Rats Giggle

Rats giggle too, but Miles, an incredibly handsome packrat with a luxurious bushy tail, black whiskers and the cutest little ears, was not in a good mood. Indeed, at this moment in his rather large life, he was covering his pointy ears with both paws. For starters, Miles was frustrated with his ongoing investigation into the case of Harold the headless ghost, and worst yet, the disappearance of Lilith, Harold's wife. In addition, Miles had the beginnings of a major headache.

“Harold, what is that cat wailing?”

Harold, a long, thin, ghost of a man with a severed head, which constantly fell from his scrawny shoulders, looked positively a-ghost.

“Cater what? Miles, I’m testing my, I mean our, new instrument. You know, the banjuke you bought from Fiddlin` Red’s Music.”

“Old man, I have a dreadful headache, and I don’t think you have that wretched thing in tune. Besides which, as you know, I love the banjo in all of its manifestations, but what I heard sounded like a cat trapped in a box, buried in the ground, with cement. It leaked out, in a tired, high-pitched wail. You weren’t singing, hmmm?”

Harold sobbed, a hiccupping sob that forced his aforementioned head to slip off his slippery shoulders, hitting the wooden floor with a pang.

Miles rubbed his temples, and longed for a double macchiato from the Bodega Café. Sometimes they even delivered. “Sorry, Harold. Really, old man. You have a lovely bass voice; perhaps you should focus on a happy song, with snappy lyrics. How about the Sounds of Sunshine from Michael Franti? That would sound lovely on the banjuke.”

Disappeared

          

          “Disappeared,” said Harold the ghost. “What on earth do you mean?”

            Miles scratched his ear. Miles did not want to have this conversation with Harold. He wasn’t sure Harold was ready for the facts. However, Miles realized that Harold needed to know the truth, and perhaps, Harold would be able to give Miles more information so that Miles could continue with his research project regarding the demise of Harold, and perhaps, of Lilith as well.

“I have my doubts that Lilith is still on this earth, Harold,” Miles said somberly.

“I’m not sure I understand what you are saying, Miles,” Harold said.

“Harold, I simply do not have enough data to ascertain the pertinent facts in your, and Lilith’s case. It’s been almost six years since the untimely event, and all we have is your headless skeleton upstairs in your attic. I’ve been able to guestimate the time of your death, and certainly, we know that your head was cut off with a chainsaw.”

Miles didn’t think it was possible for Harold’s face to get any whiter, but that’s exactly what it did, as Harold’s knees gave way beneath him, and Harold’s ghostly body tumbled to the floor.

“Oh dear,” said Miles. “I think he’s fainted.”

Miles wasn’t surprised with Harold’s reaction. Harold tended to go through this stage of his death in a state of denial. Miles had grown close to Harold, and really, he wanted to help his ghostly friend. But Harold managed to make this endeavor extremely difficult.

“Harold,” Miles said, perched next to Harold’s head. “Do you think you could finish writing your new song, hmm?”

Harold’s eyes slowly materialized. He looked into the face of his furry little friend and said, “Certainly. Good idea. First, I need to go up to the attic. I’m feeling a little faint.”

“Of course, Harold,” Miles said. “Of course.”

What are you Typing?

“What are you typing,” Harold asked Miles the Packrat. Miles stood on his hind feet, his beady packrat eyes got as big as his pointy nose, and in order to stop his bushy tail from swapping back and forth (his mother would say stop swapping at flies, Miley boy), he grabbed it with his paws.

“Well, good morning, Harold. How are you feeling today, hmm? All are parts connected this lovely summer day? The birds sing sweet lullabies, except for those wretched Killdeer that scream baby-killer, the Irises are gone, but the lilies and peonies are jumping in, along with the roses.”

“Miles, I know you’re doing something. What are you writing?”

Miles heaved a heavy sigh. He knew it would hurt Harold’s feelings if he figured out that Miles was actually a packrat writer for Bob Dylan, one of the greatest songwriters of all time, and still maintained contact with Dylan. “Well, Harold, I wanted to surprise you for your, um, death day celebration. It’s coming up in just a couple of, well, months. And, well, now you’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.”

Miles dropped his tail, and sat on his hind feet, his nose almost touched the floor, but he raised up one eye to look at Harold.

“How have you figured out my death day,” Harold asked.

“I have been doing research, Harold. I found the last trace of you in August 2008. I also researched this cabin. You and Lilith purchased it in May 2008. The first renter moved here in 2012, which gave your, well, your body, time to, how do I say this candidly? Well, plenty of time to become nothing but bones. They lasted one month. The next, and may I add, last renter, was here from May, 2013, until July, 2013.”

“So you think I died sometime in 2008?”

“Yes, Harold. As near as I can understand it, you disappeared sometime after August 2008. I am planning a party for the end of September. I thought we could invite Miss Kitty, Lenny and Rex.”

“And Lilith? Will you invite Lilith?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Lilith, old man. Although someone is receiving her monthly allowance, there has been no trace of Lilith since October 2008. Like you, she seems to have totally disappeared.”

What Went Wrong?

What went wrong

With this song

It started so well

And then went to hell

I thought I could be

The opening key

But then I had to pee…

“Oh, Miles,” Harold the ghost said, I just can’t this song-writing thing down.

Miles, swishing his furry tail back and forth, harrumphed.

“Harold, song writing is poetry put to music. You claim you’re a poet, right? Well, you are the word master, and I’ll help you put it to music.” 

Miles rolled his eyes, exasperated. Oh well, he thought, at least Harold wasn’t pushing him to get his wretched poems published anymore.  All in all, his plan, to get Harold to materialize long enough to play his banjo, was having a positive affect on Harold’s mental health. Well, in this case, his lack of mental health.

Miles loved music. A percussionist himself, he was the epitome of an Irish drum. He used his back feet on different surfaces, and his pride and glory, his magnificent furry black tail, added a new dimension to percussion. And when Harold wasn’t pouting, moaning, or feeling sorry for himself, when he forgot that he was in fact, a ghost, he would materialize, pick up the old banjo Fiddlin’ Red had painstakingly repaired, and play sweet, vibrant music. Miles, of course, backed him up on his new bodhran.

Help Unwanted

Kelp, I need someone

Selp, not just anyone

Jelp, you know I need someone

Help.

“Harold, old man," Miles said, "I do believe that song has already been done by the Beatles, a rather famous British band.” Miles smiled when he remembered his second life, travelling around with the Beatles, and later, the Rolling Stones. Of course, Miles thought, I did not help them write Help.

“Well, you told me to use songs that I knew, and then rewrite the words" Harold moaned. "So I used Jelp, Selp and Kelp instead of help. Get it?”

“Well, that’s not what I meant, Harold. Let me explain. Perhaps you could use an old time tune, like Golden Slippers, and then write lyrics to go with the music. I’m afraid that if you tried to sell a song called 'Help Unwanted,' that had practically the same lyrics as the Beatle song, 'Help,' well, that’s called plagiarism, Harold.”

Harold sat on the stairs, perplexed. He caressed the banjo on his lap, trying to pluck a string, but his hand went right through the instrument, and when he realized this, he lost all composure and the instrument sank through his lap and landed on the floor with a bang.

“Harold, you have to focus. Remember, materialize. You can do it.”

Blood fell out of Harold’s eyes like tear drops. Actually, they were teardrops, comprised of blood.

“Good job, old man.” Miles squeaked. “That looks like real blood.”

“It is real blood,” Harold said. “I feel a little faint.”

“Oh dear,” Miles said. “Maybe we should take a little nap?”

Miles thought that a wonderful idea. He’d much rather snooze in his hidey-hole than help Harold write songs. It was, however, better than listening to Harold’s dreadful poetry. And Miles loved music. When Harold was in a good mood, granted, a rare event, he could actually materialize long enough to play some banjo tunes. Miles kept time with his tail, beating it against the floorboards or old tin pans. Miles had ordered a bodhran from Elderly Instruments, but it had not yet arrived.
Miles was also working on getting Harold a vintage Gibson mandolin on EBay. Unfortunately, someone always came in at the last minute and overbid him by the minimum amount. Miles had his pride, and was not going to pay for one of those programs that bid for him. He considered that to be cheating.

Dream Come True

A dream come true

To not be blue

And enjoy the rain

And everything else, too.

“Miles, what do you think about my new tune,” Harold said.

Miles grumbled, “Oh, so that’s what that cat wailing is.”

Oh dear, Miles thought to himself. I have created a monster. Now Harold is trying to write songs. Taking a deep breath, and grabbing his tail, which had a tendency too twitch whenever he told a fib or an outright lie, Miles said, “Well, old man, I do believe you should accompany that with the banjo that Fiddlin` Red repaired.”

The banjo, Miles thought, would drown out the words, and Harold probably couldn’t sing and play the banjo simultaneously. “Put it in jig format, old man,” Miles said with a grin. Miles knew that playing a jig on the claw hammer banjo was not an easy endeavor, and he hoped that working out the tune on the banjo would keep Harold out of mischief, and prevent him from any more cat-wailing.

Unfortunately, Harold had not played the banjo in a very long time. When Miles heard the sounds floating down the stairs like a thick, wet, and dreary black cloud, he quickly inserted the earplugs he won on EBay. Just when Miles got himself comfortable, nested between Mark Twain and Harper Lee, Harold’s head appeared in front of him like a pesky fly.

“Miles,” Harold said with a whine, “I think the banjo is out of tune.”

“What,” Miles said.

“Take out those earplugs,” Harold demanded. Grudgingly, Miles removed the plugs. “The banjo seems to be out of tune,” Harold said, enunciating each word slowly.

“I’m not deaf, Harold,” Miles said. “Banjo tuning is a common complaint. Did you try using the Snark tuner Miss Kitty brought you from Fiddlin` Red’s Music?”

“Well, I have to decide what key to play the song in before I tune it.”

“I have a brilliant idea, Harold. Why don’t you practice all your A tunes on the banjo and then try playing your tune in A. You know, like a warm-up.”

“Oh Miles, you are such a good friend. I wish I could do something for you.”

Miles stood on his haunches, cradling his tail. “Well, actually Harold, there is something you could do for me. I’ve been looking at bodhrans, and found the perfect drum at Elderly Instruments. It’s only $125. Shall I order it?”

“You play the Irish drum,” Harold said.

Miles pounded a quick rift on the bookshelf with his tail, embellishing with his hind feet.

“Wow,” said Harold. “Order the drum.”

“Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said.

Magical Instrument

          Miss Kitty finished her house cleaning in a jiffy, un-phased by the strange occupants of the house, Miles the pack rat and Harold the almost headless ghost. She left with the broken banjo, claiming she would personally deliver it to Fiddlin` Red when she went in for her weekly fiddle lesson. Naturally, Miles added a generous bonus to her PayPal account, to pay for repairs, delivery, and another order of stinky cheese.

            “Miles,” Harold stammered. “She saw me, and she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t have a heart attack, or run away, or scream."

            “Quite right, old man,” Miles said. “I told you, Miss Kitty is exceptional. Harold, I seem to remember Lenny mentioning something about a band you used to play in, Panhandle Bank, hmmm.”

            Harold fluffed the green pillow Miss Kitty had brought over, and than sat his skinny butt into the rocking chair. “That was a long time ago, Miles,” Harold replied. “I played back-up guitar, mandolin, fiddle, banjo, and sang. Of course, not all at once.”

            “Did you enjoy playing in the band, Harold?”

            Harold took his head off and placed it on his lap. “I did, Miles. We played covers and old time songs. But, well, things change.”

            Miles got on his hind feet so he could look into Harold’s cavernous eyes. “Old man, you played old timey music?”

            “Miles, Miss Kitty saw me.”

            Miles realized that Harold, with his one-track mind, needed a push in a positive direction.

            “Curious, wasn’t it, Harold, that she noticed you after she found your banjo, hmmm.”

            “Miles, Miss Kitty didn’t notice me until after she found my old banjo. Do you think that means something?”

            “Brilliant, Harold. I think you are correct. Thank goodness she’s bringing it to Fiddlin`Red’s Music to get it repaired, hmm. When she brings it back, I think, perhaps, that you should try to play it; I would bet my bottom dollar that the banjo will help you materialize. It’s a magical instrument, you know.”