The Visitor
By Tema Merback
The warm California sunshine blazes down on the limestone patio that radiates with heat. Tara climbs out of the blue rectangular pool as beads of water following the curves of her body drip onto the porous stone. After toweling off she lies on a lounge chair and sips her Pellegrino water that she has spiked with a splash of tequila and a fat slice of lime. She closes her eyes savoring the sunshine that basks her exposed body. She listens to the surround sound of speakers echo through the backyard animated with the droning monotone voice of a young Bob Dylan. In a dreamlike state of mind she contemplates the familiar words that she knows as well as she knows her name, her social security or her driver’s license numbers.
“Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about to day until tomorrow.”
She wonders has she spent her whole life forgetting about today, always putting off her life for a tomorrow that never comes. As always the minstrel poet’s words disturb her with his hunger for a truth that only he can see. She assumes that the Bob Dylan that mournfully croons on the CD player no longer exists. Probably his expectations were long ago relinquished to the realities of an ever changing world that never really changed. The dreams of the young man long ago turned to fodder, while all that remains is a middle-aged man who like her must wonder where the time has gone.
Tara closes her eyes absorbing in equal measure the penetrating rays of earth’s solar star and the words of the musician prophet. She might have fallen asleep if the phone hadn’t roused her with its relentless ringing. The voice on the line sounds reassuringly familiar but she can’t make out his identity or words over the too loud volume of the music. She buzzes whomever it is in through the gate, muting the music, annoyed at the interruption to her solitude and rises to answer the door.
Opening the door she squints into the bright sunlight that momentarily blinds her. Silhouetted in shadow is a solitary figure. The unmistakable curls and dark glasses of the skinny man stun her and she shakes her head clearing away the drowsiness that might be clouding her vision and causing her to hallucinate. The vision remains true and the unshaven craggy face continues to stare back at her. Then without hesitation, in long purposeful strides he pushes past her, his words echoing down the corridor behind him,
“Don’t block at the doorway,
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt,
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it’s ragin’”
Tara follows the stranger as he strides to the bar and pours himself a drink with a generous splash of tequila. Taking a good long swig, he smiles as if amused at an inside joke. Acknowledging her with a wink he walks outside with his drink to the pool area and plops down on an empty lounge chair arranging his lean body in comfort.
“What are you doing here and why are you here?” asks Tara who has followed in his footsteps.
He takes another sip of his drink, resting his head on the cushion as he stares at the sky,
“It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don’t matter, anyhow
An’ it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now”
He looks over at her and raises his sunglasses so that she can better see his eyes and his meaning. He raises his glass in a gesture of toasting her and motions for her to sit down.
She stares back in dumbfound silence trying to get a perspective on what is happening. Sitting beside him she resigns herself to the strangeness of the situation. She takes a swig of the tequila hoping for clarification. Perhaps this is an opportunity to converse with someone who influenced her youth, someone to address all those long forgotten questions that were never answered. “So let me get this straight, you’re here because you were driving by and you heard your music playing. Curiosity got the better of you and you had to know who was playing your old songs and why? That’s it right?”
“No, and I ain’t looking’ to fight with you
Frighten you or tighten you
Drag you down or drain you down
Chain you down or bring you down
I don’t want to fake you out
Take or shake or forsake you out
I ain’t lookin’ for you to feel like me
See like me or be like me
All I really want to do
Is baby, be friends with you”
He hums the melody absent mindedly while sipping tequila. He is clearly enjoying the intrigue while she is fraught with confusion.
Tara eyes the icon with suspicion, “Look, I was having a perfectly lovely day relaxing here in the privacy of my home, contemplating my life. It’s not often that I don’t have my kids interrupting my thoughts with their constant demands. I’m trying to get a little peace and tranquility. Surely you know what I am talking about?”
“Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For your times they are a-Changin’”
“You’re really pissing me off. The least you could do is show some empathy. Personally, this has been a tough year, a lot of what I hoped would come to pass has simply disappeared,” her voice quavers with emotion as she fights back the tears that come unbidden to her eyes. “I thought that when I saw you at the door that something had changed. Maybe you were a sign that I could find my way back to the person I once was. That somehow finding a new friend, who really is an old friend, would change everything?”
He turns his head toward her and she can feel his eyes burning through the reflective sunglasses perched on his thin aquiline nose. He reaches over and grabs her hand squeezing it.
“Life is sad
Life is a bust
All ya can do is do what you must
You do what you must do and ya do it well
I’ll do it for you, honey baby can’t you tell?”
Pulling her hand away, “Nice sentiment but I don’t sense an ounce of sincerity from you. How happy are you anyway with all of these changes that you predicted. Do you think the world is any closer to all of those ideals that you sang about? Isn’t it just the constant refrain of youth and their dissatisfaction of the status quo? Every generation thinks that it must change something, that they can make it better. Everyone wants to leave their mark, their imprint on the future.”
“In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there’s no success like failure
And that failure’s no success at all”
“It seems like one big failure to me. Maybe that is the windfall of aging. You see things more clearly without the shading of desires or the stain of exaggerations. Maybe it is the prism of perspective that delivers clarity?”
“You said you’d never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He’s not sellin’ any alibis, as you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And say, ‘would you like to make a deal?’
How does it feel?
How does it feel?”
“Well, if you want to know, it feels like crap.” Tara looks over at the outlaw balladeer beside her their eyes meeting. She watches as a thin veneer of a smile traces across his lips. Her words uttered in frustration seem to reverberate in the silence. She sighs embarrassed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump my dissatisfaction on you, but, god, it feels really good to unload. It’s like being reborn, as if some buried primal scream were being released.”
He nods in understanding,
“In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There’s a dyin’ voice within me reaching out somewhere
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair”
“Yes, and there is nothing like wallowing in your own pain. As I recall you have made a career of it have you not?”
“I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer’s dream, in the chill of a wintry light
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face”
“Don’t count me out Mister Tambourine Man. I might surprise you. I might just rise like the ‘Phoenix’ and take this old world on. Maybe my days of creativity are not over. Maybe this is just the beginning of a new day and a new page.” Taking a deep breath of confidence, Tara inhales the sweet scents of the garden, where the only interlopers are the bees that follow their encoded destinies flitting from flower to flower in their pursuit of nectar.
“But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls
She takes just like a woman, yes, she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl”
“That’s right I do, but there is strength in weakness, a power. The unexpected one’s ability to overcome is something that the naysayers cannot foresee or forestall. Each one of us has the possibility to take their life into their own hands and reshape it into an instrument of triumph and redemption. Sometimes I think you have to know the darkness before you can find the light.”
“May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young”
“Thanks for the encouragement; I’m really glad you came by. The emotional rollercoaster has been exhausting but worth it. Do you mind if I turn the music back on and we just listen to your music?” She picks up the remote and without waiting for his reply she turns on the CD player that fills the air with the mournful crying voice of the young minstrel. Every word still rings true to her. The poet magician that captivated her youth is still relevant. Isn’t that what music really does it marks the highlights of a lifetime, the good times, and the sad times, forever preserving them in a chronological jukebox of years and events. She closes her eyes allowing the words to fill the empty spaces within her as the afternoon sun lulls her into a dreamy landscape.
“It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right”
Tara wakes not knowing how long she has been sleeping. The iridescent waters of the pool are now draped in shadows and the sun sits balanced on the rooftop. Without looking over she senses that her visitor has gone. She wonders for a moment if he was ever really there or was the entire episode just a fantastic dream. She looks over expecting to see no vestige of the vanished troubadour. Instead, right where he left it is the glass now empty of tequila. It must have been real she muses, he must have been here. She smiles thinking that it is just like the mysterious vagabond to disappear without a trace leaving her to wonder.
“Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,
Play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey Mr. Tambourine Man
Play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning,
I’ll come followin’ you.”
No one will ever believe her if she says that she spent the day at her pool with Bob Dylan. Even now she is not sure if it wasn’t a dream. Tara wants to believe that the impossible can happen, that yearning can manifest in reality. Bob Dylan knocked at her door in her hour of need and someday he might just feel the need to return, or maybe one day she can return the favor.
