21 Guns Bid me Goodbye

21 Guns Bid me Goodbye

Author: Gary Hays

Copyright 2014: Gary Hays

Smashwords Edition

When my son disappeared, the universe apologized by allowing me to discover a gift I had no previous knowledge of. The gift was an uncultivated seed in need of nourishment, planted deeply within the unknown cavernous hallows of my feeble mind.

I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places. I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of my son, Steven M. Hays. May he forever rest in peace.

21 One Guns Bid Me Goodbye

Chapter 1: The Sam I am Not

Here sits a broken man. When I was whole, the world within my mind was an array of vibrant colors, chartreuse being the exception. I hate chartreuse. No room at the Inn. I’m not broken beyond repair, I’m told the spare parts are on back order. My crazier than me therapist should manage an AAMCO. ‘We’ll get that head tuned up and out of here in no time. She’ll be purring like a kitten. She stares at me with deep hypnotic intent, one eye firmly and professionally aimed dead center at mine, while her other eye stares an entirely different direction. If my mind were not so wounded, I would laugh. It’s the I’m here, but don’t hear" kind of look. It matters not. I still cry and scream like a teething baby in need of a good burping, or nipple, depending upon the time of day. Fuck her anyway, she doesn’t know jack.

This isn’t really my story, per say. That sounds so regal. Per say. It’s Latin for with reference to itself. Sorry, I drift. This story is about a lot of people from a lot of places, and about one person in particular. Hang with me. I particularly enjoy writing about the assholes I have encountered along life’s journey, so buckle up, this could get nasty at times. Grab a nitro if it applies.

Though of little to no importance outside of a humanistic need to identify with characters, my name is Samuel Alexander McRoberts, the dubious third. I will notarize your death warrant for any reference of any sort to the abbreviated version, Sam. I once had an uncle by that name. Do it and die. I am an avid follower of nothing. I gave your Jesus a fair shake but we just couldn’t connect on the same level. I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is with this bearded sandal wearing guy. For technicality purposes only, I shall speak for a brief moment of my favorite species of Homo sapiens, primates of the family Hominidae, the Aborigines. In excess of 18,500 generations of aboriginals have been documented. That’s a heap of them little buggers. In 1971, stone tools were discovered in a quarry near Penrith, New South Wales, proving humans lived in Australia nearly twelve-thousand years prior to living in Europe. In my estimation, and roughly translated according to me, these teeny-weeny carnivorous hunters of now extinct animal species, with all probability, possess the prestigious title of world’s first inhabitants. Oops! Where again was this Garden called Eden? Mesopotamia? In all factuality, the fabled location of human kinds tumble from grace shares commonality with the lost city of Atlantis. Neither has been found and neither ever will be found. Ancestory.com has limits. Save your dough. Our spinning globe is thought to have been formed around 4.5 billion years B.C. Sorry, let’s get back on track.

I admire the Rastafarian culture for every single incorrect reason. The first reason of course, Bob Marley and those freaking pot puffin’ Wailers. Yah man. I like growing my hair for Samson-istic reasons, it bleeds if severed. I have given much recent consideration to dreads. With great passion I savor the redeeming qualities of the Ganga, your very man upstairs created. Hell of a guy. Kudos. I like to wake and bake. It calms the caffeine rushes generated from the gallons of dark roasted coffee I heartily consume. Outside of beer and a little tequila, coffee is all I drink. I’m health conscious like that. Blue Mountain Coffee when I can find it. It’s Jamaican. I repeat: Yah man. My brain is milk toast at this very space in time. Bet you couldn’t tell.

But enough about me. Let’s talk about ‘bout you. So, what are you wearing? What’s your sign? Could anybody anywhere ask more idiotic questions? Especially if it’s the first combination of words another soul will base their entire opinion of you on as those stupid questions burst forth from your even more stupid voice box. The voice box, or larynx, is the portion of the respiratory (breathing) tract containing the vocal cords which produce sound. OK, I get it. You wish to remain anonymous. I respect that. I’m a writer. I possess a vivid yet twisted imagination, so I already know what you’re wearing. Sweet. I don’t give a crap about your sign.

One of my brain parts may have landed on the loading dock because I’ve been cordially invited to attend a group therapy session at the Veterans clinic where I get shit done for free. Well, not really free. I paid for this half assed medical care in many other ways. Years ago I struck a deal with the government. I bartered my soul for a lifetime of medical treatment so they could help fix what they helped fucked up in the first place. It worked out peachy for all interested parties. The shindig is today so I will need to leave you dangling like a participle fairly soon. Excuse the entirely worn out phrase; couldn’t be helped. Besides, the only stability in my frail existence will soon rise from our king sized platform bed, followed in tow by three lip licking canines in pursuit of the slice of Publix brand white bread she gives them for breakfast. They are all three beyond medical science’s assistance. One of my dogs is thirteen. She pees in front of the sliding glass door then barks to go out. One of the other dogs barks when people leave but not when they enter. The other one just barks for no reason. Total disruption is in my immediate future. I worship my wife, and she supports my tired ass in many ways. She still works. I mostly get high and do what I am doing right now. Now and then I gig somewhere with my acoustic guitar. I guess she still sees the guy I’ve lost total sight of. He may or may not return. We’ll see. Or not.

Allow me to clear something up. Just for the sake of not visualizing me hunched over a plastic keyboard all hours of the day and night, I spend a frequent amount of time hunched over my wooden acoustic guitar. This guy with a wooden eye approaches a girl with a hunchback. Wood eyed guy: Would you like to dance? Hunchbacked girl: Would I! Wood eyed guy: Hunchback, hunchback! Cymbal crash. Seriously though, I’m a semi-retired acoustic musician by trade. At 62, age is ruthlessly attacking, bending and twisting portions of me into my Grandfather, Samuel Alexander McRoberts, Sr., rest his soul. Hair is sprouting in places I didn’t even know it could grow. There is no allowable exemption for the inevitable passage of time, and it is simply my turn in the barrel. In a distant place and time, my soul has wept tears that became original musical compositions. Now, I am no less than an organ grinders monkey. When I choose to perform, I perform other people’s thoughts and music for the listening pleasure of fine diners awaiting their main course, only to find the slight and tasty sliver of their latest ingestion, was it. Will that be American Express? I have become a living breathing version of Muzak. Please look past any negative connotations you may be surmising, I have great gigs at my disposal, and if I simply must on occasion contribute to the household finances, this a fairly chill way to do it. I enjoy playing cover tunes as long as I can play them my way, which I do. A writer pens their script from an emotional space within themselves. They have vision as those thoughts charge full speed ahead into uncharted spheres beyond mortal comprehension. Guests are not allowed in during this process, so I must create my own vision as though I was the writer, based upon mere words on a music stand, illuminated by a halogen bulb to assist my vision, as I stare at them through trifocals. I need to make an eye appointment. Sorry. Some people actually come to hear me, but more often than not, they come to chow and I just happen to be there in full musical regalia, armed and not so dangerous, aiming my six-string howitzer at these purveyors of garlic mashed potatoes and unrecognizable slivers of stuff. Musically speaking, life is OK and my number of listeners is always on the rise, but I would much rather stay at home. It’s the only place I don’t feel violated.

Shit. Dogs are up. Gotta run. I’ll change what you’re wearing next time. Let’s keep things interesting, shall we?

Chapter 2: The Daydreamer

If you are creative you are probably what modern medical science refers to as, a bit ADD. Think about it. No, not now. Welcome back. Focus, if you can.

I was labeled a daydreamer in elementary school. It was the cause of immense concern and the prevalent topic at endless parent/teacher conferences. The long term damages associated with staring into space, were as yet unknown. My fate hung in the balance. Won’t know ’til he’s grow’d up I reckon. I used my disability to my every advantage. Sorry Mom. Didn’t hear ‘ya. I was havin’ one a them daydreams. This still works for me today. Ask my wife. I can only focus when I’m high. Weird, huh?

In the days of my childhood people unanimously accepted those with wandering minds as slow learners. Teacher: WHAT – ON EARTH – WERE YOU JUST THINKING ABOUT? Dang, I’m a star gazer, I’m not deaf. Me: I dunno. These types of conversations were the basis for many early theories. My capabilities were limited for providing reasonable explanation or details of my endlessly invading thoughts. Hell, I didn’t know where I was or what I was thinking half the time. I just told whoever asked, I was on a planetary expedition. Thank you for bringing me home safely. My Uncle taught me to say that. It shut people up faster than a Jack Rabbit. My Uncle was a cool guy.

Many of our kind have accomplished great things. Almost every song was written by a dreamer. Almost every painting or sculpture was born from loving hands guided by an invisible force from the world of imagination. Gershwin, Picasso, George Carlin, Kurt Vonnegut, Bach and every other creative genius since the dawn of time were ADD afflicted, floating in and out of reality without notice or provocation. Not sure about Hugh Hefner.