Ghost stories, when told in person, always have a twinge of self promotion. That's my cynical take. A lot of people don't have a way to distinguish themselves. I feel that. It hits hard as the kids say. I see myself as a walking gaff but, I am not sure I could fabricate a ghost story to get my turn by the campfire. I guess anything is possible. I have yet to hear a ghost story in the flesh, that I believed. The ghost stories I have suffered, always seem a little too well plotted.

I stand here in me ole dilapidated blog, bathed in hypocrisy. For hear now, my ghost story of yore, ye bitches.

In the summer of 1984, my bass player Mikey and I were sharing an L-shaped couch owned by an old friend; Jim O'Mara. Jim had a job that seemed to pay a lot but Mikey and I could never get a grasp on what the actual job was. He lived in the bottom left quarter of a colonial three story with a basement. On weekends he would play solo gigs at local pubs while Mikey and I drank on his tab. He was a gifted guitar player and I admired him. He thought I was funny and tolerated the rest of my personality. The other band members were marooned in New York City, and their welcomes were wearing out. 

Mikey and I had it made in the shade. Jimmy had a great stereo, and a stellar collection of records ranging from Billy Holiday to Thomas Dolby (in autobiographical order of course). He had been a broke musician before and treated us like family. He took us out to eat dinner, ice cream, and when he went record shopping he'd let Mikey or I grab something we wanted.

One hot night in late July, after another free dinner, Mikey and I got foots to foots and passed out after Jim went to bed. At three AM (isn't it always?) I heard a clear voice humming and whistling accompanied by steps on a staircase that did not exist. The voice took a left at the kitchen walking audibly by the L-couch through a wall and out of site.

It was a tumultuous time for me. I had a drunk girlfriend at home that liked to call me when she could only make vowel sounds. She had discovered cocaine thanks to my brother. My brother hung around some local coke dealers. Like a lot of chumps at the time, he figured out having a lot cocaine and being pals with dealers, increased his social collateral. By that I mean he was having sex, which for him was a new sport. He was a redheaded brawler with a tragic back story that isn't mine to tell. He became a psychopath after years of bullying and humiliation.

From my first girlfriend to the one in this story he had an unnatural preoccupation with my better half's. The partner in this story, was the mythical "one" and no one could tell me different. She had a tragic story of her own and a impressive booze habit. She hid it from me because I'm nobody's detective. She was starring in a virginal princess production of "My Unrealistic Expectations".

Wrote and directed...just saying.

My brother's hero and the charismatic fixer of the bandito's was Baggs. I could fill the internet with stories about him, but I'll jump to the good part. Baggs fucked everyone. Girlfriends, wives, sisters, and mothers of all his friends and the wife of his own brother. He fathered two kids with two sisters, and banged their mom. Despite this one little flaw, Baggs was loved by all. He was caught red handed many times and all involved stayed friends. I wish I could be that forgiving.

Baggs was also a good drummer and the first real drummer I ever knew. He guided me through my awkward drumming years and came to see my band frequently. I don't know the exact details of what happened while I was gone, and I have interrogated the whole gang. They ain't no snitches. My girlfriend was engaging in behavior well outside our boyfriend/girlfriend agreement with my brother and Baggs. It was a trifecta cluster fuck of betrayal.  

What the fucking fuck does this have to do with a ghost story? I'm getting there. I don't know shit about interdimensional beings or multiple realties, but I think frustrated, delusional, love bombing undiagnosed hyper active disorder, folks with a decent amount of trauma, seem to lend themselves to these kind of experiences. Does that mean they can manifest ghosts or does this mean they are in a mental state prone to hallucinations? It's your call. My therapists are dealing with more pressing matters.

Jimmy stumbles out for coffee the following day. After waiting for him to get to a place that included making full sentences, I shared the invisible, singing, walker of the invisible stairs story. He gave us the history of the house and said there was indeed a stairway that had a traffic pattern similar to my dear ghost. He didn't seem freaked out and I'm no Jedi, but I sensed no dark presence in the force.

A couple weeks later Mikey and I drove Symba The Wonder Truck to reconvene with our stranded band mates. The Keyboard player and his wife were at a five time removed cousins apartment, on 62nd and 2nd. We were rolling out of town the next day and they graciously gave us fresh tacos and beers to celebrate our departure. Everyone is trading stories telling jokes, the usual fucking shit.

Tenth Removed Cousin asks where we stayed in New Fairfield?

"The corner of Route 37 and and Sawmill." Mikey says.

"Oh that's funny. I rented an apartment in that house when I was in college. That place was haunted."

I know its not the: "She's been dead for years!" Ending you deserve. It is fitting to clear the cobwebs around here with a ghost story, since I'm haunting the blog.

W.B.Z.N.