Chapter 37

37

The coffee is too hot to drink right now, so I sit quietly, warming my hands and watching the steam rise up from the cup. John watches me watching it and shakes his head.

"I can't believe it."

Believe it buddy. Here I sit in front of you, not the ghost of past or future, but more a ghost of the present. Although I'm too confused to point old Ebenezer along the path to redemption.

Convincing John of my authenticity took many stories in which I conjured ghosts of Christmas past, but one ghost in particular, Ronnie Sizemore solidified his belief.

Ronnie only had one arm when we met him in a Fayetteville, Arkansas pool hall. He grew fond of me quite quickly once he figured out I'd buy him a pint of Budweiser.

Ronnie tried his damnedest to play pool, drunkenly swinging his lone arm in the direction of the cue, but his mouth and mind were constantly preoccupied with his main concern that evening.

"I am out to get me some pussy!" Ronnie would shout in between sips of beer. He'd continue to play while telling us stories about driving semis through the Texas panhandle, but as soon as a pair of breasts walked by, Ronnie would inevitable shout, "I'm out to get me some pussy!" like some sort of perverted coo-coo clock.

During conversation, I casually mentioned to Ronnie that John and I were traveling through Arkansas when we popped a tire coming into town. We hadn't planned a stop in Fayetteville so we hadn't made sleeping arrangements ahead of time. Ronnie played his part perfectly.

"Well, you can certainly stay at my apartment. It's across the street in the tallest building in town. I've got one of those brand new television sets and a case of beer in the fridge. It's apartment 413. Just knock on the door when you get there and I'll come let you in. Unless of course, I got me some pussy."

"Naturally, Ronnie."

And then, sometime while I was in the bathroom, Ronnie slipped out of the bar and back into the night. John and I, after closing the bar, drunkenly followed suit.

"Well, what now?"
"What time is it?"
"Two-fifteen in the morning."
"...and Ronnie did offer."

And that's how we ended up at Ronnie's apartment door that random morning. I knocked, but Ronnie didn't answer.

"Maybe he's found some?" John asked.
"Seriously? That guy?"

Of course I tried the knob and found the door to be unlocked. Of course John and I walked un, tired and drunk, our judgment on vacation. And finally, of course, we saw Ronnie climbing what can only be described as a mountain of a woman, propping himself up onto mounds of quivering flesh with his one remaining arm. He stopped his pumping to turn his head in acknowledgement.

"Hey boys, look what I found!"

How could we have ever doubted the determination of the one armed man? We left quickly and decided to spend the night in a nearby park. John brought his guitar and during the wee morning hours, we wrote a song in tribute.

Although I've forgotten most of the words, the chorus went something like this:

"The one armed man is gonna get ya in the end."

For months we sang that song and laughed at Ronnie's expense.

"I can't believe it. I can't believe I forgot about that night," John says through laughter and tears. "Richard, it's a fucking miracle."

"It's certainly something alright," I reply, impatiently burning my tongueon my scalding cup of coffee.