The fourth 'Real or surreal?' (by Mike Kazybrid)

Before starting this fourth ‘Real or surreal?’ feature (the previous three are here, here and here), I’m sure that the first thing you want to ask is: ‘Where's the ghost?’

I’m sorry to say that there isn't one this time! But before you surf on over to another website … no wait, don't do it yet … it’s still worth reading. This is a true tale of mystery and suspenders!

It didn't start out that way. It began as a simple, chance meeting of two strangers in a coffee bar way back in 1972: myself and a young guy of similar age, called Tom.

We got talking over a coffee or two about everything from Woodstock and flower power to bikers and rock bands. As the time passed with fruitful conversation, Tom invited me back to his pad for a few beers and to play on our guitars.

At this point, let me educate those of you who are much younger than me. First of all, back in the ‘60s and early ‘70s, we honestly did use the word ‘pad’, along with many other terms such as ‘cool, man’, ‘groovy, baby’, ‘all outta bread’ (money) and ‘squaresville’.

Now that I've totally embarrassed myself, on with the tale… Look, it's my tale and I'll tell it how I wish, warts and all! Er, where was I? ‘Tom's pad!’ I hear you cry with a hearty moan.

So, for the rest of the afternoon, Tom and I played our guitars, hoping to capture the same sounds and chords of our music heroes of the day. When our jamming session finally came to a close, he asked me if I'd be interested in helping him move to his new flat next week. Jumping at the chance of more musical get-togethers in the near future, I said yes.

The next day we met at his flat with the intention of calling in on his new landlady. The new dwelling was a good half-hour walk away, so we made haste to get there in order to sort out the finances and a moving date.

Over the following few days, I didn't see him. But come the morning of the Saturday move, I found myself standing on his doorstep, keen to help.

It's now that the tale begins to take on a twisted shape. Instead of my new mate opening the door, it was his landlord. He didn't quite take to those of us who preferred the hippy way of dress and life. However, he was willing to pass the time of day.

I explained that I was there to help Tom move his things, but his reaction was one of confusion and he enquired as to who exactly Tom was.

I went on to explain what had happened during the past week, almost insisting to be taken to Tom. My insistence wasn't required.

The landlord invited me to look at the back room flat occupied by my friend. I quickly opened the door, expecting to find him in a sea of carrier bags, suitcase and, of course, guitar.

But a cold chill ran down my spine as I found myself standing in the middle of a totally different room, a room that hadn't been used for ages, full of dusty old furniture and a deep-rooted smell that shouted out the word ‘damp’!

Having now firmly explained to the landlord that Tom was indeed real and that a number of days ago I was in that very room, that very different room, I could see from his disbelieving expression that I was wasting my time.

Angry and frustrated, I had in mind a new plan, and that was to call upon Tom’s new landlady. Surely she would remember me? She was a small no-nonsense Eastern European lady, close to 50 years old.

When I encountered her for the second time, I was taken aback by her response. She not only claimed that she didn’t know me or Tom, she also insisted that no room was available.

I left not knowing where or whom to go to. Tom was real. I knew it. We'd spent time together. But now...

That was 37 or more years ago. From time to time, I still think of my all too brief friendship with Tom.

I don't have and can't offer any answers to this mystery, but in the true spirit of that which is either real or surreal, it's yet another tale from those you've come to know as ‘Two Men and a Ghost’.

Sleep well.