A telephone conversation with John Fahey
There was a last cigarette left smoldering in the ashtray, strands of smoke dancing towards the ceiling. The needle found its way towards the center of America. Slow notes plucked growing and glowing raw in the dim light of evening. The rain’s percussive pitter-patter punctuated the weekend. I sat head spinning looking for something to say. There must have been a story that needed retelling. Ah yes, whiskey. The glass. Three ice cubes. I rubbed my foot, my heel left bruised by the blocks of midwestern asphalt. The miles accrued and the odometer climbed but I was really just looking for a ride back to town. To the familiarity of days gone by.
The phone rings.
-Hey…
-Hi John. Everything alright?
The telephone and John are not compatible. He is a man of few words, preferring to communicate with his eyes. Those dull glowing neon signs announcing the content of his soul.
-Uh, yeah. I just wanted…
-Go on.
-I wanted to let you know something.
-Ok John, what?
-Well, I just wanted to say its raining. You should take the time to be quiet and listen. Just listen.
And he hung up. Abrupt as ever. That’s the kind of guy John is, always trying to slow down the rush of modern life. Some call him primitive, I call him home.
