I thought I saw the ghost of Little Richard. It was at a bus stop on South Dale Mabry, mingling with about a dozen people. Its face was a shiny cappuccino, stretched tight as a trampoline over bulbous cheekbones. Eyebrows cranked up nearly to the hairline and magic-markered to perfection. What a head of hair! A curly/frizzy/semi-mullet affair, it glistened like crystals in the yellowy late afternoon light. Lanky rheumatoid fingers. Gnashing and clacking skeleton teeth, looked like they were trying to bust a song. But it was the weaving through the people, completely unnoticed, that made me think ethereal being. Even the big lady plopped on the steel bench didn’t sing, when it stood behind her, stretched out those bony fingers and punched out lines of Good Golly, Miss Molly on the invisible ebony and ivory keys along the back of the bench. Plus, nobody looks like that while living. Then, I get home and find out the guy ain’t dead.
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