A Celebrity Ghost Story?

Lately, as I recount stories of my musical past, I open up windows to memories that have a lot of dust on them. After blowing off the dust, I find that some are pretty interesting, for old relics. The following story is true. I hesitate to do much interpreting, and choose to leave that to the reader.

In the latter half of 1963, when I was sixteen years old, I was playing live Rock and Roll music quite a bit. Back then, there wasn't a glut of players or bands like there is nowadays. Instead of three bands on every street, like today, there were more like three bands for a given town---if that.

So, I had plenty of chances to gig with bands other than my regular one, which at that time may have been The Tempests, a five piece teen Rock band that played high school dances and such. That band was actually the precursor to the Escavels; a much more well-known band name from Wheaton High School in the mid-1960's.

John Belushi's band, The Ravens, needed a lead guitarist for a gig being held in the basement of a local Catholic school. It was a chance for me to make a fast and fun $15.00, so I accepted without a second thought.

It couldn't have been a school function, since there was liquor being served, but I can't recall the reason for the event. Maybe it was a "just turning 21 party" or something. In any case, the serving of the drinks was not very supervised.

Being that I was in the band, I got my drinks for free and proceeded to take advantage of the situation. I drank quite a bit, for such an inexperienced drinker. Lack of experience didn't overshadow the exuberance, though, and I got absolutely plowed. I remember quite a few screwdrivers and beers.

When I was dropped off at home, after the gig, it was late enough that my parents were already asleep. I was starting to feel ill, by the time I got upstairs to my bedroom, and recall throwing up in the bathroom; missing the toilet a bit. I don't recall cleaning up, either. I'm sure Mom quietly cleaned up, without saying a word to anyone about it. That would have been just like her.

I got into my bed, in the room I shared with my brother Stevie. He was 12 years old at the time. I fell asleep pretty quickly, probably with the room still spinning somewhat. Anyone who has gone to bed drunk knows that sleep is fitful at best. Unless you are totally passed out, there are those little moments of consciousness that continually interrupt slumber.

Some time during the night, my brother was standing next to my bed trying to reason with me. I was still quite 'foggy', but knew that it was my brother. For some reason, he had on his "Sunday coat" and little clip-on tie. It made no sense to me. He kept trying to get me to respond, telling me not to "do this" to my mother. After his harping on me got to the point that I was not going to be able to go back to sleep, I said, "Just a minute" and got up to turn on the bedroom light.

I flipped the switch for the overhead light, and squinted against the harsh bulb. It had been dark and I was still not really sober. I spun around to look at my brother next to my bed and said, "What do you want?", but there was nobody there. Quickly, I turned to see Stevie still laying in his bed; sound asleep. My heart was pounding as I stood with my hand still on the light-switch.

Very slowly I came to realize that because I was laying down and looking up, the height of the little boy next to my bed would have been quite a bit shorter than Stevie. More like that of my deceased brother Allan, who had died a month before his seventh birthday. He had been gone for over seven years.

I turned off the light and got back into my bed. My heart was still pounding. I tried to make sense of everything that had just happened, while in my head I kept hearing the phrase "Don't do this to our mother", over and over.