by Jim Dodge
Captain Midnight was right behind him. ‘Right on, Brother John! Time to get real out there. Get your nose to the stone. Bear down and deliver. You’ve got to be at least as real as the demons, and that’s just to break even, Jack, hold your own ground. You got to get up over it or slide down under it or slip away in between. Think that over if you’ve got a mind, and in the meanwhile I’ll make more than good on my promise to make it right by you for that dead air. You think I’m jiving? Well, eat shit and crawl under a rock, because sitting right beside me live in the studio is that legendary street prophet and avatar of the damaged, the one and only Fourth Wiseman. You’ve probably heard the mantra he chants every day, all day, for your edification and maybe salvation: “The Fourth Wiseman delivered his gift and slipped away.” That one sentence, that single expression of holy being, is all his priestly vows allow him. But what you might not know is that he permits himself to answer one question every Halloween eve, and tonight it’s my privilege, and yours, to have him here in the studio with us, and I blush with the honor of having been chosen to ask him his question for the year. Welcome to KRZE, sir. He’s nodding his head and winging his yo-yo.’
‘Ask him what the gift was,’ I begged.
‘We understand, sir,’ Captain Midnight went on, ‘that you can only answer your one question and not engage in conversational pleasantries, so let me get right to it. Will you tell us, please, what was the Fourth Wiseman’s gift?’
I cheered.
‘No one knows,’ the Fourth Wiseman said, and hearing his voice I knew this was either the Fourth Wiseman or an exceptional mimic. ‘Scholars generally recognize three possibilities, for which the evidence is about equal. The three most supportable possibilities for the Fourth Wiseman’s gift are a song, a white rose, and a bow – the gesture of acknowledgment and respect, not the bough of a tree. But again, no one really knows.’
‘And which of the three do you favor,’ the Captain asked politely.
Silence. I heard my mother crying softly and my father, confused, saying, ‘Hey, it was a great dream: my brain turned into a white rose.’ I saw the rose petal kaleidoscope of colors smeared against the buckling glass as the wind milked their essence and infused the storm. I needed the names of the roses. I needed their protection.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Captain Midnight apologized. ‘I see the rules are strict – one question only. Thank you for being with us, you burned-out old speed freak, and please feel welcome to stay.’
The Fourth Wiseman said, ‘The Fourth Wiseman delivered his gift and slipped away.’
‘Well, slip away if you want, but you listeners out there rocketing through the dark better stay glued to the groove and be ready to move because here it is, a lucky license plate number picked by our own Mystery Spotter, plucked from the random churn of things like a speck of gold from the cosmic froth, and if it’s your number that’s up and you call and identify yourself within fifteen minutes, you’re gonna win two tickets to the dance. The dance, you dig what I’m saying?’
I looked down the road into my parents’ rose garden and tried to remember the names of all the roses while Captain Midnight paused for a thunderous drumroll before announcing, ‘Well, well, well, we got a California plate – just goes to show our Mystery Spotter is everywhere you are, and you never know when her wild eyes may fall on you. Could be never. Could be your next heartbeat. Could be, ooooh, couldie be. But tonight’s number could only be this one: BOP three-three-three. That’s B as in Boo, O as in Overboard; P as in Psalm; three as in treys; three as in blind mice; three as in tri – be it trilogy, trident, trial and error, trick, or just a little bit harder. So okay, BOP three-three-three, California dreamer, whoever you are out there raving in the dark, you got fifteen minutes to call me at Beechwood 4–5789. But hey, Captain Midnight’s gonna cut you some slack, Jack – I’m gonna give you twenty minutes to call in. Not only because I’m a righteous fool myself, but because the next side I’m gonna drop on you is so rare and so fine I don’t want it interrupted by some crass promotional gimmick. This side just happens to be twenty minutes long. It’s the only recording of this tune in existence, and the moment it’s over I’m gonna burn it. That’s right, you heard it straight: I’m laying on the flame the instant it’s finished. So listen well, because the next time you hear it you’ll be listening to your memory. And while the Captain isn’t one to pass judgment on the musical sensibilities of his listeners, if this don’t touch the living spirit in your poor, ragged heart, you best call a mortuary and make an appointment. I’ll tell you the name of the man who made this music when it’s done and burning.’
I didn’t have to wait long on the knowledge. The exhausted keening of the opening passage was already etched in my memory: Big Red playing my birthday song, ‘Mercury Falling.’
I felt like everything at once and nothing forever. I felt triumphant my license number had been called, joyous that I’d connected with Mira, who I was sure had spotted me. But I was crushed by the realization that there wasn’t a phone within a half-hour in any direction, and moved to tears by the first bars of Big Red’s sax calling to the ghosts across the water as we pushed the glossy Merc coupe over the cliffs and stood at the windswept edge waiting for it to hit. I was stunned, confused, possessed, lost, found, confirmed in my faith and strangely bereft. You can’t be moved in that many directions at once without tearing apart.
My ghost was there beside me on the front seat. ‘You worthless jerk-off, I want to dance. You think when he said the dance he meant some fucking sock-hop in a crepe-festooned gym smelling of fifty-thousand P. E. classes? No, you make sure we’re in the middle of absolutely nowhere, a thousand light-years from a phone, so we can’t win the tickets. Screw your dumb moral victories. I’m sick of being cooped up in your cloying romance. If we make it to the ocean, you’ll probably want to pave it so you don’t have to finish and admit your failure. You’ve gone crazy, George. That’s what I’m stuck to, a crazy fuck-up. But we’ll just see about that––’
‘Shut up!’ I bellowed. ‘I want to listen to the music.’
‘Well, I want to dance. You too proud to dance with your ghost? Afraid people will point and giggle? What do you think they’re doing now? Come on, George, if you’re not going to do anything with your body but abuse it, give it to me. I could use one. Just don’t include your mind in the deal, all right?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ I screamed again, ‘this is my birthday song!’ I reached over and twisted the volume all the way up.
But you can’t drown out your ghost. He began singing, relentlessly off-key:
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, mad George,
Happy birthday toooo youuuu…
Birthday Bow, I remembered. That was a name of one of the roses in the garden. My father was crying in the silence that Big Red had created. I could feel Kacy moving with me like a wave. A small blue rectangular miracle appeared before my eyes, a road sign:
EMERGENCY PHONE
1 MILE
I came off the gas and told my ghost, ‘Go get your dancing shoes, asshole.’ He laughed as he vanished.
The light above the phone box was broken so I used one of the birthday candles that couldn’t be blown out for light as I carefully dialed BE4–5789.
Be-beep; be-beep; be-beep; be-beep; be-beep. The sound like an auger up my spinal cord. Busy.
I hung up and tried again. Still busy. I figured I had a minute left. I called the operator, hoping she’d believe my claim of emergency and cut in. I couldn’t get the operator, not even a ring. Not even a hum. I tried BE4–5789 again and got nothing at all. The line was dead.
My ghost was standing beside me. ‘Irony eating you up is it, George? I’m afraid you’re gonna become mutilated, just like that old con salesman warned you about. But that’s your problem, buddy. Me, I’m going to dance.’
‘Be home early,’ I snarled at him as he disappeared.
; Back in the Caddy and on the road, I caught the last notes of ‘Mercury Falling.’ ‘Burn it,’ I urged Captain Midnight, seeing the brilliant red petals in my mind. ‘Gypsy Fire,’ I remembered aloud. ‘Borderflame. My Valentine.’
Captain Midnight whispered, ‘Let’s let his ghost go now.’ I heard him strike a match. ‘Whooooosh!’ He laughed. ‘Memory.’
The room growing darker as the petals clotted against the window. The yellow and orange was Carnival Glass. ‘Carnival Glass,’ I said it aloud. The orange and pink was Puppy Love. ‘Puppy Love, Kacy, isn’t that a wonderful name for a rose?’
‘Ashes to ashes,’ Captain Midnight intoned, ‘dust to dust. Round and round the music goes, here in the majesty of bloom, gone in the voluptuous exhilarations of decay. Purchase for the roots, food for its green flesh, and where it stops nobody knows. But don’t you worry. The whole is perfect. It’s just never the same. For example, stick an ear on these new kids from England doing good-ol’-boy Buddy Holly’s tune from six years back – that’s right, brighten up for some truth, grab some stash and hang on to your ass, because you got the Rolling Stones and “Not Fade Away.”’
Tell me it still couldn’t come up roses. I joined in on the second chorus, singing it with rock-solid, gospel-light joy,
Love for real not fade away!
And my ghost, suddenly appearing sitting cross-legged on the hood, pressed his face against the windshield and roared,
Doo-wop; doo-wop; doo-wop-bop.
He smiled sweetly and then reached down and tore off the windshield wipers like a baby giant tearing the wings off a fly. I was so shocked it took me a second to realize I couldn’t see the road. He’d turned solid. My hands froze the wheel in position as I came down easy on the brakes, craning to see around him, my heart lurching against my ribs.
‘Better let me drive now, George,’ my ghost said. ‘You’re so fucked-up you can’t see through me.’
‘Nova Red!’ I yelled in his grinning face. ‘Warwhoop! Sun Maid! Candleflame! Trinket! Seabreeze!’ I was under 50 and still on the road. As I strained to see around him he moved with me, but I caught a glimpse off to the right of a low shoulder and open saltflats beyond, and that was all I needed. I cranked the wheel to the right, bottomed out in the drainage swale, then shot out clear and clean, mashing the gas.
My ghost was still hanging on, still sitting calmly and cross-legged on the hood, grinning madly as foam drooled from his mouth and flecked the windshield. I glanced at the floorboards. Both packages of Rabi-Tabs were gone. It no longer mattered what was possible.
My ghost lifted a hand to his foamy mouth, wiped off a viscous gob, smeared it across the windshield.
‘The Hokey-Pokey,’ I cried, ‘is raw orange with a yellow center. You put your whole self in and take your whole self out. The Bo Peep is light pink, white compared to my hat.’ I whipped off my stingy-brim and waved it in front of his foam-blurred face to blind him, then suddenly cranked the wheel hard-left and spun the Caddy through a full 360°, your classic brodie, and then I punched the gas and snapped one off to the right.
To see through the opaque Rabi-Tab film on the glass was difficult, but it looked like I’d thrown him off. My spirit broke with his first jarring stomp on the roof, dancing as he merrily sang:
The kids in Bristol are as sharp as a pistol
When they do the Bristol Stomp.
STOMP. STOMP. The headliner rippling as the roof buckled.
It’s really sumpin’ when the joint is jumping
When they do the Bristol Stomp.
STOMP. STOMP. Stomping on the roof.
My eardrums ached as I fishtailed to a stop, slammed it into reverse, punched it, and then did some stomping myself, down hard on the brakes. Nothing could budge him.
‘Who am I?’ he screamed. ‘Who am I?’ He started singing again, to the tune of ‘Popeye,’
I’m Ahab the Sailor Man – toot! toot!
I stay as obsessed as I can – toot! toot!
When weirdness starts swarming
It’s too late for warning
Because things have got way out of hand.
‘And you, George,’ he murmured, ‘you’re the innocent heart of the whale.’
The tip of a harpoon plunged through the roof, the barbed head burying itself in the seat about a half-inch from my head, so close it nicked the brim of my hat. A harpoon. How can you even think about something like that?
‘Let me drive,’ he demanded. ‘You’re wasted. It’s over.’
I drove. Rammed it in low, tached it up, popped the clutch. The nose of the Caddy lifted like it was some supercharged, nitro-snorting dragster getting off the mark. My ghost jumped back down on the hood and started tap dancing, stopping abruptly to say, ‘Let me drive. I know what you want; I know what you’re looking for.’ And tappidy-tappidy-dappity-tap he started dancing again, not even swaying as I hit second and wound it out.
Over the engine scream and my dancing ghost and the blood pounding in my skull, a voice spoke clearly from the radio, a voice I’d only heard once in my life, four words in mimicry of his mother: ‘Come on … we’re late.’ Eddie. I hit the brakes so hard I whacked my head on the steering wheel.
My ghost, unmoved on the hood, was lip-synching with great exaggeration as Eddie’s voice explained through the radio, ‘It was my favorite drawing. The horses are really deer who can pick up signals from ghosts with their horns like they were TV antennas or something. The big red flower can pick up signals from the sun and aim them at the deer. It’s just a big red flower, I don’t know what kind. The long green car is to go look for the flower and the deers. It needs big, tough wheels because it’s a long way and the flower is hidden and the deer can run like the wind. And the sun’s just there in the middle, you know, so you can see things. I didn’t want to lose it.’
I got the Caddy stopped, brought my knees out from under the wheel and up to my chest, and uncoiled a savage two-heeled kick at the radio. A woman screamed as the glass shattered. ‘It’s done, George,’ my ghost said softly, his voice coming through the radio. I kicked it again and again, and with every blow a woman screamed through the speaker and my ghost told me it was over, to let go. I was reaching for the battery out of Joshua’s music box to knock out the radio when I caught the glint off the gallon can of white gas on the backseat floor. In one motion I picked it up, swung it over the seat back, and bashed it against the radio. A woman screamed. I was swinging the can for another blow when I understood she was Kacy. I’d never heard her scream before, but I knew it was her. I dropped the can on the front seat. The blow had cracked a seam in the thin metal. The gas leaked in erratic dribbles, soaking into the seat. My sinuses burned from the fumes, tears spilling down my cheeks. I sagged back against the seat. My ghost grinned down triumphantly.
‘You drive,’ I said.
I swabbed my jacket sleeve across my face to wipe the tears, and when I blinked them open a moment later I was lying on the Caddy’s hood, my face pressed to the windshield, staring into the empty eyes of my ghost.
‘George,’ he said sweetly, ‘if you want to live you must throw yourself to death like a handful of pennies into a wishing well.’
He pivoted from the waist and reached over into the backseat. He was putting a record on the turntable. I knew he was going to mock me by playing ‘Chantilly Lace,’ so I was stunned by the sound of an approaching train, its distant wail slicing the dark. For a spinning instant I thought we were parked on railroad tracks and would have leaped if I hadn’t been hurled against the windshield as my ghost popped the clutch and smoked it through first into second as the train bore down and my brain bloomed with white roses. I shouted their names as he ripped it into high, wind tearing the petals away, flinging them to darkness and salt: ‘Cinderella! White King, White Madonna, White Feather, White Angel! Misty Dawn! Careless Moment!’
‘“Careless Moment?”’ My ghost roared with laughter. He thought it was so funny he turned off the hea
dlights. I was going to die. Meal for the roses, meat for the dream. ‘It’s such a beautiful dream,’ my mother told me as the garden burned and the train screamed through my skull, obliterating every name I knew. I looked down at my body and only the skeleton remained. Then, taken by an undreamable serenity, I calmly stood up on the hood of the Caddy. I bowed to my ghost and then leapt lightly up on the roof. The wind sang through my bones. I could feel the exact pressure against every bone in my hands as I wrapped them around the jutting shaft of the harpoon and in one concerted movement snapped it off. I jumped back down on the hood, pivoting neatly as I swung the wooden shaft and smashed it through the windshield with all my might.
My ghost smiled up at me. ‘Took you long enough, George. I thought I was going to have to do it by myself.’
I dove through the smashed-out window and went for his throat.
My flesh and blood hands were locked on the wheel where his had been, 130 mph straight ahead into the salt-glittering dark. I could have gone on forever if the engine hadn’t blown.
The instant it blew I lost control. I tried to correct as it started sideways; a useless reflex. I was gone, and all I could do was hold on helpless and terrified as the Caddy slewed across the saltflats and finally went over, flipping three times bang-bang-bang, then skidding driver’s side down, my cheek pressed against the window, greenish sparks shooting past as if I was being hurled through the stars. Then, violently, the Caddy flipped again, end over end, twisting, then again on its side in a wild twirl, and as it was slowing I felt like I was inside the milk bottle we’d used in our first, nervous game of spin-the-bottle. My first spin stopped on Mary Ann Meyers. I felt her lips touch mine, the jelly-tremor roll through my loins. I felt Kacy’s arms slip around me naked in the sunlight. The whirling stopped. It was utterly still.
