Two days had passed since I woke up. The hospital staff was courteous enough to let me play the records my mom brought from home. The only problem was that they didn’t have any way to play my music, so my mom had to drop off my record player. But luckily for me, last year, I bought myself one of those new GE portable phonographs. The quality can’t compare to the one I have installed at home, and it can only play 45s; still, it is much better than anything. It beats the boring talk shows we get from the San Francisco radio stations; all they ever talk about is the war ending.
“It could help him in his recovery process,” said Aisling the day my mom came in with the phonograph, “It can help him with his speech through humming or even singing.” I don’t know whether that is medically true, though I felt it has helped me. Sometimes, I sang along or even forced myself to get out of bed to replay a song or switch it to another.
Sometimes, Aisling would join along in singing with me whenever she came in to check on me. She is fond of the song “Cracklin’ Rosie” by Neil Diamond. She always requested that song whenever she came into my room to change the sheets, IV, or something. She’d sing the entire piece with perfect synchronicity while doing her things. I always thought she had a pretty singing voice.
I asked her on the evening of the third day, “Why do you like that song so much?”.
“Cracklin’ Rosie?” she asked, confused, while changing the sheets on my bed.
“Yeah, Cracklin Rosie.”
“It just brings me back to a brighter time in my life,” she told me while forcing a smile, “I could stop asking for the song if I annoyed you with it. I probably asked you to play that song about 50 times these past couple of days.”
I immediately felt terrible; I didn’t mean to upset her. I tried to tell her, “No, I’m not annoyed by the song. I was just curious, is all. You just seem like you have a great time when you sing along. I just wanted to know why it made you so happy. I actually really like it.”
She jokingly said, “I know you like the song; why else would you have the record?” but her eyes weren’t smiling. Her face began to sour, and she made a look that I didn’t even know a person like Aisling could make. The sorrow I saw in her eyes morphed into an emotion that I knew; it was one of hopelessness and frustration. She gave me a slight grin, but it made me uncomfortable. Her little smile was full of life, but her eyes were empty. “I just really like the song. I guess you can attribute it to why I am a nurse.”
We awkwardly looked at each other and shared a moment of silence. At that moment, we understood each other a little more without exchanging words. I grabbed my phonograph, loaded the 45, and began to play the track for her. I sang with all my heart; she joined along halfway through. When she sang with her soul, I could see the life flowing back into her eyes.
On the morning of the sixth day, I woke up a little earlier than I anticipated, I suppose with all the excitement of seeing my family and, most importantly, Charlotte. The whole time I was bedridden, I spent most of my time thinking about her. What was she doing? What is she thinking about? How is she feeling?
A piece of me, for some reason, didn’t want to think about it. In a weird way, I thought I was getting excited for no reason; like, am I really going to be happy about returning to my life?
I’ve lived here in St. Anthony all my life; this is the only place I know and probably will ever know. I must’ve walked up and down the main road over a million times by now. The same road I used to walk just to get to elementary and Junior High is the same road I take to get to my job at the docks. Not much changes on this Island; the people just get older and are replaced with more children. If those kids are lucky in life, they get to leave this rock for 8 hours a day while they go to High School.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
On this small Island, there is only enough room for grades below 9th. If the kids want to attend a High School, the closest one is in the San Francisco Bay. Roughly 10 miles of empty sea, the only way to get across is through the ferry that comes by daily, but the problem is that it has a ridiculous cost. Seventy-five cents for a one-way trip. A dollar-fifty for a round trip. Most people working at the docks don’t make that kind of money, even with us winning the war in Vietnam and President Nixon supposedly putting all efforts into helping the American People.
What a load of shit… I only make thirty-five cents an hour.
The minimum wage must’ve been worse when I was a kid. At least that’s what I tell myself whenever I used to get bitter about never going to High School. My girlfriend, Charlotte, went to the school in San Francisco. I used to patiently wait for her at the ferry’s loading dock every day after work. Those days I look back on very happily. I could’ve had the worst possible day at work, but just to see her would make me forget every little bad thing that happened that day.
Since I used to get off at work at five and the ferry from San Francisco would arrive at six, I would have an hour to kill. Sometimes, I would just sit down and smoke my cigarettes until the boat arrived. I never smoked more than three at a time. If I smoked one more after my third, my throat would hurt. Sometimes, I would stop by Miracle’s Bakery and get a pastry that she liked. She really enjoyed her sweets.
Charlotte would only kiss me if I smoked before I saw her. I asked her once, “Why are you okay with kissing me after I just burnt one?”
With an awkward smile, she told me, “Because… Your breath smells, and the tobacco makes it go away.” I never cared for my teeth, and then again, I never saw a dentist. There isn’t one here on this Island.
I used to walk her home, and she would tell me about her day, the people she saw, and how weird the hippies were downtown. I used to get a little envious of her because she got to see all these crazy things and just because of the fact that she gets to experience a whole other world that I only hear in music. But I tried not to; I knew that I was in the wrong for even having those thoughts. I just had to be happy for her.
One time, she got me a gift.
“You know, Franklin, there is one thing I always really liked about you.”
“What?” I asked.
“Whenever we listen to music together, you, without fail, always have this expression,” she said while reaching into her bag.
Embarrassed, I ask sheepishly, “Is it like… a weird face? Does it look like I am doing something like I am not doing?”
“No!” she giggled, “You have this face like you’re trying really hard to understand the song. Kind of like… You’re trying to understand where whoever we are listening to got the idea to write the song.” Charlotte got done rummaging through her bag and pulled a pretty psychedelic-looking vinyl. “The guy at the record shop told me that someone like you would enjoy it.”
She handed me the record, and I read the cover aloud without thinking, “Wind, Sky and Diamonds? Gábor Szabór and the California Dreamers.” Looking at the record sleeve, I can already tell it would be some heavy psychedelic rock. I don’t have anything personal against this genre of rock n’ roll, but I wouldn’t say it’s something I am quick to pick out. While reading the track list, I asked Charlotte, “Who is this guy? I never heard of him before.”
She shrugged, “I don’t know, but the shopkeeper told me that it was a groovy record. Why?” Charlotte paused, “Do you not like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I tried to explain to her with a slight chuckle, “It’s that I don’t think I ever heard him on the radio, is all.”
“Oh”, she replied.
As I read the track list, I noticed they were all covers. The Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, Joan Baez, hell, it even had “Guantanamera.” That song has been covered by all sorts of artists, even if it is a Spanish song. No wonder the record shop owner picked this album for Charlotte; it is a pure cover album of some of the biggest hits of the 60’s. It’s most definitely a safe pick.
“You wanna come over and give the record a listen?” I asked Charlotte, “It is Friday.”
That evening was the first time we made love while the record played in the background. I didn’t even know how we found ourselves in that position; all I know is that I thought the album was far out. So was Charlotte.
“Where’s Charlotte?”
“She didn’t come with us,” my mom told me.