Lightning Tales
April 13, 2001

So here I am Raiford Starke driving back roads at eight in the morning when I see a mangy cat staggering all over the white line like an old drunk rez dog. I swung a U-turn to help the pathetic creature. Half its hair was gone. Serial emaciation. Either Rue Paul just walked by after running a marathon or the stench of near death hung in the poor kitty's air. Its eyes were swollen so shut that whiskers crisscrossed the cat's face like monofilament on an old seafarer's cast net.

I grabbed a towel and picked him up. I drove to the local animal hospital. Dr. Timothy McVet took one look at the cat, and ordered tests. I would've passed the first one, but I couldn't get the capital of Iowa correct.

"Mr. Starke," said Dr. McVet. "Nothing to vorry. Your cat has no vip-lash. Your cat has an elewated vite blood count. He is in the early stages of Mad Crow, but I think ve can clear that up."

I paid McVet 250 bucks to treat and board the cat for a couple of weeks and went off to my job at the Starkansaw Tribune to inform all the office gals of my good deed. I even had plans to bring the mongrel to work, perched up on my shoulder like a parrot, while girls oohed and ahhed.

It was a short-lived fantasy. The phone rang. Bad news came quickly from McVet: "I'm wery sorry Mr. Starke," he said, "But your new kitty expiwierd late last night. It turns out that he had a wery bad case of wiral pneumonia..."

Readers of this column know this is my life. I take hits like this every day, shake 'em off, and move on. Besides, I was late for the Chief Billie gig in Chokoloskee. I turned on the radio and the weatherman predicted rain. Then he started in on the wind conditions. I shut off the radio. I don't need any weatherman to tell me which way the wind blows.

In fact, the Sun was shining down on the stage next to the ol' Smallwood Store. The Chief blew his throat out emceeing the 97 categories of the clothing contest and told me to finish his set after about 20 minutes, menacing, dark clouds started rolling in. I thought I felt a drop of water hit my forearm.

I heard the drummer yell to the keyboard player from behind me. "You tell him!"

"Why do I always have to be the one?," the keyboard player shot back.

I turned to the drummer to see what it was all about: "Look," he said, " It's not me, you understand. It's the rest of the guys in the band. They think you should wrap this song up and get someone to strike this band gear before we get rained on."

"I got a better idea," I said, " How 'bout going to 'G' and doing 'Who'll Stop the Rain?'"

"Are you outta your mind?" he screamed, "It's not just the rain. It's the lightning."

"Aw c'mon," I said, "We won't let a few measly ions stop a Raiford Starke show, will we?"

I glanced down at my picking hand. The hairs on my forearm and knuckles were standing straight up. Next thing I see is a blinding flash and my ears began a drum solo.

Next thing you know, I'm in this pitch black tunnel and a tiny pinpoint of light at the end just keeps getting bigger and BIGGER. Then it spits me out into a white fluffy cloud kind of place. I see a portly old hippie walking around with granny glasses and tie-dyed shirt. He turned and looked at me. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Jerry Garcia!

Then I see John Lennon and Princess Di walk by along with JFK and Marilyn Monroe! Well I'll be. JFK really did cheat on Jackie. Then came the big shocker! From behind Cloud # 3 came a familiar four-legged critter. It was that cat! He was exactly the same as I remembered him, all mangy and rank.

"I know you," he said. "You're that man who tried to save me! You should clean your car."

I looked around at Jerry, Jimi, Marilyn, JFK, George Burns and Sam Jones. Then I peered down at the pungent pussy purring on my pant leg. Suddenly, something came whooshing right by me and nearly knocked me off of my cloud.

"Who was that, Dale Earnhardt?" I said.

"No that's Wang Wei, the Chinese pilot. He's a new arrival," said the cat. "He likes to fly around in his F-8 and scare the heck out of everybody. Look out! Here he comes again..."

The turbulence got me off balance, and I started spinning round and round into a kaleidoscopic warp drive that I haven't experienced since the sixties. It didn't stop until I found myself lying face up. Everything was blurry. I could hear voices.

"Hey Raiford, can you hear me?"

"Wake up, man - don't leave us."

Everything started to come into focus and I could see all the band guys looking over me. Whinin' Bob, Gravytrain. Sasquatch Shelly. Complainin' Jeff. "What's goin' on here?" I said.

"Man you got zapped by bolt of lightning. We thought you were a goner!" said Gravytrain.

"Where's Chief?" I mumbled, lapsing in and out of consciousness.

Sasquatch slapped my face and pointed to stage right where Chief Billie was furiously scribbling the words to his new song: "Raiford Crossed Over." A bunch of guitar pickers - Hollywood Dave, Dickey Betts, Ken Crawfish, Sam Tommie - were lined up to audition for my spot. Even ol' Sunset Beach Pete showed up: "Chief, I know Leapin' Lizard and Stockbroker Took My Girl."

I wiped my eyes. There was my girlfriend Lowella with her guitar, tugging on the Chief's arm: "You need a chick in your band, Chief. I can play the part."

The cat whispered in my ear: "You best get up, my friend. Heaven ain't gonna work for you right now." One more pass by the Chinese pilot and whoooosh I stood up and everybody cheered. The band members all gathered around me: "Thank God, Raiford. We didn't want no chick in the band," said Bob.

I started relating my out of body experience, and my brief encounter with the other side..."

"Wow that's pretty cool," Complainin' Jeff said the first time I paused for breath. "Oh by the way - not to change the subject - but do you have our checks?"

-- Raiford Starke is a Fort Lauderdale based guitar player who listens to Rush Limbaugh.

© April 13, 2001, The Seminole Tribune