Loony Tubes
June 18, 1999

O here I am tubing down the Itchetucknee River with my friends from Brighton. Now I've never met the "Pinball Wizard," but the Brighton Seminoles are an interesting bunch. Tough hombres and pretty women. They ride a lot of bulls and pickup trucks up there. But here on the river, with nothing but an inner tube and a swift current, we're all equal. When you walk up to the edge of that dock, man, it's like the last few milliseconds before the chute opens and you come screaming outa there on the back of an angry bull.

I pound my fist tight onto the side of the rubber tube. I could feel the eyes of the cowboys watching my every move. I lift the tube up past my waist and set my rhythm, staring down into the swift moving waters a few inches below me. My Sears Silvertone hollow-body, gold-humbucker guitar is strapped across my back. Right before I drop in, I stop and reach back for my 1934 industrial black Smith-Corona Melodymaker typewriter and put the whole darn 17 pounds of inked-up jagged metal under my arm. Whistles go up from the Brighton gals watching me.

Then, when the time is right, I deftly spin on the heel of one foot, lean backwards and drop into the river slicker than a three-day cow patty on a hot buttered skillet. In seconds I'm 50 yards downstream and typing, not a drop of aqua on the page. I remove the cell phone from between my teeth, take a man's swig of suntan oil and spit it out on the lilly pads. I put my shoulders back and stared straight ahead like I was Stephen Bowers a-marchin' in the color guard. . "Away," I shout back like the Lone Ranger. "Away."

The applause, however, soon derelicts into jeers: "Hey Raiford, why don't you lighten up and join the human race? All work and no play*"

But what these friends of mine don't quite understand is that legacy building is a twenty-four-seven full-time job, demanding constant vigilance in a never ending struggle against obscurity. It was at that moment that my cell-phone rings, and on the other end is an ol' Starkansaw frat buddy of mine also concerned with his legacy. "Hey Bubba!" said the Elvis like drawl.

"Billy boy, Billy Clinton is that you? Tickle my gizzard, son, that you!""

"Yeah man. Hey looky here, I was reading yer column in the Seminole Tribune, an' I got to thinkin' about my ol' friend, ol' buddy ol' pal . . ."

I could hear it coming again, ol' Slick Willie was looking for another favor from ol' "Outta the Park" Starke. I balanced the typewriter on my chest and swished the water with my free hand, barely evading a striped turtle on a log.

"Look here," Bill screamed into my ear, "Me and Chelsea and the ol' lady been listenin' to yer CD. Whoa doggy my son, that is fine music. It's brought our hole family back together after my . . . uh . . .ahem, problemo. It got me thinkin' 'bout world things.

"See, the Chinese have got our nu-clear secrets, we've just stopped bombin' the Yugoslavs, an' son all I am saaaa-ying is we got to keep peace in this world. The way I see it, if we could send out one billion - hell no - two billion Raiford Starke CDs to the people of Communist China, the Balkans and other troubled spots of the world, it will either cause complete chaos or bring people together like the way it did my family. Either way we can't lose.

"I'm serious as a heart attack, Raiford. Just turn on the C-Span. It's already being run through the Appro-prations Committee to have our gov-ment to buy two billion Raiford Starke CDs to send 'round this werle. It's happenin' my man . . . git me some CDS. And quick, heah. You gone be rich on them royalties, Raiford, a rich man!" Click!

I nearly dropped trou, typewriter, cell phone, sun tan oil and crashed tube-first into one of those Brighton cowboys heading towards me with one arm high in the air and some girl with a stop watch floating behind him. I looked down the river further and I saw another Seminole cowboy standing straightlegged on his floating tube and throwing a lariat at a cypress knee.

"Who were you talkin' to Raiford?" It was Rhonda, the Tribal water specialist, floating by. She was filling up test tubes, shaking them, drinking the liquid and writing about it on her notepad.

"Uh . . . the President."

"Who, Mitchell Cypress?"

"No, Bill Clinton . . ."

Her laughter was drowned out by the loud sound of a helicopter overhead. I looked up and it was Chief Billie soaring overhead. Seated next to him was my record producer Jim Bee. I began waving my arms madly. What a coincidence! The very man I needed to talk to and now. I really needed to get Jim to start cranking out CDs from the Raiford Starke master.

Chief Billie looked down from on high. "There's some nut floating down the river with a typewriter and a guitar waving at us."

"I see him Chief. Can't make out who it is. By the way, how we doing for fuel, anyway?"

"We got enough to make it to Cross City. But barely. We need to start throwing off some of this weight." The Chief opened the helicopter window and began tossing out everything but the control panel. His boots, Seminole shirt, an alligator . . . Jim Bee tossed out his knapsack, his sleeping bag, even a whole box of Smith-Corona cigars.

"What's that?" The Chief pointed to a small package at Jim Bee's feet.

"That's the master tape for Raiford's CD, Chief. You don't want me to toss that out, too, do you? It's a one of a kind . . ."

The Chief laughed uproariously: "Raiford told me he only sold one CD the whole Florida Folk Festival. Just toss it. Believe me, he won't be ordering any more of that record."

Jim tossed out the package and it dropped into a heavily wooded area far from civilization. "You hear that Chief?" Jim pressed his ear to the windshield. "Listen . . ."

Sounds like someone screaming "Nooooooooo" said Chief Billie. "Familiar sounding voice. Just can't place it."

-- Next issue: Episode 1: Raiford Starke at The Florida Folk Festival

© June 18, 1999, The Seminole Tribune