Howard, the Dead Head

My favorite area in Koh Panang, Thailand is home, temporary or permanent, to some of the brightest beings I’ve met.  Last week, while there, I was reminded of another shining soul that Kyle, Kensi and I met on our road trip last summer when we were visiting our grandma. After a few days with her, feeling stifled by the Louisiana heat, we sought respite in bayou waters. It was there we met Howard.

Deeply tanned, the man sank into the water with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon held high. I guessed he was anywhere from 40 to 60 years old.  Behind a goofy smile, he had three grey teeth, triumphantly hanging onto red gums. Scraggly, dirty blonde hair fell past his shoulders, held out of his face with a pink bandanna tied across his forehead. Sending ripples our way, he moved toward us.

As he joined our circle, knee-deep in the murky water, I nodded at his upper arm and asked, "You a dead head?” The band’s skull logo and the words, "Greatful Dead," were inked there in time-worn colors.

"Yesm'm," he twanged, drawing out the syllables.  From his voice, I knew he was from the backwoods, his roots running even deeper than ours.

Kneeling in warm water, sipping warm beers, insects playing in the background, we learned Howard had a passion for stories. He talked for over an hour but we gathered close for the duration. He drifted through tales of following the Grateful Dead on tour, of dinner with Jerry Garcia, sleepless nights with the ladies, and the acid trips - one of which he was on when he got the tattoo. "I was so high," he giggled, "I didn't even know the guy was spellin' it wrong. ‘Supposed to be G-R-A-T-E-F-U-L. I’ll be damned…"

When the sun fell behind the trees, we seeped like molasses onto land. Howard offered us beer with his buddies on shore. The moon was high and bright when he mentioned he was terminal with seven months to live. Thyroid cancer.

He leaned in close as we sat on a picnic bench toeing at the sand.  "The doctors told me I should go for chemo. But I decided that ain't no way to go out," he whispered. Giggling,he added, "I mean, I ain't got no teeth, but this head of hair is to die for." Having revealed another piece of his life puzzle, he shrugged. Then Howard grasped my hand and I caught a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

Howard lived twenty minutes from our Grandma and we went to see him the next night.  We pulled up to a once-white trailer on bricks. Howard had lived here with his mom since quitting the road. Inside, we siblings perched on the edge of a plaid couch with stuffing escaping every corner. On a wooden box across from us, Howard rolled a joint, mixing heady green with bits of cheap tobacco before sealing the paper with spit. We traveled a few places down to Howard’s friend’s, passing the joint under the starry sky.

When we were all seated in plastic lawn chairs, the kind you buy at Walmart, Howard leaned into Kensi and fingered her prized hand-made rainbow earrings. "These are gorgeous!" he exclaimed with a flick of his wrist. Without pausing, Kensi removed them and pressed the earrings into Howard’s palm. Solemnly, Howard nodded. Gazing into her eyes, he ceremoniously removed his rusted Grateful Dead earring that hung from his left lobe and placed it in Kensi's hand.

Howard stood tall as our blue sedan backed out. And as Kyle pointed the car forward, our friend saluted and then balanced peace fingers elegantly in the air. I turned and held his eyes with mine until we were off the gravel drive. Kyle, Kensi and I exchanged glances. We wouldn't see Howard again but we would share his story.