Too Much of Nothing

And so, it was that life would be doomed to a miserable and lacking desire. He didn’t need it, any of it to be sure, and yet he wanted it. The difference was great enough to drive a man from drinking to dying. It was an empty life, but what the hell, he didn’t have much to lose.

The curse was pre-disposed, lain unto him from the moment of his birth. He had never felt he belonged where he was, always hesitant to accept the fate that God or something greater had put on his head. While humanity bustled in blissful ignorance, content to smile and exchange services for goods, he watched from the sidelines. Tonight, was no different apart from the singularity that beckoned. His guitar was warm and loose, nestling against his chest after a night of regularity; singing to the patrons and collecting the wrinkled dollar bills that were seldom offered willingly. Yet, it seemed that something was afoot.

A woman had appeared, as they tend to do. He was used to seeing strangers, travelers even, wasting their evenings away at the local bar. He always did his best to pluck his strings and croak his voice in a way that might demand their attention. In his youth he dreamed of flashing lights that bore his name, in his wisdom he thanked God for another night spent in warmth and with a belly full of food. This fine evening the strange woman had listened to all of his songs. A faint smile colored her lips, as she sipped on rum and coke, intently listening to every one of his tales. He had thought for sure she might leave him a good tip, after all it seemed she was entranced by his performance, utterly unable to look away. Yet, when it was done, so was she. Her presence left as it had come, without consequence or any apparent air of importance.

Discouraged, he thought this might be the life he was doomed to live; performing for uncaring strangers who feigned interest long enough to get a performance, but short enough to escape the offering. Defeated, he had quietly retired to a corner of the bar, content to drink and nurse a cigarette he’d been saving for his lonesome self. Charles, the barkeep, came trotting up to him with a puzzled look on his face. “Eh, Luke, you didn’t happen to know that miss who was eyeing you all night, huh?” “No Charles, just another tourist looking for free entertainment, why?” “Well, she left a black notebook on her table, and it has your name on it.” He slapped the book down in front of him, shrugged his shoulders, and went off to refill the drink of a patron starting to get rowdy. Curious enough, it didn’t strike him as strange, but it was indeed something he’d never experienced.

“A notebook with my name on it eh,” he thought to himself. Perhaps this was a coincidence, and the lady in question knew someone else with the name Luke. This line of questioning was soon laid to bed, when he saw his full name, Luke Richard Francis, etched into the leather cover. Half dazed, mostly confused, he opened the notebook. The inside of the cover had an inscription that looked as old as time itself, it read, to whom who seeks so they shall find. Intrigued, he turned the page to find that out of every available space within the notebook, only the first page had anything written on it. Under the sky where the mockingbirds sing, so will you, and if you be worthy, the universe will open itself. “Am I drunk right now?” If not, Luke thought for sure this was a lucid dream he had stumbled into. Surely, he was at home right now, asleep in his bed, tossing and turning as he tortured himself with wicked imagination.

And yet, the moment continued on persistently, neither ending nor changing. This was reality. For an inexplicable reason this didn’t faze him. Perhaps it was the change of pace, from monotony to intrigue, but whatever it was Luke felt only motivated to solve the riddle before him. “Under the sky where the mockingbirds sing,” he whispered to himself. Suddenly, he knew exactly where the notebook spoke of. “Charles,” he declared, “put this on my tab, and don’t expect me back, I’m headed out.” Without waiting for a response Luke was gone, down the street, running as fast as he could towards his destination.

The bench, the mockingbirds, the blue sky. They were all located in a park he had grown up going to. Upon a hill, not two miles from the bar he relegated himself to, the bench was a place his father had shown him. It was off the main path in the park, hidden behind a cluster of trees that no one ever bothered to trim. It had been years since Luke had visited this place, but after reading the notebook it was unmistakable. Located near a forest, one couldn’t help but hear the mockingbirds that sang out during the daytime. The bench offered a perfect view of the stars, allowing the keen observer to feel as though they had access to the sky itself, while enjoying the protection of the overgrown nature reserve. Sprinting up the hill, Luke soon found himself facing the bench he was sure the notebook had led him to. Carved into the wood the bench were the words, Too Much of Nothing. How peculiar, he had never noticed this before.

Unsure of what to do next, Luke thought back to the notebook. Under the sky where the mockingbirds sing, so will you, and if you be worthy, the universe will open itself. Well, he wasn’t sure what the universe opening itself meant, but at this point he was down for anything that might disrupt his normal dull routine. Sitting down on the bench, with his guitar in hand, he began to sing a favorite tune of his, Old Man. It was a Neil Young Classic, a forgotten anthem that most of his generation would’ve sneered at. Halfway through, nothing was happening, and so he stopped. This was crazy. He was singing a song to the open air, and expecting what? Maybe he really was going mad. The long nights and little pay had finally gotten to him.

Pulling out another smoke and sinking deeper into the bench, Luke puffed begrudgingly into the night. Nearing the butt and feeling sleep overtaking him, he decided to leave. Just as he was about to get up, he remembered something from a long time ago. Too Much of Nothing was the name of a Bob Dylan song off the basement tapes album with The Band. It had been years since he had listened to it, but the connection seemed obvious. Quickly looking up the chords and lyrics on his phone, Luke decided to give his madness one last shot. Launching into the song he began to sing:

Too much of nothing

Can make a man ill at ease

One man's temper rises

Where another man's temper might freeze

Now it's a day of confession

And we cannot mock a soul

Oh, when there's too much of nothing

No one has control

“You found me,” an old voice suddenly interjected. Startled, Luke looked over to an elderly man sitting next to him. “Excuse me, what is going on here,” he half demanded and pleaded. Laughing softly the old man just smiled at him. “I’m serious, what the hell is going on here?” “You did it. You found me,” the old man said repeating himself. “I wasn’t looking for you,” Luke replied flatly. “And I suppose you must be looking for something in order to find it,” the old man countered. “Well… say I have ‘found you’ what does that even mean?” The old man sighed, looked up into the sky, and waited a couple seconds before replying. “At some point in their lives, everyone feels as though they don’t belong, as though their time is leading to nothing in particular. Most get over this and carry on with a sense of self-discovery and new purpose. Yet there are those of us who never get over this notion, for we cannot shake the feeling that we were born in the wrong time, subjected to modern circumstances with an old-fashioned sensibility. Do you know what I speak of?” “Yes,” Luke said. “You have been unable to shake this feeling, and so you were given the chance to remedy this by proving your salt. I admit I was worried you might give up, but you did it. You found me.” “And who exactly are you?” The old man looked a Luke, his previous mischievous smile replaced with a look of grave circumstance. “It’s your turn now. You are me and I am you. Accept this responsibility and take my place, and you will be given the opportunity you always dreamed of.” “I’m not sure I follow you,” Luke said with a look of confusion. “Well, you’re going to travel back in time and take my place of course.” “What?! How exactly am I going to do that? You still haven’t answered my question!” Pausing for another moment the old man slowly replied, “when I wrote Highway 61 I was just a boy your age. I didn’t know my place in the world. All I had was the body of work of my predecessors to build off of. I’d like to think I did right by them. Do right by me… write something true.” With that he handed Luke a package and got up to leave. “Wait! What I am supposed to do? What do you mean YOU wrote Highway 61? Who are you, Bob Dylan?!” “Not anymore kid, not anymore. Now, I’m nobody. I look forward to listening to your work… and oh… don’t drink the punch.” With that he left, he was gone, and Luke was left sitting frozen on the bench.

Frantically unwrapping the package in his hands, he gasped. It was filled with money and a small black book. It was the same type of notebook he had found at the bar, but this one was filled with to the brim with writing. Songs, names, numbers, and random meanderings peppered the pages. The cash before him counted out to $20,000 dollars, with a note that read: to get you started – B. This was unreal. He couldn’t even wrap his head around what was happening to him. Before he had a chance to process, he noticed one last item, neatly wrapped in brown paper in the bottom of the package. Tearing it open, Luke found himself holding a rusty harmonica. A small piece of paper had been tied to it. Blow. Slowly lifting the instrument to his lips, Luke stopped to ponder what he was doing. Frankly, he hadn’t slightest clue. None of this made sense or registered as anything a sane person would experience. But what he did know is that he was tired of being tired. He didn’t know what he wanted or who he was, but he knew that for some reason blowing on this harmonica would lead him to the answer. So, without any more hesitation, he put his lips on the cold metal and blue a single long note. He closed his eyes and let himself focus on only the noise he was producing.

When his breathe gave out he opened his eyes again. He was still on the bench, only it was daytime. The wind smelled fresher, the trees looked younger, and his body felt relieved. Suddenly a young boy ran up to him. “Mister! Haven’t you heard?” “Heard what Kid?” “Buddy Holly, his plane went down, he’s dead!”

“Kid, what year is this?” “1959 sir… are you okay?” Luke smirked. “Yeah, I’m fine, just a little too much of nothing.”