The Ghost of Janis Joplin

The Ghost of Janis Joplin

“I like ‘Cheap Thrills’ better and now she’s dead so there won’t be any more comparing a new album with her best album, all right?”

June 1973

First there were the letters; they were easy to ignore. I could not return something I had already returned, and neither could something be overdue if it had already been returned. I had checked out “Pearl” by Janis Joplin, brought it back, and was being fined. I felt that they deserved to be ignored. The last letter I got said that I owed them the full amount of the record. I tore that one up into small pieces before I threw it away. Nothing happened for 3 months after that. Then there was the phone call.
“This is Mary Ann McClure of the Buena Vista Library.”
“Yes?”
“I’m calling today concerning an overdue record checked out by a Mr. Jack Chavoor.”
“That’s me but…”
“It’s um, “Pearl” by Janis Joplin.”
“Oh, no.”
“Our records indicate that you checked it out …”
“Like a year ago, ok? And then returned it two weeks later.”
“That would be January of this year, sir. That’s six months ago.”
“Ok, whatever. But I returned it.”
“No, I’m afraid that’s not correct.”
“I’m afraid it is. I don’t steal things. I returned that record.”
“I see here that you checked it out, but there is no indication that it was returned and there is no record of anyone checking it out since.”
“I didn’t like it that much. I returned it. “
“Well, you can see how I reached my conclusion.”
“But you don’t seem to see that there has been some kind of error on your part. I returned it. I’m not paying a fine or a replacement charge or anything.”
“If you feel, Mr. Chavoor, that you can’t pay the total amount of $5.31 we might be able to accept some kind of monthly installments.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me. Why are you guys harassing me like this?”
“No one’s harassing you, Mr. Chavoor, and I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m just giving you the opportunity to…”
“Don’t moralize me. Look. I know I returned it because I didn’t like it. I like ‘Cheap Thrills’ better and now she’s dead so there won’t be any more comparing a new album with her best album, all right?”
“And none of that has anything to do with what I’m looking at right here in my hand with your name on it. If you’d like to come down here and look at it yourself…”
“That’s fine I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She hung up before I could.
I drove the four blocks to Buena Vista so fast I didn’t bother to turn on the radio. I can’t say I was hyperventilating but I was highly annoyed and ready to settle the matter. There were two other employees in there but I knew which one was Mary Ann McClure right away, and she called out my name almost as soon as the door opened.
“Mr. Chavoor, so glad you came in.”
“Hope I’ll be glad, too.”
“If you take a look at this, you’ll see your name, the name of the record and the artist, Janis Joplin, right there, oh and there’s the due date, and at the bottom there is the amount due.”
“Yes, I see all those things.” Her shoulders relaxed.
“Well then, what would you like to do about this?”
“You see Miss McClure…”
“That’s Ms.”
“You see, Mary Ann, I’ve been coming to this library since I could walk. I know how this works. I value the whole process and idea of it. I return my stuff; that way other people can have their turn. You don’t seem very open to the idea that you guys screwed up and are blaming me. And for that reason, even though I have ten dollars in my wallet right now, I am not going to give you money that I don’t owe you.” I turned and walked out, hopping off the steps like I did when I was a kid. I only had five bucks anyway.
Three years went by. I was on my third college and in love with my first and only real girlfriend. My record collection had tripled and I hadn’t been back to Buena Vista Library. I had in fact forgotten all about the Janis Joplin incident. I must have been bored and all my friends must have been unavailable because I was rooting around in the back of my bedroom closet, to clean it out, and I was finding all kinds of stuff.
There was a photo album I used for a high school project in a psychology class where I cut out magazine pictures and made a collage of sorts, comparing life to—what else-- football. There was a torn t-shirt my sister had made that I didn’t want to throw away; shorts with missing buttons; and beach walkers with missing mates. Then my foot hit something that was leaning against the wall. It was a three foot sheet metal Campbell Soup Kid throwing a football, wearing football gear from the 1920’s. My cousin Tom had given it to me the first year I played football. It never did quite fit my décor so I kept it in the closet. Behind that I found a 7up sign which I kept because I liked their slogan—You Like it, It likes You—so much. When I lifted that up to consider what wall to put it on, a couple of albums landed on my shin.
The first one was Herbie Hancock and the Headhunters, which someone bought at a garage sale and gave to me, but it was jazz which I didn’t like and so feeling that it would be rude to get rid of something someone intended to be a gift, but not willing to let it sit with the records that I valued, I tossed it in the closet. When I picked up the second album, a ghost popped up. I jumped back and nearly fell down; there, reclined on a loveseat, clutching a bottle, pink plumage on her head, was Janis Joplin. No question about it, she was laughing at me.
I ran out of my room, clutching the album. I stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked at it again. Janis was still having the last laugh; the open envelope that holds the due date card was pasted right below her bottle of booze. It couldn’t be, it was impossible. I returned the album but here it was three years later in my house. There was only one way to make it right: get rid of it. I reasoned that if no one could find it, no one could accuse me of having it. Then my sister emerged from her room and stood for a while regarding me, frozen in the middle of the hall as I was, in a crouched position, clutching a record with an unusual look on my face.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, you look weird or something.”
“Oh thanks. Well I’m just …like… I don’t know…nothing.”
“Strangeness is deep in you.” She wagged a finger at me, put on her sunglasses and left.
When I heard her close the front door I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, and dragged it to the hallway. I stood on the chair, pushed the attic door open with one hand and flung my albatross, Frisbee style, as far back as I could. It hit a bean and landed closer to the opening than I wanted it and dust and unidentifiable particles hit me in the face. I put the door back, and then fell off the chair. I stayed on the floor for a minute still not feeling relieved. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands, my arms and my face. I combed my hair and changed t-shirts. Two and a half years later, I went to Plan B.
I was leaving Burbank, moving out of the house I grew up in, headed for Fresno. I had the cliché “Beholden to no one” in my head at the time. It was how I wanted to leave my hometown, and that’s when Janis Joplin revisited my consciousness. I would have to get up in the attic, retrieve the record and return it to the library.
I brought a ladder this time to gain proper access to the attic. I couldn’t see the record anywhere and I didn’t want to do any crawling in there. I couldn’t think of what to do next, I didn’t want to leave Burbank beholden to the Buena Vista Library.
“The Christmas lights haven’t been stored there for a long time,” my sister called out. I hastily closed the door and blankly looked at her standing in the doorway of the living room.
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” I scrambled down off the ladder. She was about to begin an inquisition but she must have decided she had better things to do; the look of suspicion left her face and she went into her room and closed the door. I considered my options while I dragged the ladder back to the patio. I realized that I knew all along that even if I found the record, it would not be in returnable condition, having spent nearly three years in a non-insulated attic.
It killed me to be in a record store, making a purchase only to end up not having a record to add to the collection. There was no way to remedy the situation, either. Even if I bought two records, I’d only end up with one. Back in the car though, I began to feel good about it. I didn’t expect Mary Ann McClure to still be employed at the library, but it would nevertheless still be the right thing to do.
“I’m returning this record,” I said to the matronly librarian.
“It can’t be this one; it’s brand new. You must be mistaken.”
“Well, no. I bought it, see.”
“You’re making a donation to the library?”
“Not exactly. I lost the original copy a long time ago and then I convinced the librarian that I had returned it, but then I found it at home.”
“Why didn’t you return the original?”
“It warped, uh, because it was in the attic.”
“The attic?”
“Long story.”
“That’s very considerate of you. You’re a thoughtful, noble young man.”
“Not really.” She was waving a colleague over to describe my virtuous attributes, so I turned quickly and left.
I drove home slowly. The ghost of Janis Joplin was still in the attic, but I was beholden to no one.