Art by Sally Brophy
Two days before Memorial Day on a balmy morning, the sun rises over The Cape. A nor’easter on the horizon. I’m relaxing here on a rusted-out mooring bullock with legs dangling, whistling ‘On the Dock of the Bay’ and reading a note from my Mom’s former partner. Spirit lives on one of the last self-sustaining communes from the sixties, in Southern California.
Dear Whistler,
Irene, your mother, who rests in peace, stayed with us at The Great Horned Owl Cooperative for months. She spoke of you. Cried often. I’m delighted to extend you an invitation. You may stay or visit for as long as you want. But you can never leave. Only joking. Frankly, we need help. The guitar she left is collecting dust and waiting for you. I’ve attached a commune brochure.
Peace & Love,
Spirit
Wow! Decision time. I started a family and got a real job. Bought a fixer-upper with a white picket fence. Abandoned the dream long ago. Never looked back. Never paid much attention to Mom’s old guitar. I have roots now.
Looking to the sky. . . Gibby is the key to your success, son. When my Mother took me on the road, she often talked to her Gibson.
As the nor’easter gets closer, the wind picks up and blows the letter and my dark brown feathered Fedora towards the end of the pier. Holy shit! Hop off, trip, and fall. A fuckin’ face plant into broken glass. The dream-chase is on again.
*
Seven years of living in peace. Two as a middle school teacher. Not my cup of green tea. Five since they promoted me to chair the Music Department at Pilgrim High. I am eligible for a sabbatical. I’m taking it.
At home lying here in bed, I hand Irene the blood-stained letter. Didn’t have to dive into the bay for it. Irene looks at me and moves her head from side to side. “The answer is no. A deal is a deal, eh?”
“Honey.” We smooch. “Be a good career move, babe. Always wanted to study the ancient instruments of the region and find Mom’s Gibson.”
“Do not bullshit me, Jason. You never mentioned the guitar.”
“Not once?” This won’t end well, but I have to try. “Before I put in for a sabbatical, let’s check it out.”
“Summer on The Cape. The whales are coming.” Irene knows how to get to me. “You promised to take your daughter on a whale watch.”
I spent the last seven years domesticated. “The road calls.” Got that familiar itch. “One more time.” I can’t win unless she lets me. Love ‘em both to death, though.
“Our child needs to attend summer school. Pick up the guitar. Come home in a week.”
With a twinkle in my eye and a grin, “Two weeks, you say?”
“Jesus Christ, Jason. Not out the door yet and you have already delayed coming back.”
Mom’s lost Gibson is the ticket. She played the same instrument before I was born. Same one autographed by blues Hall of Famer Lead Belly. That old feeling is growing stronger.
“How are you going? By bus, eh?”
“Hmm, we met on a greyhound. Remember what we did in the rear of—?”
“When Baby-Irene smiles, I do.” Irene’s trying to make me cry. I know it.
“Too young and foolish. Now, I'm just foolish. I'm hitchhiking.” Last time, was a trip. On their way to a Grateful Dead concert, Dead-heads picked me up. They were friendly, but I hadn’t smoked pot in years. I wasn’t even drinking. Missed another audition. At least the driver stayed straight.
In the morning, I’ll be gone.
*
Spirit meets me in an ancient red Chevy pickup. She steps out and slams the door. She has to do it twice. A lovely long-haired chick in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her yellow Labrador Retriever, Buck, riding shotgun. Fine gray hair to the base of her spine. Love senior girls who resist those ear show cuts. We hug, of course. A good one, not of the vanilla variety. “Toss your shit in back, brother.” The handsome Lab, with sad eyes, hops in the truck-bed.
Could use a few ZZZs. The road’s rough on an aging body. Four young hairy men eager to work, and I sleep in an old yurt. Not a camel in sight. We clean up and walk towards headquarters to meet the elders. I grab a rake.
People share stories around a fire in the center of a huge Native American teepee. I’m curious to learn its origin. Wonderful history of the commune. One elder tells a tale of a violent encounter with town folks in the early days. Several certified teachers among the first group of hippies volunteered to work with the town's children. Sharing of fresh farm veggies helped ease the tension and their differences.
Spirit interrupts story-time as she enters with a worn, weather-beaten black case. Everyone claps. I snap it open, wipe off the dust, and stare at the signature. Wow man, what a mind blower. Gibby needs tuning first. I start by whistling ‘GoodNight Irene.’
"Do it, Whistler," Spirit yells.
I hesitate. “Been putting it off for a while, sister.” Remember me, Gibby? Tears fall as I visualize Mom and me singing in local dives. The Gibson grips my hands tight. I play for three hours straight. It remembers me and won't release.
New friends tell of a tryout in LA for a lead singer. They say, “Your mama would want you to go, brother.”
Spirit tosses me the keys to the pickup. “Hurry! Don’t return unless you have a contract.”
“Goodbye. So long, sister.”
*
The ‘Stuffed Whales’ hate me. Ten years ago, I worked for them as a roadie. I left before the tour concluded. Maybe they’re still harboring a grudge.
I’m late again, for another tryout. “Five minutes, Whistler. Remember when you walked out on us, asshole?” Yeah, I can be. These dudes treated me well. They liked me. Tossed me a bone for whistling, in the form of an extra twenty. It was several songs, too. I also whistled the chorus on their first original jam. Included my name in the credits on their first album, in small print.
Gave me free lessons on the guitar. What can I say? Wanna see pics of my two Irenes? Unwise to burn bridges in the entertainment field. I discovered they’ve auditioned a hundred people for the lead. They look tired, but they waited for me.
“Ended up having to push our own boxes and crates around. Found out how hard our roadies worked.” Poor babies. Old days resurfacing.
“Gibby, let’s play as though our hearts are at stake here.”
Rockers in awe. An offer to be a roadie, whistler, or blues harpist, always on the table.
“Don’t stop, mate,” says the English drummer. The bass guitarist chimes in, “Got all day, brother. Those lessons I gave you seem to be paying off.” He laughs. Can’t believe I’m Jammin’ with Whales.
Surprise! Past indiscretions forgiven. They’re asking me to be the new front man. They want to change its name, too. Far out.
I call my house. “My dream’s coming true.”
“Over the years, you have improved a little. Like my writing. Always magic between you, your mother, and that Gibson, eh?”
“What should I do?”
Irene says, “Fly home. Apply for that sabbatical. I’m on the board. They’ll accept almost any crazy idea. Go on the road for a year. You could reclaim your position here if it doesn’t work out. We’ll catch up soon.”
“What about the house?”
“It is possible to lease it out for five thousand dollars a month after Memorial Day.”
“School for our kid?”
“We’re teachers.”
“What else is new, love?”
“Our daughter can whistle.”
“Did you teach her?”
“Helped a bit.”
“Wow! How ‘bout the whales? She’ll be disappointed we don't do a watch.”
“They will be back. She loves the blue whale. Her schoolmates are bouncing on it in the backyard. Talk to her.”
“Hi Dad! I'm so happy. Thank you for Wally.”
“No problem.”
“Mom says you’re becoming a whale.”
“That be a singing one, baby. Return mommy to the phone. I love you.”
“I will, but please don’t call me baby. Daddy, I’m no longer a child. I love you.” For ten seconds my daughter whistles, ‘GoodNight Irene.’
I say, “Okay, you can still call me daddy. Good night Irene.”
I hang up. Close my eyes. Where have all the years gone? In tears . . . sorry. . . I can’t finish my story.
Promised you I’d make it big. How does Whistler & The Stuffed Whales sound?
I Always believed in you, Jason.
You lift me up, Mama.
Before Don Robishaw stopped working he was a Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, world traveler, college professor, circus roustabout, refugee camp worker, and most recently ran educational programs for homeless shelters. He’s the author of the chapbook, ‘Just Willie Please,’ OJA&L, 2021.‘ Multiple works have appeared in the following: Drunk Monkeys, Literary Heist, OJA&L, Crack-the-Spine, FFM, and Rye Whiskey Review, among other venues.