By Chip Livingston
I think I’m going crazy when I see my
reflection in the camera’s lens. I’m
surrounded by the dead. Jimi, Marilyn,
Joan — face covered in cold cream, hand
holding wire hanger high above her head.
The Halloween Parade has paused for television crews in front of The
Revolver on Duvall Street in New Orleans.
I duck inside for a drink, take the elevator to the thirteenth
floor.
I walk inside the
club without ID. Tonight I don’t need
it. Tonight I’m invisible. I pass witches, goblins, boys dressed like
ghouls. Once we were two of them. Once we both joined the annual
masquerade. But tonight is
different. Tonight I don a plain white
sheet with ink. Circles traced around
holes cut out to see through. Another
hole through which I drink, from which I breathe.
I wasn’t coming
out tonight. Didn’t plan or purchase a
costume. Wouldn’t wear one hanging in
your closet. What led me to the linens
then, to quickly cut a cotton sheet into a kid’s uniform? What drove me to this?
Beneath this
sheet, your medicine bag hangs around my neck, the tanned leather pouch you
made me promise never to open. This is
the first time I’ve worn it. But no one
can see it. No one can see me.
I finish my drink,
scotch neat, with a gulp, sing the invisible song you taught me, set the glass
on the black wood rail, and, still singing, step onto the dance floor.
Beneath this
sheet, I imitate you dancing. My feet,
awkward at first, soon find your rhythm, and my legs bounce powwow style in the
steps we both learned as kids. The steps
that never left you. I dip and turn
between, around the fancy dancers in their sequin shawls and feather boas. I shake my head like you did when your hair
was long, the way you flipped it, black and shining, to the heavy beat of house
music. The music hasn’t changed much in
case you’re wondering. I dance in your
footsteps; sing the invisible song; close my eyes.
When I open my
eyes, I swear I see Carlo. Impossible
right, but he’s stuffed inside that Nancy Reagan red dress and he’s waving at
me, sipping his cocktail and smiling.
He’s talking to Randy, who’s sticking out his tongue that way he always
did whenever he caught someone staring at him.
I start to walk over but I bump in to Joan.
She’s glaring at
me. Or it may just be the eyebrows,
slanted back with pencil to make it look like she’s glaring at me. She reaches past me and grabs Marilyn by her
skinny wrist and pulls her away, but Carlo and Randy are gone. Where they stood are faces I don’t
recognize. Faces dancing. Masks I realize. Faces behind masks.
The DJ bobs
furiously with pursed lips, headphones disguised as fiendish, furry paws, in
the booth above the floor. He introduces
a new melody into the same harping beat, and I remember to dance. I remember you dancing. My fingers slide across your sweaty chest,
and I find your necklace. The sheet
clings to my body in places. The new
song sounds just like the last song but I’m suddenly crowded by strangers. I can no longer lift my legs as high as I
want to, so I sway in place, shuffle with the mortals on the floor.
Behind me someone
grabs me, accidentally perhaps, but I turn, violently, jealously. There are too many people in this equation. Twos become one again and again, and ones
become twos. All around me real numbers
add up to future possibilities.
Imaginary numbers. It’s why we’re
here dancing.
A cowboy nods his
hat in my direction. But he can’t be
nodding at us. We’re invisible. I think maybe he is a real ghost; he’s
peering intently into the holes cut out for my eyes. He looks like Randolph Scott, blond and
dusty, so I look around for Cary Grant as Jimi lifts the guitar from his lips
and wails. Randolph Scott is coming this
way and I turn my back and dance.
I want you back,
Elan. I want you back dancing beside
me. I start chanting this over and over
to myself. I want you back. I want you back.
You taught me the
power of words. I believed you. I can even smell you now. Sandalwood oil and sweat. I turn and expect to see you.
Not you behind
me.
Not you beside me.
Not you in front
of me.
Not you anywhere
around me.
I make my way to
the bar, but the bar is too crowded. The
barman’s face grimaces over hands holding folded dollars as he tries to keep
the glasses filled. The air is thick with smoke. It’s hard to breathe. I make my way to the door, notice the cowboy
trailing me. In the elevator, I go down
alone.
Into the rain on
Duvall Street, we walk out together. One
set of footprints splashes our muddy way home, then, turning, I realize we are
not going home, but passing more pagan tricksters decked out as holiday
spirits.
The
bells in the clock tower tell me it is midnight. Squeaking from its hinges, the door to
morning slowly opens and it’s All Saints Day, the Day of the Dead, and I am
walking toward Boot Hill, to where you are buried.
We’re alone in the
cemetery, and the wind lifts the rain in a mist rising up from the wet earth
that is claiming me. I remove my sheet
in front of the cement memorial that holds your body up above the boggy
ground. I remove my shoes. I strip off everything except your leather
pouch around my neck, and I dance for you.
My legs are free and I whirl and sing.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved
to dance. I want you back dancing. I want you dancing now.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved
to dance. I want you back dancing. I want you dancing now.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved
to dance. I want you back dancing. I want you dancing now.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved
to dance. I want you back dancing. I want you dancing now.
Ghost Dance, was first published
in Boulder Planet and
is reprinted from "Museum of False Starts" by Chip
Livingston (Copyright 2010). Reprinted by permission of Gival Press.
Chip Livingston is the mixed-blood Creek author of two
collections of poetry, CROW-BLUE,
CROW-BLACK and MUSEUM OF FALSE STARTS,
and a collection of short stories, NAMING
CEREMONY, Lethe Press 2014. Chip has
received fiction awards from Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas, Wordcraft
Circle of Writers and Storytellers, and the AABB Foundation. Chip grew up on
the Florida-Alabama border and now lives in Colorado, where he teaches writing
online, and is a faculty mentor in the low-rez MFA program at Institute of
American Indian Arts in New Mexico.
Michelle Pichon is a Louisiana Creole with roots in Slidell and Isle Brevelle, Louisiana. Teaching English at Northwestern State University is her bread and butter but poetry is her chocolate cake and Sauvignon Blanc at the end of the day. She has previously been published in Country Roads, Xavier Review, and Louisiana English Journal. She is co-founder of Down River Art Gang (DRAG) where she and her friends put on killer multi-cultural, multi-genre art shows and other events. 
