The Fabric of time ... (c) 2025 from inside your Shadow (edits in progress)

 

…you gotta help me out. I’ll give you something." 

“The nerve of this haggardly skinny man,” he thought to himself, as he closed his guitar case. He had been busking all day long (playing his beat-up Murphy acoustic guitar on the sidewalk with Touch Down Jesus at Saint Elizabeth Church behind him. He had made twenty dollars in five hours.

When I removed the Peruvian Prayer beads from the energy point, there was a special guitar string that I got from Drew’s Guitar Shop. When I was talked into buying it for five dollars because he told me that it would never break. Instead of using it I placed it into the energy point. The powerful energy attached to the string went to a New Orleans side walk that was in front of Touch Down Jesus.

He was told never to make eye contact, but he did anyway. “Get Away From Me!” he screamed to the haggard thin man with long blondish grey dirty mop looking hair. Then a crowd walked by from a Haunted History tour and the seemingly beggar disappeared as they walked by, “Good,” he mumbled.

Well, I knew this time would come…

Or do I just want this to happen because

I’d rather it happen, than live my life to the fullest.

Afraid of People and Afraid of Rejection, I’m becoming

I Am becoming to think that people are just born a certain

way. If I have The Chance At Life Again, I’d like to be the lady’s

man. I’d like to be stronger. I’d like to be more creative. I think of my

hypocritical ways. Such as thinking vocally condemning those who live

fast ways: fast women, fast food, while I drink energy drinks and coffee like

water. I too have taken short cuts.

Wanted to look a certain way; while I damaged my

body. Of course there was also the cigarettes that damaged my body. I also think about the probability of conjuring and allowing spell casting in my mind/but the shrinks say it’s nothing but ‘magical thinking.’ What sort of things have I brought into this world ‘My World.’ Would I have done such things if I wasn’t high from the drinking and drugging?

Years ago, I walked up the sidewalk. I looked at the weathered worn  guitar mounted to the outside wall. I thought it was such a waste of a guitar. Then I remembered a picture of me in Memphis by a statue of Elvis. Elvis holding a guitar and in that moment I said out loud an affirmation, “One day I’mma come back here and take that guitar from Elvis.” I chuckle at that cocky grandiose statement as I walked in the door of the Guitar town store in Clarksdale Mississippi. There were unique amps on the floor and there was a two-foot-tall bundle of cotton that was comfortable enough to sit on. There were nice guitars set in such a way that the inside wasn’t cluttered. Some types were Dobro, Big Rich. Epiphone, and acoustic Taylor guitars. Also had vintage amps, like Reverb masters. Had vinyl album covers on the wall. Pictures taken with famous musicians. Pictures of Drew with his band, “What you need?” his silver hair was pristine on his head. He sat behind a glass case. Inside the case were tiny amps that fit inside your hand. There was also guitar pics, guitar parts, and guitar strings. “Man, I was at Ground Zero jamming. Would have been great if my string hadn’t popped. I need a good string. Like one made from adamantium. Like the stuff from Wolverine’s claws.” I replied. “Huh,” He took a long pull from his Papst Blue Ribbon beer then set it down by his small wooden box that contained guitar slides. Most of the slides that he made were out of copper pipes, others were from glass wine bottles.

“This String Will Never Break. It’s woven from a wiseman’s lock of hair. Like the wise man on the cover of Led Zeppelin IV. You know like the wiseman in the Tarot cards,” he continued as he teasingly waved it in front of me as it was a golden ticket. “Here you go dood,” he placed it in my hand. “Thanks Mister Drew.” “Yea, man. That’ll be five dollars.”

…and it came to be that that raggedy old man came back. Tapping the street musician on the shoulder.

“Here’s what you do,” The raggedy old man strangely said. He had the biggest grin. These types have a conniving smile quite often. “Follow me!” Out of curiosity, the street musician followed the old scraggly man.

Live music seems to always float in the air, combined with the aroma of food, cigarette and other kinds of smoke. The streets only take a nap round two in the morning. Two in the morning is the time when the veil separating this world from the other worlds is loosened.

The haggardly man stood at the door of a bar that had a live band aiding in karaoke. The crowd was shouting every line to “Ache Breaky Heart.” The street musician watched a huge security guard come and talk to him. He hoped the scraggly old man would go in the bar so he could be rid of him. He thought about turning around, but yet, he walked up to the live Karaoke entrance. “Not this one,” the old man said. “You know I never got your name,” he inquired as they walked side by side. “My name is Tom Troubadour,” he told the scraggly old man. Tom grinned deviously, as he took out a Marlboro Red and stuck it in between his lips. He quickly remembered that he only had two left. Tom could tell that the old man was thinking of how to ask Tom for his last one. “…and what’s your name?” The scraggly old man ignored him and,

“Well Tom Troubadour!” Tom heard the scraggly musician scream as if he saw some superstar and wanted the whole city of New Orleans to know. Tom wanted to hide. Thought he had lost the bum twenty minutes ago. Thought that when he told him, “I don’t have any left after I give you one,” would’ve made him leave. The bum said, “Thanks, I’ll pay you back.” “Yea right.”

“Hey Tom,” now he was acting like they were best buds and that he hadn’t seen him in years. “You can give a bum or a gypsy something you can never ever get rid of them,” Tom thought to himself; as the bum walked side by side with him. From seemingly nowhere, the bum pulled out an unopened box of Marlboro Reds. "This is for you Tom," the bum said to him smiling as he quickly removed the cellophane, pulled one out and handed it to Tom. "Okay he probably stole these. and the cops will come and take this annoying bum away," Tom thought to himself, he took one out of his new pack and lit it. Then he watched the bum take out another pack for himself.

They walked down the streets on and near Bourbon Street as the bum said, "This is the joint," as they passed another bar. But the seventh bar they passed was special. The bum would go in the bar and tell Tom to wait to see if the place was cool. Then they'd go in together and "have uhelluhofuhtime." They stopped in front of The Checkpoint. The bum went inside. It seemed strange to Tom that he wasn't known by any of the other street people. He seemed to be pretending to not know something; or at least that was what Tom was telling himself. He had a full pack of smokes, and was being entertained. Yet Tom knew soon that it would end because he needed money. "Here you go," the bum said cheerfully-and it only took him less than five minutes to come out of The Checkpoint with a twenty dollar bill in his hand. "Okay, who you rip off now?" He asked the bum as he let his cigarette butt fall to the ground. Then he stomped out the flame. "Good to see you. Please come back." A couple dressed fancy came to the bar entrance, "What did you do?" Tom asked the bum. "Here, I need to make this worth your time." Then the bum handed Tom two twenty-dollar bills. "Okay, you got anything to drink?" Tom asked joking. "Liquid courage uh," the bum's reply for some reason prompted Tom to stop walking. Then the bum and Tom said at the same time, "You know something that I don't know?" But the Bum said it in such a way to make it a mocking joke to imply that he was in control of the situation. Was in control of Tom. 

Tom Troubadour looked at a clock on the Record store building on Esplanade. It was the time for him to busk again. Now he had three packs of Marlboro Reds and a good six pack buzz. The bum stopped in front of Checkpoint Charlies. Outside the bar, the street people hang out. "Hey what's up?" They cheerfully greeted Tom Troubadour with all their hugs and joints. They wore thrift store bought clothes. Most of them haven't showered or bathed in a long while. There were sleeping bags on the sidewalks. A couple of them had dogs on leaches. And as he gave out cigarettes, one at a time, he noticed the bum wasn't around, he suddenly appeared and shouted, "Let Freedom Ring! Let Freedom Ring! Let Freedom Ring!" With that the bum started throwing twenty-dollar bills through the air.

Tom stood in the entrance of Checkpoint Charlies. He barely remembered the last time he played in there because he was drunk and high out of his mind. He remembered looking at the television behind the bar and was trying and stopped playing as the last five of the thirty of the audience left. Tom started cussing on the mic, "Well %$#* ya'll!" Shortly after that he was escorted out of the bar by New Orleans' finest. Tom ever so wanted, longed to have a second chance to redeem himself. Afterall, he had that good buzz. That not going beyond the buzz kind of buzz that made him loose, yet not too loose. Checkpoint Charlies had about thirty tables with stools. Has dimly red glow around everything; except on the barely big enough stage. Barely has room enough to fit a four-piece band. There's a poster of Hank among the past promo performer flyers posted on the walls. The bar was connected to a flat steel stove. There was a large refrigerator beside the stove. There are about ten bar stools in front of the bar slash stove. Tom looked at all the bottles on the stands behind the bar tender. There are all sorts of writing-drunk, high, and Loh'Rd knows whatever else inspired prose are on the bathroom walls. Behind the stage there's a laundry mat that has an Elvis pinball machine on a back wall of the laundry mat. There were only four in the audience. The musician playing his acoustic guitar was good. But by his sound was off his game. "Guitar Joe," Tom muttered to himself. They had played together on the sidewalk in front of 'Touchdown Jesus’ many times.

He remembered how instantly he drew the crowd with his fingers going majestically up and down the guitar neck. People came and threw their bills down. That was a couple years ago. He thought about returning the favor as he gulped down the last drops of his beer. Yet he was more curious about where the bum went. Perhaps the night's adventure was over. He walked back into the streets. "They probably won't let me in there anyway," Tom whispered to himself. 

"Hey, Tom you want this?" A street person asked him. He went by the name Leather Lee. They, and he uses that name because year around he's wearing some sort of leather vest, and black leather pants. His upper body looked like it was chiseled out of stone. Sometimes for fun he assists either helping a bouncer or being a bouncer himself. "Sure man," Troubadour Tom took a long toc. Leather Lee wouldn't normally let someone take such a long hit. 

Tom would get the 'let loose' feeling to get the gumption to go inside Checkpoint Charlie's and help Joe gain more confidence. Tom pictured it in his head of going unnoticed by the scrutinizing bar tender. 

…and it was strange, Tom took notice, no one fought over the money that the scraggly old man threw down at their feet, “Follow me inside!” The bum yelled. Tom took long drags-hot boxing the Marlboro. Couldn’t remember the last time that he had smoked a cigarette so fast, as the bum stepped inside Checkpoints with many people following him. Then he whispered to Tom, “This is it.”

 

Tom wondered how did he just know to go behind the curtain where there was another guitar and a vintage Fender Reverb amp. “One and a two and a three!” The bum screamed as he played so smooth. Guitar Joe looked up as he played so smooth, “Disappointed?” He whispered in Joe’s ear with his left hand bending, hammering, and pulling off the notes. With his right hand he went into his pocket and handed Joe a string. Took Joe about twenty seconds to put the string on his car. Tom was amazed. The bum leaned over and turned Joe’s amp on. “So you ready to rock!” The crowd yelled back,

By now Tom had been playing guitar with both guitar Joe and the bum. It was the biggest crowd that he had ever seen. May have been the biggest crowd that Checkpoint Charlie’s had ever seen. Now he was brave enough to look at the bar tender. The bar tender nodded his head and smiled.

Guitar Joe was leading the song with an awesome solo. The bum walked up to Tom and said, “We leave now.” “What? How?” Tom replied.

“What do you mean?” Tom replied to the bum saying, “I am not who you think I am. Follow me.” The bum insisted on as he pointed down an alley that Tom had not seen before. There were some lit white candles in front of the building. That was well lit. Had a sign that read “The House of Bachuss.” The bum lit a joint. Then pulled out an old looking labeled beer. Tom pulled a cigarette out, lit it. Slowly puffed.

“Well, you see that moon?” the bum asked. Tom looked up at the moon. During certain times of the year, I am able to walk the earth again and I am granted all sorts of tricks to do. Tom opened his beer. Took a long gulp. Took a hit off of the joint.

“My name is Johnny Thunder. You can call me ‘The Majician. I give you a gift for accompanying me tonight,” the bum said.

“Well John. My name is really Tom Troubadour,” he admitted. Then Tom blinked his eyes and The Majician was gone. Tom checked his pockets to see if he still had the thousand dollars he made in tips from Checkpoint Charlie’s. He had that and had five hundred more. He continued smoking the joint until it was gone. On the ground where Johnny Thunder was there was a Rider Waite’s Tarot Card. Yet instead of Magician it read “The Musician.” On top of the card was a guitar string, “The gift,” he muttered to himself. A gust of wind howled blowing the string in the wind, and put the candle out. Then he read the sign in front of the Building, “The House of Bachuss.”