Great White
Well I don't want to be one to go on about ghosts but I had a few minutes to spare while I waited for the avowed racist to load his tools into the gang box and so I told him I saw a ghost this weekend and he said what? what? and I responded ghost, ghost.
The man making templates for the granite countertops I have shared space with on many jobs over the years but there has never been a reason for bonding so we traditionally go about our jobs without even the most minimal of contact. It was therefore curious to me to find him standing in what might be considered the "ring" of conversation as I began the story you've already heard (or can hear if you make one step backward).
He of course had his own story and like me never thought much of the reality of ghosts but was of the type to be open minded. He was on a job in old Algiers studying a sheet of paper with measurements when he became aware of a presence and out of the corner of his eye saw what he took to be a woman's shoe, albeit retro. Then into whatever portion of his vision he was allowing for this event he noticed the dress of this woman was coming almost to the floor and he thought how odd that was and looked up and over to see nothing. His admission, contrasted to his general standoffish and rather serious demeanor over the years added that bit of chill which caused both the racist and I to admit to goosebumps.
And then it came to me something I have noticed around here over the years and that is that it is pretty hard to find someone in this area who doesn't have a ghost story.
A guy named Magee from the old college days was in town for Jazzfest last week bearing gifts both baked and of manual labor. The deserts were sweet enough but his manual labor towards the detailing of Rocheblave was sweeter still. He attended the fest for three of the four days during it's second weekend, but somehow wisely missed the Saturday to end all Saturdays during which the previous attendance record was broken almost in two I guess you could say. Previous--ninety some odd thousand, Saturday 2001--one hundred sixty thousand. Both of those numbers exemplify what I don't like about Jazzfest, although it is a pretty amazing event. I ventured out on the Thursday and saw some locals and then was able to hear, but not see (the crowd prevented), Lucinda Williams, who I was worried would not translate well to a middle of the day crowd in an open field but I was completely wrong and her voice I guess combined with a pretty fine sound system was so pure that at times I had to wonder maybe she should be recording these as re-releases of her top songs. So that was good. I fled immediatedly after though because her stage was one that had required me to travel deep into the unknown territory of others, although I must admit some of the "other's" were truly inspirational to behold.
While Magee was being a worker and I sat and drank beers gleefully a denizen of the street walked right up to us with a bucket of tools offering them for sale. The recent neighborhood robberies combined with the fact that he had completely ignored me and had straightaway approached Magee made me behave badly I'm afraid and before I knew it I was laying the old "well it's my property you're on and I'm telling you we ain't interested." The salesman walked off in a huff accusing me of bringing up that old "white" thing. I felt like an a-hole but in the new Rocheblave regime a no-sale is a good sale so I'm happy in a sense to have discouraged another solicitor.
I am the great white a-hole, so what?
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Well I don't want to be one to go on about ghosts but I had a few minutes to spare while I waited for the avowed racist to load his tools into the gang box and so I told him I saw a ghost this weekend and he said what? what? and I responded ghost, ghost.
The man making templates for the granite countertops I have shared space with on many jobs over the years but there has never been a reason for bonding so we traditionally go about our jobs without even the most minimal of contact. It was therefore curious to me to find him standing in what might be considered the "ring" of conversation as I began the story you've already heard (or can hear if you make one step backward).
He of course had his own story and like me never thought much of the reality of ghosts but was of the type to be open minded. He was on a job in old Algiers studying a sheet of paper with measurements when he became aware of a presence and out of the corner of his eye saw what he took to be a woman's shoe, albeit retro. Then into whatever portion of his vision he was allowing for this event he noticed the dress of this woman was coming almost to the floor and he thought how odd that was and looked up and over to see nothing. His admission, contrasted to his general standoffish and rather serious demeanor over the years added that bit of chill which caused both the racist and I to admit to goosebumps.
And then it came to me something I have noticed around here over the years and that is that it is pretty hard to find someone in this area who doesn't have a ghost story.
A guy named Magee from the old college days was in town for Jazzfest last week bearing gifts both baked and of manual labor. The deserts were sweet enough but his manual labor towards the detailing of Rocheblave was sweeter still. He attended the fest for three of the four days during it's second weekend, but somehow wisely missed the Saturday to end all Saturdays during which the previous attendance record was broken almost in two I guess you could say. Previous--ninety some odd thousand, Saturday 2001--one hundred sixty thousand. Both of those numbers exemplify what I don't like about Jazzfest, although it is a pretty amazing event. I ventured out on the Thursday and saw some locals and then was able to hear, but not see (the crowd prevented), Lucinda Williams, who I was worried would not translate well to a middle of the day crowd in an open field but I was completely wrong and her voice I guess combined with a pretty fine sound system was so pure that at times I had to wonder maybe she should be recording these as re-releases of her top songs. So that was good. I fled immediatedly after though because her stage was one that had required me to travel deep into the unknown territory of others, although I must admit some of the "other's" were truly inspirational to behold.
While Magee was being a worker and I sat and drank beers gleefully a denizen of the street walked right up to us with a bucket of tools offering them for sale. The recent neighborhood robberies combined with the fact that he had completely ignored me and had straightaway approached Magee made me behave badly I'm afraid and before I knew it I was laying the old "well it's my property you're on and I'm telling you we ain't interested." The salesman walked off in a huff accusing me of bringing up that old "white" thing. I felt like an a-hole but in the new Rocheblave regime a no-sale is a good sale so I'm happy in a sense to have discouraged another solicitor.
I am the great white a-hole, so what?
- jimlouis 5-15-2001 2:41 am