The Greatest Story Ever Told

By: Melissa Grisham

Sometimes I find myself walkin’, wonderin’ about whatever happened to C. Brown, One Armed Steve, or that dyin’ man. Or why it’s impossible for me to walk into a disco or diner, sit among the barstools and dreamers, and not order a tall boy. This particular day, I sat next to Jack, a happy fellow with a nice pair of imitation leather shoes. We ordered ribs and whiskey and were up all night talking about this old neighborhood and how things have changed in this part of town. He began to tell me about his old friend Junior, who is proof that time waits for no one.

He said that he and his red hot mama, Sharon, were at an all time low after their dear friend Henry Parsons died. Feeling the weight of the world, they tried picking up the pieces, and getting the show on the road, but they still couldn’t shake their blackout blues. Until one day, they saw a traveling light clear across the sky. Although it could’ve been an airplane, Junior only knew for sure that it wasn’t a hallucination because his girlfriend Greta told him he can’t get high. At that moment, Junior decided to stop feeling so down, that he was better off thinking ain’t life grand.

Photo by Sara Bill 

Now at first my worry was that this story was pure superstition, that Junior would’ve been better off counting train cars than having hope in a hopeless world. It wasn’t until I became a Travelin’ man that I learned to appreciate that time is free. I decided I was goin’ out west, and spent my time rolling down papa Johnny road on my love tractor. I’d stop and go, talk with pigeons, and inhale the thin air. I concluded that it was nobody’s loss if I didn’t send a postcard, most people would rather you send your mind, anyway.

Yesterday, at 10:13, I met a bowlegged woman named Arleen. She was fishing with her big wooly mammoth and offered me some coconuts a drink of chilly water. She told me she had seen a blue Indian playing drums in a surprise valley down the stream, and he had helped her climb to safety. He left her with a shiny rock, which she passed on to me in an effort to say you’ll be fine.

I thought back to Jack, and recalled his notion that you got yours is a weak-brain, narrow minded way to live. I realized I’m not alone, and if you take a longer look you’ll see there are good people out there. We can’t all be space wranglers, Radio Children, or pilgrims. In life people might use me. I might walk on guilded splinters, but still I’ll walk on. If we leave ourselves at the mercy of proving ground, we’ll never be heroes. The glory is in the music, but don’t tell the band. You may think I’m crazy, but pleas believe it MAKES SENSE TO ME.