought back to Georgia, and a wishing well; he never knew where it had gone wrong. He tried to understand the feelings that were lacking, he just didn’t get it. John Henry was looking far too back right now; he figured it best to do what he needed to do before those feelings made him want to travel South again without his old box, and in something other than a train.
John placed the letter in the envelope and placed it next to the fan. He grabbed the gun and placed it against his old and gnarled head. He said a prayer for the unredeemable, heroes often fail he told the night. The gun shot went off, but no one was around to hear it. John slumped back against the couch as blood covered the room in a haphazard way; like some child who had never learned or never cared to color inside the lines. Somewhere thunder sounded and lightening flashed, the old digital clock showed 12:00 in big numbers that looked like the color of death. The church bells sounded and it was quiet once again.
KB
Like The 309
John Henry coughed as he stood up to check the chicken he had on the stove. It was a deep racking cough. He thought to himself that it should be awhile before he saw old Death come around the corner for him; but he had to move their meeting up a bit for his own reasons. John was from Georgia; Valdosta to be exact. He had tried to move out west for a few years because of his cough; the drier climate would be better for him. He had found himself finally settled down in this town which wasn’t quite the west; but it was as far as he got. He was a dentist by trade but the practice had failed, and now he was a gambler. The gambling had recently failed so badly to make him look like a genius as far as his work on bicuspids was concerned. He owed dangerous people a lot of money, and he knew soon enough that he would be contacted in a rude way. He thought about the fact he was dying slow anyway and decided to make the most of it. John pulled the corn from the oven and placed it on the cooler side of the stove.
John wasn’t the crying kind, but he could hear the train whistle calling him and it tugged at his heart like a dog playing with an old Frisbee. He turned his electric fan on and placed it on top of an old wooden box to make it level with his head. It wasn’t hot, but he was sweating like a whore in confession. John sat there for a moment feeling the cool, oscillating breeze wash over him like rain onto hot pavement. The steam rose from him. He couldn’t breathe like he wanted to, it was his own fault. He had tuberculosis and he had never stopped smoking. The disease, lazy wastrel it was; took its toll in small increments. The smoking, drinking, gambling, and women just made it all exponential.
John stood up in rhythm with his shaking, coughing body. He went to the kitchen and turned the chicken off; he opened a junk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper, a pen and an envelope. He knew the name of the man that would be stopping by for a visit tonite. They shared a woman in a surreal way. The man coming to visit got to wake up next to her, and John got to see her during the day as he drank cheap whiskey and tried in vain to drown his mind in failed sobriety. She talked about her man and knowing what it was he did every night. She had told John after he confided in her about the debt he owed. John had seen her man, and knew he stood no chance against him if he did come for him; which he would. At one time he might have; but those days were long stolen away from him by his disease.
John wrote Patrick a letter; it was a hard thing to write a letter like this to a man he had never talked with; but he had seen more than just the love of confrontation in that man’s eyes. He had seen a love for a woman; and he figured he could maybe save two people with his demise. John had no ill will towards the man coming for him this night. He knew at the most he would get his head thumped like an old glass marble; he had the money so he probably wouldn’t even get that. The money he had though; it was not enough to pay off all of the other people he owed debts to.
John finished the letter, and stared at his request wondering just how silly and far fetched it sounded. He wished he had a woman to kiss him hard and draw his bath water; he had a nice bottle of wine, which would have to suffice. He heard the whistle of the train, and thought about Georgia pines; tall and green.
He wished that woman could have read his mind; he would soon be a ghost and he would never be free as long as he was a ghost she could not see. He felt like a movie star in the middle of a three way script; here enters number two. He thought back to Georgia, and a wishing well; he never knew where it had gone wrong. He tried to understand the feelings that were lacking, he just didn’t get it. John Henry was looking far too back right now; he figured it best to do what he needed to do before those feelings made him want to travel South again without his old box, and in something other than a train.
John placed the letter in the envelope and placed it next to the fan. He grabbed the gun and placed it against his old and gnarled head. He said a prayer for the unredeemable, heroes often fail he told the night. The gun shot went off, but no one was around to hear it. John slumped back against the couch as blood covered the room in a haphazard way; like some child who had never learned or never cared to color inside the lines. Somewhere thunder sounded and lightening flashed, the old digital clock showed 12:00 in big numbers that looked like the color of death. The church bells sounded and it was quiet once again.
KB
