The back streets of Bendigo, early 2000s.

It’s 1.00 am on a Tuesday night, deep in winter. The air, ice cold, as fog sits low. Driving the back streets of my hometown, I am coming off a high. One of my anthems, Spirit in the Sky, begins to play and, as the riff hits, I claim some Hollywood. It’s the song I get down to; channelling an era I never lived but am always keen to recreate. Head like an owl, I bob and weave, the star of my own movie. Suddenly, a boxer dog with a red collar appears, smack bang in the middle of the road. A near apparition in the fog. The Hollywood musical in my head cuts out and I brake hard.

I don’t feel a strike or a thud and I can no longer see the dog, but with Spirit in the Sky blasting out of the speakers and the surrounding fog, I worry it’s gone under the front of the car. I quickly lower the volume and put the car into park, leaving it idling in the middle of the street. There’s no sign of the dog. No dent. No blood. I squint and scan the surrounding area, squatting to peer into the front yard of each house. The car lights penetrate the fog and sharpen the outer pockets of the night.

I check myself: I did not hallucinate. It wasn’t that kind of a high.

Re-entering the car, I pull over to the side of the road. My guilt drums on as regret and paranoia pump blood fast. This is the problem when you’re rock and roll but secretly aiming for sainthood. You make choices you often soon regret. Again, I exit the vehicle and walk about the dark with my phone, looking for clues. I hear no whimpers and see no movement. I’m too nervous to wander into the surrounding bushland at night, so I get back in the car and expand my search to the neighbouring streets.

After ten minutes or so, I begin warming to the idea that maybe I didn’t hit the dog, that it escaped the calamity in the blink of an eye. Clarity returns. Driving through back streets at five kilometres per hour with the lights on high beam and my head out the window is a glowing beacon to the police. I mildly panic, give up, and travel home with a big pit of guilt sitting in my chest.

A few days later while stopped at a rail crossing one block from the incident, the V/Line train passes and I look about. There, right there, the boxer with the red collar. A fit-looking man holds tight to the lead and the boxer appears to be in tip-top shape.

My salvation is secured.

I fast-forward the CD and turn the volume up. The old distinctive riff kicks in.

Never been a sinner, I’ve never sinned
I’ve got a friend in Jesus

Oddly, unlike most songs that develop into personal anthems I cannot recall a revelatory first listen with Spirit In the Sky. But it’s been with me since I was a teenager. It began as something of an odd treat, waving its freak flag fuzz and providing a direct line to an era I’d never lived but was keen to recreate. But the meaning has transcended over the years. At first I approached with my inner rock star, dancing toward it like a hero in Western entering a shootout.I was so young, full of rock and roll – while also secretly somehow aiming for sainthood. Now it is more of a talisman. A reminder to honour the innate good within; that you can be free without being reckless. Not for Jesus, but my own conscience.

I’ve never been big on Jesus, but dogs are sacred to me.

Drive safely, folks.

 

 

Stereo Story 891

Emma Burgess-Gilchrist is a regional Victorian writer of poetry and non-fiction. She was the driving force behind community-focused spoken word initiatives, be.spoke at the Golden Vine Hotel, Poets of Humanity and Pride Write! She was also a co-founder of the Bendigo writers collective, The Write Stuff.