Big Full Moon Walk Home

Who do you belong to?

The other night saw A History of Violence at the theater. I still think it’s one of the best movies ever made about “the self,” whatever that is. Cronenberg’s always at his weirdest when he’s trying to show normal people being happy. Which is the joke, sure, because there are no normal people, and normal life is weirder than anything else out there. This fact should quiet you down right quick in your seat. Yeah, the usual chuckleheads laughed, but that’s a fair response to raw emotion rendered at a slant. Nobody quite knows what to do with that. I was a laughing kid once too.

But as I left, I had a song stuck in my head, one I hadn’t heard in years. It was written by my friend Mark Adamec, one of the coolest people I’ve ever known, who last time I checked was working as an electrician in Tupelo. He’s also a genius. So were his bandmates, Lyon Chadwick and David Gilmore, The Sleeping Bulls. The song I had in my head was one of their best, “Jean Baptiste,” Mark’s ode to John the Baptist. It’s a deeply strange song, from the arrangement to the lyrics to the performance, all of it very elegant Southern phantasmagoria. That refrain “Who do you belong to?” feels about as existential as you can get. Lyon ripping on the violin, Gilmore with all his beautiful reverbed-out weirdness, and Mark belting like a dragon, which was his nickname. He and Lyon called me “Monster,” which I never understood, but sure. Lyon, Dragon, Monster. I’ll take it.

Mark’s given me some of my favorite records, like A Walk Across the Rooftops and Spirit of Eden and Blind Joe Death. We talk online on occasion, but I miss him terribly. I keep hoping he’ll crank out a new masterpiece. Or at least come to visit. Anyway, I looped “Jean Baptiste” on my headphones for the big full moon walk home from the movies.

Which got me thinking. When did Mark first play that song for me? Had to be when I was working at this store in Oxford, a kind of headshop, cd store, and used clothing joint that was perfect to work at during that very specific time of my life. I endured tornadoes there, parents who dropped their kids off and left, thieves, and near-death drug addicts. Also a lot of people asking for music recs. Once after a tornado I walked to the railroad tracks and saw a car’s entire bumper wrapped around a pine tree twelve feet up. Sometimes it felt like anything could happen.

But this particular night, the movie and the song and the full moon, got me thinking about this one time when I had just put on Veedon Fleece by Van Morrison, a Mark favorite. Halfway through the opening track “Fair Play” (still a 10/10 banger), this woman walked in the store. She had short cropped blonde hair, wore overalls, and was covered in motor oil.

“Broke down outside,” she said. “Mind if I sit a little.”

I said sure. I asked her if she needed anything. “Just to sit a little.”

The woman stared straight at the floor, both hands clenched on the armrests of this easy chair we had in the middle of the store. She seemed on a mission, and I didn’t dare disturb her.

After the third track “Who Was That Masked Man?” came on, the woman looked up at me. She had the bluest eyes I ever saw.

“This was my husband’s favorite album,” she said.

“It’s a great album.”

“It was his favorite.”

“Was?”

She nodded and went quiet. So I stayed about my business, cleaning, trying to read a book, doing whatever. The whole time this woman keeping it together in the chair.

“Can I help you with the car?” I said. “Or do you want a glass of water?”

“No,” she said, “I got it.”

I didn’t bother her anymore. We sat there together and listened to the record. Nobody else came in, we didn’t have a lot of foot traffic. At one point I noticed she was crying. Again, she didn’t want to be talked to, so I didn’t say a thing. I just sat there, listening together. It started to rain a little.

The last song ended, and I put on something else. Probably something cheery, like that would help anything.

The woman stood up and nodded her head at me. “Thanks for letting me sit.”

“Are you sure I can’t help you with anything?”

“Not a chance,” she said, and left.

There were oil stains all over the easy chair.

I never saw her again.

Can’t ever hear that record without thinking of her. Hoping she’s okay. Out there, somewhere.