The Turk Tokes some Rivendell

Uncle Al. I knew immediately it was Al Capone. Grandpa always had some good and bad to say about him, but he, if believed, was a friend and confidante of the man who ran “The Outfit!” This was in New York, so it was before Capone moved to Chicago. If what I saw or experienced was real, his family was wonderful. The Thanksgiving feast was fit for a king.

As my brain is increasing its activity in the here and now, I am remembering grandpa’s journal. He talked of it often. Once I got up, grabbed some coffee and my trusty Snub-nosed Corn Cob I padded up the pull-down stairs to the attic. Grandpa had a trunk that I never opened. Before he disappeared, he told me to keep it for him. Truth be told, I never really thought about it. I thought more about what happened to grandpa all these years. Dad was not around. He went nuts with some flat foot flugie and I was simply a red-headed step-child after that. Mom raised me and told me to respect her father’s wishes, so I guess that’s what I did. But there it was, behind his boxes of books. I moved them out of the way and looked at the old, leather-strapped trunk. Should I bother to get my lock pick set (yeah, I was sort of a punk turd, too) or just bust it? No need. I moved it towards the gable and the lock just popped open. There, inside, was his collection of pipes. Wonder why I never thought of that? Flor de la Isla cigars. Filipino stogies crumbling in the dusty light. First cigar gramps ever gave me. Photos: Grandpa Turk and Al Capone, brother Ralph, Mama Theresa, Sister Mafalda, and Mae with Sonny. Grandpa visiting Capone in prison. Grandpa helping Mae out of the car as she visited Alcatraz. Grandpa as one of the spectators in Capone’s tax evasion trial. Grandpa visiting Al in Florida, several pictures... one appearing to be AC at death’s door.

I doubt I will ever change my mind that Al Capone was anything other than a brutal thug, but something is happening here. AND... under the pictures was an unopened tin of tobacco: Rivendell. Never heard of it. Since we never had a funeral for grandpa maybe I will light up a bowl, if safe, and give him a personal send-off. Would the Gentle Voices join me? Where were they? I have so many questions. I decided to pull the sheet off the stuff chair in the attic and light one up there. Being very sentimental, I looked through his pipes. There was one in a gift box that had a small card in it: From scrooge . It was a long-stemmed, high-stacked pipe, with the signature slowroll carved on it.

The pipe was clean. I popped the tobacco open. Still smokable. Maybe more so than it was when first tinned. It had a nice little sweet-woodsy tin note. I stuffed the pipe. Pulled out my Harley Ronson and lit it up. Semi-sweet. Woody. Earthy. Could very well be one of the best tobaccos I’ve ever puffed. Shame the bottle of Medley Brothers was downstairs. A few puffs into this and I was feeling wonderful... and strange. I looked up at the wall as if it were miles away and I could see and hear the Gentle Voices forming words: Gris en Foughran Myste.

Huh?

Just then my heart felt like it was giving away. There was a mist surrounding me. In a totally smart-alec moment I thought, “Huh! There’s nothing Foughran about this Myste! Beam me up, Gentle Ones!”

That they did. Mist was all around me. I am not ever sure my body was solid at this point, as the mist was going through me, too.

I walked through some gates expecting heaven or hell. Were they the same. What did I get? For that matter, am I dead!?

The Voices started guiding me.

“No, you are not dead.”

“You have many things to learn,” a more feminine voice said.

Though I could alway recognize the voice of Stephen Foster I got a glimpse of him as he spoke, “Dear friend and gentle heart, you are seeing what few peole have ever seen in life. You are in the Tween Land of the Foughran Myste.”

Whenever Stephen spoke to me, he always said, Dear friend and gentle heart. When he passed away that phrase was found in his purse. Historians have for years wondered whether it was the beginning of a new song or a goodbye note.

“Stephen, I have so many things I want to ask you. Your ode to the afterlife. Your perceptions of slavery and how they changed in your life.”

Stephen answered we would be sharing tea someday, as my adventures into other realms were far from over. It was at that point I was actually starting to feel good in my heart. What followed left me not feeling so good, nor bad; just extremely thoughtful.

I could see the Gentle Voices by their effect on the mist as they spoke.

As I walked through the thickening smoke I heard, “TURK!!” I recognized that voice. Yet I had only been called Turk when I was in another realm. It was in the same tone and volume as Dutch Schultz spoke when he saw me enter the chop house the night he was gunned down. I looked over and there he was, bathing in a tub of blood. He smiled and said, “Don’t look concerned. It’s the blood of my victims. I have to wash myself with it until they deem me cleansed.”

“Well, Arthur, if it helps, they never did find your five million!”

He smiled and then burst out laughing. “Well, if they ever figure out ‘A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kim’ they just might find it. Get the Gentle Voices to explain that one to you, my friend!”



I moved along. There, in the distant fog was Al Capone himself. He was on a table being tended to by some sort of fairies. And there was Grandpa.

“Turk, you whippersnapper! Welcome!”

“Grandpa Turk, what’s the all about? Why are you calling me Turk?”

“Well, it’s about time you knew. We are the same spirit. Normally this is not possible. Part of my spirit got sucked into you the moment you were born. As you grew older it became impossible for our two spirits to remain together in the same realm. As yours was growing stronger and mine weaker I just thought it would be time for me to step into the Myste. You sure took long enough to bust into my trunk. I figured you would have done that the day I went missing.”

“What’s up with Big Al here,” I asked half-assed in passing.

“He’s being comforted now. He realized how bad he was in life that he was able to make spiritual amends. It was not all his fault, as there was the VD that he got. He wasn’t responsible for some of the things he did, and did not do all of the things he was accused of. That’s why you are here. You need to get a clear idea of the truth and make an appeal to the Gentle Voices for him.”

“Why can’t they see what we are doing and saying here? For that matter, where did they go?”

“We’re in a part of the Foughran Myste that even they cannot enter. This is as close to hell as anyone gets without being there.”

“Gramps, what the heck are you doing here? Was your life that bad?”

“No, not bad. Remember the old saying to never volunteer? Well, I did when I heard some of my friends’ souls were in danger. I left the Rivendell Tobacco there for you to find in case I was here longer than I should be.”

“All this for Al Capone?”

“Uncle Al is not the only one. Didn’t you realize you were me when The Dutchman got shot to hell? You have to go back to your realm and make things good.”

“For Al Capone!? Not hardly!”

“Do you have any idea how many lives he saved by getting expiration dates put on milk cartons? Children in school got fresh milk after that. He was a dichotomy. Evil, yes. Good, yes. Ain’t we all. Do you remember Uncle Sonny, whose lap you used to sit on and have fun with?”

“Please don’t, grandpa. Sonny Capone?”

“Yeah, you douchewhistle. Start to pay attention!”

“Okay, Gramps. How do I get out of here and will you come with me?”

“Already told you, our souls can’t be together in an earthly realm. You’ll have to keep working your way through here until you find the ray of light leading to an exit. It will lead you to a cave and where that is... you’ll have to figure.”

“Look, I’m no Hobbit and this is no adventure! I didn’t volunteer either!”

“Yes you did when you asked the Gentle Voices for guidance.”

“By the way, Grandpa, Stephen Foster. How does he relate to our souls, or is it a quest of the fool to ask.”

“Your great great grandfather was one of the doctors who tried to save his life. It broke his heart to have such a wonderful soul slip through his hands. Stephen looks out for you. Now, get out of here, take this journal with you. You probably won’t be able to see it well enough to read until or if you get out of here.”

So, I had many answers. My quest was to now find a way through all these dead souls trying to understand what they did not in life. Millions I did not know, but I came across John Lennon, bathing in his own spittle, singing “Imagine” over and over again. He seemed content. Elvis was debating (with himself) the wisdom of Gibran’s The Prophet vs the Wisdom of the Bible. “Hint to Elvis: They can both speak to you. Just be thankful you’re not a hunka hunka burning soul. Millions of Concentration Camp victims kept throwing the bodies of Hitler and his henchman into the fiery abyss over and over again. I stopped to ask one... “Why don’t you move onto the light? You are pure as crystal.”

“I would. We all would, but we’re having too much fun right now.”

In the distance I saw a light, waving, as if it had arms. A savior? A messiah, a prophet? All of the above? Did it matter? What was he offering?”

I didn’t find out, as the Gentle Voices were with me again, their voices lifting me into a whirlwind. I was taken up into the air, the space, who knows, seeing worlds and realms unknown, which would still be unknown unless I got to visit them someday.

I landed on my arse on the floor of a cave, the journal beside me, as well as the scrooge slowroll pipe and a pouch of some tobacco called “Old Toby” next to me. Thanks, Gramps.

I picked up the journal and started to read in the cave by the stream of light coming in. I didn’t feel really good about this mission. Was I to make a saint out of such a sinner? Okay, wait. He may have saved more lives than he had taken. Does it matter? Does truth matter? Where is some good doobie when you need some?



Next... The Journal of Turk MacDoogle