by Brad

April 25, 2007

I NEED TO GET MY DRINK ON

The winds of fear whip away the sickness
The message on the tablet was Valium
As the planets form that golden cross lord
I'll see you on the holy cross roads

Dilsey, Wendy's 105-pound black lab, received a promotion on her most recent trip to the veterinarian's office. She is now Wendy's 112-pound black lab. It would have been a proud moment for all of us save for the fact that we've been trying to get her to lose weight. There's no reason to point any fingers because we're all guilty. Well, not you, but rather Wendy and I. Our heads are hung in shame.

We're laying down the law with regard to Dilsey, and this time, we're
going to get her down to Kate Moss weight--minus the cocaine binge and the dalliances with dodgy-looking rock stars. For my part, I've
pledged to make sure she gets a good run every day--to the point of a heart attack, if necessary (hers or mine)--and she's no longer allowed to have her daily allotment of two jelly doughnuts. Oh sure, she will howl in protest, but it's tough-love time.

She's not a bad dog. I mean, Dilsey does have odd habits and eccentric behavior, but I've seen worse dogs. The weirdest/funniest thing she does is she likes to hit the yard for a bathroom trip with one of these in her mouth. If I ask Dilsey if she needs to go outside, she will scramble around the house looking for her blue Hol-ee Roller before going out to assume the position. There's been many a time when I've stood on the deck and Dilsey stared back at me, in a crouched position, fertilizing the yard with that Hol-ee Roller in her mouth. It seems to work for her. Me? I think I'll stick with the high-fiber routine.

The other day, we lost our power. I later found out that a truck took
out a power pole and a few blocks of this fine town went dark. Well,
not really dark because it was around 9:45 a.m. when it happened. I
didn't have the Internets or the cable TV and Wendy was at work, so I
took a nap. It made sense at the time. A couple hours later--give or
take--I was awakened by Dilsey's barking. She was lying out in the hall, staring at the ceiling and giving it a piece of her mind.

I looked up, but saw nothing. Nor did I hear anything. I dismissed it
and went about my business. About 15 minutes later, Dilsey let loose
with some more barking. Again, she was lying in the hall, staring at
the ceiling and barking away. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. This
happened a couple more times. Weird.

Maybe Dilsey was attuned to the paranormal world and some kind of
ghost was popping its head through our ceiling, taunting her. I don't
know. However, it stands to reason that as old as this house that we
call home is (77 years old), there would be a good chance a ghost or
two might be hanging around. If ghosts exist.

I'm not a believer in the paranormal. People can believe in ghosts,
poltergeists and other forms of Caspers, but leave me out of it. I'm done with it.

When I was younger, I wanted to believe. I had plans back then. What would happen, according to my genius plan, would be my friends and I would tool around the country in a van tracking down ghosts. Our ghosts would be real and not some greedy developer dressed as a ghost to scare people off their property, or drive away business from the local amusement park so he could buy cheap and put up a non-haunted mall or hotel. And there would no ascots for this ghost hunter. Nope. I could see myself in a cool baseball cap, or something, but no ascots.

My fascination with ghosts back then had to do with a documented ghost story in our region. In some places, it was nothing more than an urban legend, but this particular tale actually made it into a book about North Carolina ghosts. This ghost's name was Lydia and she liked to hitch for rides by a bridge in the area where Greensboro and Jamestown start to blend together. Naturally, the driver would find Lydia missing when he reached her desired destination. He would knock on the door of the house where Lydia wanted to go, only to find out from the homeowner (obviously her mother back in the 1920s and 30s and possibly the 40s, but later, some schlub who no doubt hated to be awakened at 3 a.m. by an inquiring Samaritan wannabe) that Lydia died in a car crash. At the very spot where clueless driver picked her up. A brief, illustrated synopsis can be found here.

A group of us actually went out to the original bridge one night during the summer after I graduated high school. We were filled with the suburban ennui. Someone suggested we go to Lydia's bridge, and since none of us were getting laid that night (or practically any other night), we loaded up on beers and headed toward the haunted underpass. It was either that or cow-tipping.

I had no idea what Lydia was supposed to look like, but I imagined her
to resemble this girl who went to our high school. She was nice enough, but quiet and not very popular. She had dark hair and pale skin and she wore clothes that weren't exactly up to date. She wasn't ugly in the corporeal form, but I suspected she would be better-looking as a ghost. This girl also had a habit of sneaking up on you. She was very light on her feet. You would be standing at your locker, getting books or minding your business and then she would be there behind asking you if you had read the assigned chapters or would it be possible for her to catch a ride with you to the Burger King. So when I thought about Lydia that night while we headed toward her bridge, an image of my ghost-like classmate came to mind.

Naturally, Lydia stood us up. I was crushed. Don't get me wrong though, we still had fun. After all, we were 18, we had beer (which was legal in those days) and it was the summer before we were all going to go to college and our separate ways. We didn't waste any opportunity to be stupid and do dumb things.

And yet, another part of me became disillusioned. I had already accepted the fact that I wasn't going to be a quarterback in the Super Bowl, nor was I going to pitch a game in the World Series. At that night, under Lydia's bridge, I realized there was going to be no van, there was going to be no cross-country jaunts to solve ghostly mysteries. No cool baseball cap, or other fashion accessory that wasn't an ascot. Ghosts didn't exist. The books lied.

My opinion regarding ghosts stays the same to this day. I don't believe in them. Wendy's 112-black lab might see them poking their heads through our ceiling, but until these alleged specters make themselves visible to me, I'm going to chalk this up to another one of Dilsey's odd habits and/or eccentric behavior.

I ain't afraid of no ghosts. I just don't believe in them.


Write Brad at exit149@gmail.com

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