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Ghost Dancer
in the Twilight Zone
by Forrest D. Poston
Some stories are hard to believe. This is one of them,
even though it happened to me. Part of me still wants to
think it was a trick of the mind, failure to pay
attention, faulty memory. Another part wants to believe
that it happened just the way I remember, as one of my own
brushes with the Twilight Zone.
By September of 1983, I had finally gotten around to
graduating from college and had moved to Columbus, Ohio to
start my first post-college job. Okay, so I was 25 and
selling stereo equipment with no plans, no dreams, and no
trace of ambition. At least it was something different
from the last four years.
I had gotten hired by a now-defunct company called SUN TV
and moved into an apartment on the southeast side of town,
less than a mile from the store where they said I'd be
working when they hired me. The guy had neglected to
mention that I would be training at a branch on the
northwest side, rather more than a mile away.
The distance mattered because the valiant Volkswagen
squareback that had been my transportation despite its
numerous wounds had died beyond resuscitation once it got
me to my apartment the first day. While the car deserved
to be bronzed and put on display for what it had endured,
I was still on foot in a strange city, unfamiliar with the
buses and too broke for a cab.
I don't even remember how I got to work that first day,
but I arrived just to find out that it was the audio
manager's day off, and there was no one there to start my
training. "Can you just come back tomorrow?" Naturally, I
said it was no problem, and I walked out of the cool store
into a bright, hot September day in my new shoes with most
of the city between me and my apartment.
Not long after that, I would know that I could get from
the store to my apartment by bus with just a couple of
changes, but that day I knew close to nothing and figured
I had to walk at least the two miles to High St. to catch
the right bus. Partly, it was my fear of doing anything I
hadn't done before, and after growing up in a town with
less than 5000 people that included riding any bus except
for two trips by Greyhound that I'd rather not think too
much about. It was also partly habit going back to first
and second grade when I would walk to the bus stop to wait
for the school bus, get bored, and walk to school.
Perhaps there was some other impetus I was unaware of, but
when I got to High St. I just kept walking. I didn't
really know the route back to my apartment except that it
was south and east, so I would walk a bit south and a few
blocks east, a bit south, a bit east. I figured that would
get me to familiar territory eventually, and I didn't have
anything else to do.
By the time I was walking past some shops on Third St.,
the heat and new shoes had me regretting my decision, so
when I realized that I was in front of a used record
store, I went in. My first paycheck was weeks away, but
the store was air-conditioned and had a water fountain. It
wouldn't hurt to drink some water and look through the
albums.
At that point, I wasn't thinking about the promise I had
made in the Fall of '79 when my girlfriend at the time
mentioned liking the song "Ghost Dancer" by the Addrisi
Brothers. I liked it as well and made a mental promise to
buy the record when I got a chance. As usual, I was broke,
much to broke to be buying a new record and too broke to
drive 30 miles or more to find a used record store that
might or might not have the record. Yeah, today I could
buy it on the 'net, cheap and quick, but I grew up in
primitive times.
The relationship collapsed about six months later, but the
promise remained four years later when I entered the store
on Third St. and finally stumbled across "Ghost Dancer"
for the first time. The prime constant in my life was that
emptiness in my wallet. The record wasn't expensive unless
you thought about it in terms of food or bus rides.
Every trace of reason was against buying the record that
day. After all, what were the odds that someone would buy
it before I got paid? Maybe I should have been more
careful with the promise and allowed myself some wiggle
room, but the promise had been that I would buy the record
when I found it. It was in my hand.
I had never mentioned the promise to anyone, just myself
and anyone who might be squatting in the unused space in
my head. The ex-girlfriend would neither know nor care if
I broke the promise. I wouldn't get fired or promoted at
the new job based on whether or not I bought the record.
After all, silent, private promises are the easiest to
break. Sometimes, they're the most important ones to keep
even when there's no obvious loss or gain. Call it a karma
thing.
I bought the record and still love the song.
I also lived in Columbus for another two years and later
lived there again. Since Third St. is a fairly major
route, I traveled it many times after that day. It was
only later that I realized I had never noticed the record
shop again. I went looking for it, looked on Third St. and
several blocks around. I found where I thought it should
be, but it wasn't there. Nothing there even looked like
it.
I hadn't paid any real attention to the name of the shop,
and it isn't on the record, so I can't do any real
research. Maybe I don't even want to know the answer,
normal or not, but that one day, there was a tiny used
record shop on the west side of Third St.
Did anything really change because I stepped through that
door and bought the record? There's no knowing.
Well-traveled or less traveled, you choose the path, and
as Robert Frost told us, that makes "all the difference."
We just never know what the difference is even when one
turn of the path slips into, and maybe out of, the
Twilight Zone.
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Other Essays and Poetry
Something
Somewhat
Vaguely
Like a Resume
Being
Like
Children
The
Blessing and the Blues
The
Cat With a Bucket List
David
and the Revelation
The
Dawn, the Dark, and the Horse I Didn't Ride In On (an
odd, meandering, semi-romantic story)
Ghost
Dancer
in the Twilight Zone
The
Hair Connection and the Nature of Choices
The Mug,
the Magic, and the Mistake
Trumpet
Player,
USDA Approved
Videos
Poetry
Selected
Poems
The
Poetry
Process
Writing by Current or Former Students
Ms.
Write Meets Her Match in Jr. Ms. Write Now
by Heide Perry
I'll
Just
Have Cats
by Cara Hummel
Toys
to
Toys
by Allyson Bowlds
Scribbles
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