I spent the day at the beach with my friend, the ghost of musical composer Claude Debussy. He didn’t have a bathing suit, and seemed to be okay wearing his suit.
He refused to put on sunscreen, so he borrowed the umbrella I keep in my car.
I like spending time with the ghost of Debussy because he’s lyrical in his demeanor. He feels like a walking song. He doesn’t say much, but he feels like music. I guess in some ways he’s the radio I like to bring with me to the beach.
I was out for a walk in the Clementine forest when I came across President Donald Trump. He was out by himself. There weren’t even any Secret Service agents accompanying him.
I introduced myself and said, “I had no idea that you liked clementines.”
He said, “What do you mean?”
I said, “We’re surrounded by Clementine trees.”
He said, “I didn’t notice.”
I suggested he try one of the multitudes of the fruit. He shrugged. So I picked one and offered it to him. He didn’t seem that interested. So I peeled the clementine.
He said, “It smells okay.”
I said, “It tastes better.”
He took the peeled fruit and pulled off a section and ate it. He didn’t seem to like the taste. He spit it out.
The chewed piece of clementine sank into the ground. A sprout of a new seedling shot out. It grew into a nine foot tree, followed by instant buds, and then fresh clementines.
He didn’t notice and walked away.
I thought about that song by the Fixx called, One Thing Leads to Another.
I went to the wishing well. I tossed in a quarter. I heard the quarter land on hard ground. I was worried because for years the coin would always make a splashing sound on the water.
I called down into the well, “Is everything okay down there?”
The quarter said, “I’m okay. But the water’s gone.”
I said, “It looks like the wishing part of the well is defunct. You need the water as a conduit for conveying the wish into existence.”
The quarter said, “You’re probably right.”
I said, “That’s too bad. Oh, well. I’m gonna go.”
The quarter said, “Wait, what about me?”
I said, “What do you want me to do?”
The quarter said, “Never mind. Just go.”
I felt badly and tried to climb down into the well. I got most of the way, but fell a few feet from the bottom. I laid there, stunned.
The quarter said, “I’m sorry you fell. Are you okay?”
I said, “I think so.”
The quarter said, “Hey, even without the water, it’s still a wishing well. I wanted you to come and get me, and you did!!”
This is a promotional picture of a band I was in when I was a year old. We were called Baby’s Breath. I’m the one on the left, about to chew on the tambourine. That’s Chip McNister on the sax, and Bertie Blisterine on the keyboards.
Our parents were our managers and got us our gigs. We mostly played at infants’ first birthday parties. Though once we performed at MacNutty’s Soup bar at Tollway 89 on the Garden Start Parkway.
I’m mentioning that time in my life because I’ve recently been in touch with Chip and Bertie about getting the band back together. It looks like it’s going to happen. We’re using social media to promote ourselves. We heard that’s how things are done these days.
I was taking my Friday night bath when I was visited by the ghost of writer Samuel Johnson.
I wasn’t embarrassed because ghosts are no longer body identified. The body for them is like a hat you throw on just before going outside, out of habit.
I lay in the tub, comfortable in my wet nakedness and said it was good to meet him. I always say that to every ghost I meet because I always say this to every living person I meet. I was raised to be nice no matter what.
The ghost of Samuel Johnson took his wig off and laid it on the sink. He sat on the toilet and rubbed his dead bald head with his hand and sighed. He undid the many laces of his ghost boots, and after removing them, unpeeled his leggings. Then the ghost of Samuel Johnson set his feet into the hot bath and remarked, “The warm waters, mixed with the lavender essence, are most relaxing.”
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