#The Fez on the Barroom Floor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellohasheehee-blog · 8 years ago

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A Reverie in the Swamp

The tavern looked to have been a former church, but the tongues spoken inside were clearly not the Sunday variety. Through the window, I saw figures traced in candlelight outline the clamor from within. There was no hesitation. I strutted up the creek board and, emboldened by my prowess, pushed forth the door and entered as a realized being, brazen as the days when an entourage of Hasheesheens and hanger-ons still clung to my side. That is my way wherever I may roam, but sometimes I forget. A gray-eyed Cree nodded as I approached and gestured at the bar with a snap of his fingers.

I came in search of direction, but lost it soon enough under the influence of a squirrely barmaid with an eye for strangers. “Such a coaxing lass,” I thought as she poured an a generous dose of moonshine into my Seabreeze, “I swear she’s among a pantheon of forgotten goddesses, or at least the neice of one”. Seeing her, I remembered faces of distant loved ones, still I could not place her origins. Her smile led to a shot, which led to many more.

So captivated was I by her aura, I failed to notice a swelling crowd compacting the barroom with each ticking on the clock. A spell had been cast. “10, 9, 8…” And firmly broken. “7, 6, 5…” I whipped around poised to strike. “4, 3, 2…” And saw the darnedest thing. “One.” A possum floated in a glass pyramid above a frenzied mass of swamp dwellers.

“Happy New Year!”

Powders of natural dye colored the musty air with celebratory clouds, as revelry commenced. Clay trinkets and tiny pebbles were tossed about, rattling as they hit the floor. A jug band huffed and puffed “Auld Lang Syne” in a gassy baritone. For a moment, I stood humbled. The opossum’s obelisk had obviously been a planned descent from the rafters for a New Year’s lark, but damned if it wasn’t a most crazed spectacle to catch by happenstance. Have you ever expelled a belief etched firmly in your mind-- one that’s shaped you since childhood? The belief you aren’t good enough, perhaps, or smart enough, or beautiful enough? I realized I had fixated on the notion that I was unique-- that I was different than all else, a bon apart. But as this whiskered madonna descended, that illusion shattered like glass. We all cast our own light, undoubtedly, but nothing holds sway like a Possum Drop, man. If you want something special, that’s it-- they doll her up and everything. I swear the midnight critter even cast me a conspiratorial wink mere moments before the barmaid of my fancy stole me away for a new year’s kiss over by the swamp cooler!

In an hour’s time, I had bought the bar and won the people. “To the Great Dismal Swamp,” I cheered, “And the company she keeps!” Jars an bottles were hoisted high into the air. The walls vibrated with pleasure! An overflow of liquor leaked between the floorboards into the dredge below. An elder in fez, wearing rags and ribbons of a war long passed, staggered through a slurred rendition of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door" by Hafez of Shiraz (upon whose mention be peace). Knowing glances were exchanged between several love triangles, a few of which I found myself in the middle. At the height of revelry, a carpenter with chief’s blood leapt off his stool and demanded a contest of Tuscarora smoke dances, a competition in which I proudly took sixth place despite lacking at least a week of sleep. A young woman presented roses to the champion of the dance and led him away, as though she had planned that moment for a very long time. The room burst with whistle and applause.

Despite the clatter, the crash of the table collapsing was so extraordinarily out of place, it brought the celebration to a screeching halt. From under the debris, scurried the midnight possum, long since unattended to and still wearing her new year diaper. She scurried through the crowd eventually hiding beneath the hoop-skirt of the genius granddaughter of one Harriet Tubman. Face smeared in rouge and mascara, the wayward marsupial peeked out from the shadows and softly hiccuped. A flannel-clad gentleman reasoned she must have snuck a few sips from the whiskey gutter and having acquired the taste, tried and failed to climb a nearby table to partake in his unattended brandy, but my theory was she had a penchant for mischief. She met my gaze and I smiled conspiratorially, picked up my snifter full of moonshine, and placed it at my feet. “This one’s on me, comrade. You earned it.” The possum cautiously exited the shadows. She stopped at the glass, looked at me with a twinkle in her eye, and drank, lapping it up as a cheer rattled the ceiling and the swamp was free again.

When I came to the next morning or the morning after, the joint was empty. Detritus of festivity littered the floor, ash and undergarments spread hastily about the room, an abandoned dragon puppet that had seen it’s last parade lay crumpled in the corner. The glass pyramid still dangled from the ceiling. Patches of chalk smeared the walls, revealing shapes that somewhat resembled bodies. The dim light of the room traced daggers in my brain, but when I reached to lower my Stetson, it wasn’t there. Disoriented, I searched the premises, until I found my hat behind the bar. In it, nestled in a ball, slept the stone drunk o-possum. My movements awoke her and she looked at me with regret, but with heavy eyes that plied for one more shot of bourbon for the road. I rightfully complied and of course partook myself. Downing the shot with a cough, I said to the critter, I said, "Jezebel, this is the first day of the rest of our lives. Let’s see what we can make of it." With taste in mouth, she crawled out of her ten-gallon cubby and began suckling a jug left empty on the floor. "I love you, Jezebel, “ I sang as I dusted soot off my hat, “Yes, I do...”

Outside, the day was much brighter, but the shine no longer pained me. In fact, I felt effervescent. A road stretched endlessly into both horizons. Must’ve come in the back way, I noted, looking into the distance. I looked to the West. It was time to go home again. Leeward, a patch of yellow lingered in the distance, but it was not the rising sun. As it came closer, I saw it was a Vanagon. By either mirage or miracle, I recognized the Jester’s wagon. “Not all who wander are lost,” I whispered as I stuck out my thumb and drew down my hat. The van slowed to a stop and I was in the passenger seat with belt buckled before the driver realized he knew my face.

“Aw, shit it’s Dewdrop Saint Frank,” he exclaimed pulling his hair back from the brow in exasperation, “Of all the fucking people.”

“Please don’t call me that, Jester. My name’s Hasheeshee. Hasheeshee Saint Frank”.

“Whatever, man… Cripes! What the fuck is that thing?”

The hippy stared at Jezebel as she jumped into his van, crawled up my pant leg, and cuddled in my lap. There was a long silence, as I picked up a roach that had been abandoned on the dash and lit it. I coughed and held it forth as a peace offering. “That thing is life, Jester. That... thing... is life itself.” The van inched forward and so began our journey home, past the Eastern hills and inland cities, through gorges and chasms, across the Great Western Plain until we finally reached the shadow of the Rockies, home to Eldorado Springs to this garden where you and I now sit, two souls brought together by a chain of epiphanies in an eon of unremarkable events. There is nothing shocking, nothing unique, about any of us when we are here together and know we are each other. Here, caress my cheek. Do you feel me or do you feel your own hand? We are one, brought up as one by what, we do not know. But I digress. So now that the tale of Jezebel’s remarkable adoption ends, the time has come to talk of more pressing matters.

Now let's talk about us.

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