[FistsofFury]

[[[[[[[WASHED UP PART 2]]]]]]]

Staring at the ceiling…I found myself doing that more. Your own room is different when you’re just laying there. I could see the band posters, the section of cut out Hustler pinups and the stack of books in the on top of the Tupperware bin. I didn’t feel like myself, but that guitar looked good on the stand in my room surrounded by all my shit. I looked at it and felt clever. Shrewd is the word. Harold Oneida the Shrewd. I don’t need to be rich. I need oxygen. I don’t want to be famous. I just want to make enough money to have my own apartment and not be roasting rats in it cause I’m so broke. Is that so hard? You know we’re sitting here drinking beers talking…is that so hard? Yeah I’m whining. Let met get back to what I was talking about.

As usual more freaky dreams came next. This one faded into a night scene. The orange streetlights glowed in fuzzy circles in a neat line for two rows. I was in downtown Detroit I know it…at the Belle Isle bridge. The 4 lanes were empty and everything seemed to be in a fog. A bridge with rolling water glistening beneath me that I was only catching flickers of in the darkness. In front of me was a man in a dark suit. He slowly turned around and looked at the city behind him. It was that Tyrone guy…I was right behind him and he was acting like he couldn’t see me. I saw him pull out a pint bottle from his jacket and take a long swig. Then he turned around and walked to the ledge. He stood up on the stone banister…just standing there.

“The rest is hard to remember.” A gruff voice said to my right. I turned to face the voice and it belonged to a man in a dripping wet dark suit. He was looking directly at me with glazed half open eyes. He could see me…and I could see the water droplets pooling on the concrete where he stood…in this dream of another time. With cold clammy skin and sunken eyes it was the same Tyrone Jefferson I saw in the other dream…the one I read about. I don’t remember what I said but I know what I said was ignored.

“I have a hit now, so I can pay back Dice. Where is Hiram Murphy?!!?” His voice sounded like a low rumble. Tyrone grabbed me by the shoulders with both hands. He held me a few feet away from him and he just stared into my eyes. His hands were so cold and wet I could feel the water getting through my clothes. My dream clothes right?

“Tell Hiram Murphy to keep his end of the deal!”

The waterlogged bluesman screamed, in a voice that sounded loud and flat. His grip was tight on my shoulders. His dark brown eyes still locked onto mine. Water dripping off his strong jaw and dark sleeves. The fog then starting creeping around us. The night grew darker..I could see the streetlights getting dimmer.

“How do I get out of here?! Tell me!” The cold overwhelmed me and I went numb. I snapped awake to find myself on the floor of my bedroom, wrapped in damp sheets. I fumbled around for a scrap of paper and pen and then after failing turned on a light. I wrote down Hiram Murphy then made a sandwich in the middle of the night. Then watched an infomercial glamorizing the disco period in a 3 disc set. Didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

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The next day I got on craigslist and put in a ad. I was full of cereal but still drowsy from the lack of sleep I just put the basic details of the guitar in the ad. Getting the ad right was really important, had to have the different angles for pictures and a shot of the serial number. In my room playing merchant it felt right, realistic. If I get rid of the guitar and the dreams go away then I’d leave it at that.

Reality hits hard. The pop culture primes us to crave fame and fortune. People don’t even know what they want to be famous for, they just know they want to be famous. Its bullshit right?

Lucy said I ought to have the guitar purified. The evil spirits cleansed from the thing. I couldn’t find any witch doctors in the area.

Tyrone Jefferson’s wikipedia page was spotty. It said he was born in Detroit and played guitar in a jazz group called The Filters which had a few small singles like ‘Baby Don’t Believe Them’ and ‘Thinking About That Lady’. After that Tyrone cut a few solo singles and had a tiny hit called ‘Stop Lying To Me’ and started a tour. Then I got to the part that said:

‘Plauged by substance abuse and gambling issues, Jefferson owed substantial amounts to elements of the city’s criminal underworld. After a performance at O’Den’s on Nov 19, 1974 Jefferson abruptly left the venue and was never seen alive again. His body was recovered from the Detroit River on December 2. The death was ruled an alcohol related accident. Tyrone Lee Jefferson never married and had no known relatives. He was 36 years old.”

You never know who is writing those things. I closed the window, turned off the computer and went outside for a cigarette. After the cigarette I left to go bum around a little before work. I got two replies when I got home. One wanted to pay much lower than I wanted to sell it for and the other guy just said he wanted it and asked when we could meet. Harold Oneida the Shrewd.

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The guy seemed legit enough. He agreed on the price which was the same price I got for it. A little lower than the average going price. His name was Vince and he was either old or nerdy…you know from the way he typed.

I met him in a crappy stripmall, still toughing it out despite the lack of a giant anchor store. The asphalt was cracked and the yellow lines were spotty. It looked like it was about to rain. The rain still gathering in the clouds or something.

I met him halfway, he lived 23 miles northeast of me. I found myself in a part of town I rarely went to. Not just because there was nothing there. I was driving through the 2nd ring suburb..crumbling and boarded up just like half the stuff in this county. No buyers because they can’t get a loan says the news. I did spot a few sports bars that may tolerate live music sometime. A Fuddrucker’s…maybe we could rock the burger joint. Probably not.

The guy was old. Like in his 50s with a potbelly and long grey hair that was thining on top in defiance. He seemed bummed out or something. When he first got out of the car to say ‘hi’ he wasn’t smiling at all his face was leaning toward a frown. Then he saw the guitar as I took it out of my backseat. His eyes lit up behind those specs and he let out a little gasp as I placed it in his hands. I anxiously handed the cursed thing to him for inspection, standing there in that empty ass parking lot. Looking back it was perfect. He wouldn’t notice how cold the thing was!

“I put new strings on it…everything works and stuff.”

He looked down at it and I was tense man…stiff as a statue. I could see the slate sky and the shadows of our heads reflected in the mirror pickguard. I remember looking around as the guy started nodding and reaching for his car door.

“This is a nice tele. Wow…your uncle’s guitar?” He was old and weird too.

“I got it at a pawn shop. Only had it a couple weeks.” The words came out too slowly. He got an envelope out of his door and handed it to me. He seemed confused that I would sell it. I could tell as he looked at me, then looked back at the guitar. Weirdo.

“I don’t like the twang! I got bills!” Shrugged as I yelled a little too loudly.

“Well thanks. You in a band? Cause me and my buddies have been messing around and we’re trying to-”

“No I’m not. If there are any problems email me.” I took off for my car and jumped in. I yelled “have a good day” while starting the engine. Yes my windows were down. I just couldn’t that time. When I pulled away I could still see that guy drooling over the black telecaster in my rearview. Freak. Oh well, not my problem. No one wants to be a loser. But limitations are good to know about. You gotta know the score now in order to plan the right moves later. I gotta learn a trade or something. You gotta feel like what you’re doing is going somewhere, whatever that means.

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