I Saw a Ghost

I’ve been having this problem over the past few years. Trying to decipher one reality from another. I’m sure there’s a more sophisticated diagnosis that can help me figure it out. But I’d rather not venture into the psychological and medical side. The imagination is boundless and is grounded by one’s passion. To take away someone’s imagination is to take away their drive to see with more than just the eye. The greatest gift of all is for us to be able to express our own individuality. The true nature of the human spirit is being able to share our senses with the world. If I see something, I can describe it, draw it, write about it. If I heard or felt something, I could tell you about the sound it made or what it felt like when it hit my skin. By doing so, we both can share in the same experience through the mind’s eye. With all that said, I’d like to tell you about the time I saw a ghost… and his name was Miles. 

One night, roaming through my family’s abandoned records of the past, I stumbled upon a gem. This particular record stood out from all the rest. It was sleek, with a vibe that was some kind of blue. I knew this was the one, so I placed it on the record player. Mind you, I was the only person in my family who still used that old thing. I admire the past and find it to have a sound like no other. You can’t beat the sound a record makes when it spins below the needle. I waited in anticipation for the music to start. As soon as it began, I was elevated. I found myself transported into a world I had never known before, a smoother world, a cooler world. My eyes closed and the bright flashing lights appeared before me. 

I walked the beats in a cosmic city of night and day, where colors splashed around me. New York City is a beautiful place, home to so many discoveries in modern culture and I was thrown in the middle of it. I looked at the street before me, 52nd Street to be exact, and I just admired the sound coming from the buildings on each side. Jazz, jazz, and more jazz surrounded me. I bopped like an alley cat along each block. I wanted to find the right one, the one that called to me. Each melody enticed me to linger like paint on a wall, but I couldn’t rest until I found the beat that was right for me. 

I stumbled on the forefront of a club, where a man had his back towards me. The sound of an unpredictable trumpet pulled me closer, and closer. I was face to face with the player, who turned to me and played the instrument as smoothly and casually as I walked. I couldn’t help but stand in awe. He turned his head sideways, beckoning me to follow him into the club. Through the doors we went, and the curtain pulled away to reveal the stage band. The bass had me tapping my feet, the saxophone had me twisting my hips. My friend, the trumpet player, took the stage and waited for a cue. He sunk into the mouthpiece whispered and pure poetry out the other side. The band followed his lead, and the lights shone down on him. I sat at a table by myself. I was served the finest scotch and was given a freshly lit cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I didn’t care. 

The band continued to play until my ashtray had filled and the ice in my drink had melted away. It was over, the crowd vanished like they were never there. The band left the stage and proceeded out the door. I stood up and walked towards them. 

“Wait, where you going?” I innocently asked. 

They all left, except for one. When the last band member deserted me, the door was held open by a familiar face. It was my friend, the player. He looked at the ground and spoke for the first time to me. We never made eye contact, but I was mesmerized by his soft, raspy voice. 

“You comin’?” He replied. 

I was stunned. All I could do was make my way towards him and follow. He took me down the street where I originally found myself. This time, I saw it in a different light. It looked much more modern and gray. The lights were off, the music was gone. My friend held his trumpet. He stepped with his feet tapping to music that was playing in his head. He looked hurt, not physically, but on the inside. I didn’t want to ask him what was wrong, I was too afraid too. It was then I noticed something most peculiar. People walked through my friend. Literally walked through him. When they approached me, they walked around me like I was a telephone pole. Could they even see me? I wanted to test this out. When I saw another pedestrian, ignorant of the player’s existence, I braced myself and brushed his shoulder. This man had to be in his early thirties, he looked at me and shouted words I’d rather not repeat.

So that made it clear, I could be seen. But why not my friend? It was time to ask another question. He hasn’t said a word this entire walk down endless city blocks. His fingers locked on the trumpet like it was the Rock of Gibraltar. It was his gem, his baby. I respected that. I just want to know more. Who knows when I’ll get this moment again. I swallowed my anxiety and approached him. He was only a few feet in front of me so it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’d pop in every now and then. 

“Excuse me,” I asked, “why can’t they see you?” 

No answer. I started questioning my own existence. Everything I once knew before this moment was just blurred. What was real? I had to ask again.

“Hey? Can you see me?” 

“Yeah.”

He turned right down another block without another word. I had to keep going. He never seemed phased by those who just passed through his body like the wind. If he could accept it, I had to as well. Just a few blocks later we found ourselves at a giant blank canvas. It was placed within the brick wall of an even larger building. A blank white canvas with no artist, or so I thought. My friend walked towards the canvas. He stood in front of it, gazing at its unknown possibilities. Then, he looked at me. 

“Will you help me?”

I nodded. Not sure of what he even thought I was capable of. He pulled the trumpet back towards his mouth and started to play. The soothing sounds from his brain had been released after such a long walk. They poured out of the bell as vibrant colors that began to stain the canvas. Reds, blues, greens, they all splashed away and started to form shape. He looked at me and wiggled his fingers, then pointed to the canvas. Does he want me to play the canvas? As soon as I asked myself that question he nodded. I didn’t say it out loud, I swear to you. But he heard it. In the realm of possibilities, this was the least strangest thing I could imagine. In fact, it was kind of beautiful. 

I began to tap my fingers on the blank pieces on the canvas. It made a sort of low bass sounding effect. With that came more colors. I tapped and tapped away, sending more colors and sounds out into the world. It was breathtaking. I had this superpower to make colors and music appear from nothing but an idea. My friend kept playing and I followed his melody. We were painting our own masterpiece that could be seen from three blocks away. I closed my eyes and just kept true to the music. The pallets were true to my imagination, as were his. It was almost finished, I looked at my friend who nodded for me to step down. I watched him put the finishing touches on this magnificent piece. He lowered the trumpet and we admired it together. 

It was of a woman, with brown hair and the smoothest skin you’ll ever see. A beauty mark rested under her left eye. She tilted her head just a tad, and gave my friend a smile that could warm the coldest heart. She was surrounded by vibrant colors and designs ranging from different shapes and sizes. Every inch of the canvas was covered and I couldn’t help but fall hypnotized. After a few moments, I looked at the artist beside me.

“What’s her name?”

It didn’t take too long for him to give me a reply.

“Francis.”

“And what is your name?”

He smiled. He put the trumpet back to his mouth and let out a few final notes. The colors splashed in the bottom right corner of the canvas. They spelled out a single name. Miles. Was it a signature or an answer? I wasn’t sure. But that last bit of power that came from his trumpet brought the woman to life. She blinked and began to sway and shake to a beat heard from inside the painting. I focused in on what I was seeing, I turned to my friend, who himself had been turned to paint. The physical body I saw just a moment ago had changed forever. He was still there, just not the same. He laughed and gave me a wink. He held out his hand towards the canvas, and Francis grabbed it. She gently pulled him into the painting and they began to dance. He pulled her closer, she fell under his chin. They rocked and swayed back and forth. Their eyes closed and I just fell to my knees in admiration of true love. I wish I heard the music and be encased in art forever. I closed my eyes and nearly shed a tear.

A moment later, I heard the scratching of my record player. The needle had hit its final note. I lifted it and sat in complete fulfillment. It was over. I’ll never forget the short time I spent with Miles. He never said much but I learned something new. I learned that the beauty of the past will live on forever. I was destined to find that old album and become entranced by its mesmerizing sounds. I wanted to remember every detail of my experience. But I can’t play an instrument and I can’t sing. I can’t for the life of me draw and do justice for my old friend. But perhaps I could write about it. Imagine every word of this story like the colors he painted on the canvas. The picture in your mind, the sound of his instrument, they will live on forever.

I just hope to have done right by him.