Crazy Abe

I removed the stylus from the smooth black vinyl. The muse was over. Tonight the record player had become the telephone, and the old LP a short, sharp message from whatever reigned above.

‘Crazy Abe’ they called me. They always had. People would cross over to avoid passing me in the street, others would look away when my face entered a room. It had always been that way since back then. And when a man is forced into isolation he finds his own friends, his own truth…even if he knows it isn’t good for him. Years had passed since ‘the incident’. Nobody had known the truth. It was meant to happen that way. They had told me to….and if I didn’t do it they would come for me. My every move was watched, my every action noted, and my every thought stolen. They were inside my head, and so I had to do what I was told…or else, it would be me next.

It was fun at first. They’d speak to me, tell me about things; things nobody else would tell me about. Nobody told me anything, I was the outcast, ‘Crazy Abe’ remember. But they told me. Trivial things. Little secrets about people; who was telling little white lies. Then they began to reveal more. They’d tell me about who was bad, who’d been saying things, saying things about Abe. And they’d tell me maybe Abe could do something about it. I’d been shown pictures, pictures of the people in the town laughing at me. Soon I’d be hunted down and burnt, like the witches in the old books they told me. That’s why I had to do something about it. That’s why they had told me to put on the record.

I once again rummaged under Papa’s bed. I retrieved the pistol. It still had five bullets in it and was ready to go. Papa had never told me about the gun. They had. They also told me what to do when I found it. As I left the old man tucked up in his final resting place and stumbled back through to the front room to listen to the old record one more time, I had an epiphany. I didn’t need the records, sure they’d given me a high, but now after what I had just done I was buzzing, in a natural high. Who needed Dylan? My fate was in my own hands, I was the creator now:

Found Papa’s revolver under his bed,
Gone and put a bullet in the old man’s head,
I didn’t want to but they told me:
‘you know he’d be better off dead’
resting in a sea of black and white and red

Maybe not. I still had a lot to learn. But there would be time for that where I was going. They had shown me that too. A place where I’d be welcome, accepted…maybe even get to speak to a girl. Like one of them ones off the television. She had long free-flowing locks, and a beautiful smile, not like them girls in town. They didn’t like Abe.

As I fastened the rest of the toggles on my faded brown duffle coat, I blew out all but one of the remaining candles. Goodnight Pa. Rest in peace. I put the loaded gun in my pocket, along with Pa’s stash of money, they’d told me where to find that too, and said that it would help me a little along the way. Maybe, just for them, one last listen before I left……

I removed the stylus from the smooth black vinyl. The muse was over. Tonight the record player had become the telephone, and the old LP a short, sharp message from whatever reigned above.


Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No." Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run"
Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done?"
God says, "Out on Highway 61."