A Welcome Haunting - Part Seven
THURSDAY MORNING
I was walking with headphones on, up Court Street past Brooklyn Borough Hall, listening to the Grateful Dead cover Bob Dylan’s Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues when vibrations from my phone jarred away memories of 1995. It was the County Democratic Leader. I stopped walking and sat down on the stone steps facing the fountain in front of the Supreme Court Building.
“Did you know that I was working on a Civil Court campaign in 1995 when I learned that Jerry Garcia died? I was just this second thinking about that race.”
“It’s funny you mention dead people. That’s why I’m calling.” His voice lumbered across the space between us and came in close. He routed calls through his Albany office so it was impossible to know where he was, not that where he was ever mattered. If he was speaking to you, wherever he was, he was close.
“You’re calling me about Jerry Garcia dying just when I’m listening to him? What were the odds of that happening? Has to be near impossible.”
“You’re clever. That’s nice. How’s that working out for you?” he said as an annoyed aside. “I’m calling about dead people. One dead person actually. A dead Rabbi.”
“Ah, I’ve been dancing around this issue for a couple of days now. Not my definition of a good time. People are looking at me…”
“Like you killed someone? That’ll be much worse before it gets better, if it gets better. Either way, I wanted to check in to see how you’re doing.”
“Thanks boss. Actually, I’m not sure how I’m doing. I don’t know how to behave. I’m sort of in uncharted waters here.”
“Not uncharted. You’ll figure it out. Others not as smart as you have. Call me when you do but not before.” He hung up. I stood up.
I put my headphones back in with time to catch the end of the song.
I started out on burgundy
But soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they'd stand behind me
When the game got rough
But the joke was on me
There was nobody even there to call my bluff
I'm going back to New York City
I do believe I've had enough
Actually Zimmie, the truth lies closer in saying that the belligerent and wary masses are assembled around me, drinks in hand, waiting to see when it’s safe to step closer again. And I’m already in New York City, so where the fuck am I supposed to go?
Tears came quickly, but just a few. Just in case, I sat, staggered really, back down to sitting with my head in my hands, elbows on my knees with an open paper fortuitously on the step below me. Good thing too, as the plaza was filled with people, some of whom I recognized and some of whom saw me. Clearly I had something going on. I was left alone.
Standing two steps above me facing out was my grandfather and some of his colleagues, rifles held loosely, aiming in attentive lazy circles, just in case someone tried to bother me.
Dylan was wrong. You can’t forget about the dead you left and they absolutely do follow you.