“You’ve changed a bit,” John said.
Morrison’s heavy-lidded eyes blinked. “We were never close, John, so how would you know how I’ve changed?” He raised his arms, the sleeves falling back from his arms. “Perhaps this was how I’ve always been.”
John chuckled. “I never saw you wearing that on the cover of Rolling Stone.” Jim only stared at him, unamused. John held up the joint he had grabbed before leaving the dressing room. “Care to join me for a little smoke?”
Jim said nothing. “Don’t do drugs anymore, hmm? How ’bout we go out and find some girls to ball, then?” Again, no reply. “Well, why don’t you just go out there and flash ’em your dick, just for old times’ sake, eh?”
Jim’s eyes shut for a second, seemingly to control himself. “I’m beyond these things now,” he intoned. “But, yes, you’re right. I have changed.”
“So I noticed.” John stuck the joint between his lips, lit it with a firestarter, and sucked in the ragged-tasting smoke. In one life a man’s wearing ass-tight black leather and French silk shirts, the
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next he’s decked out in sackcloth and ashes. Figures. “Did you hear the show?” he asked, exhaling through his nose.
“I heard.”
“Not exactly a rave review….” John cocked his head toward the door. “Hey,,why don’t you come on in and I’ll reintroduce you to the other band? Most of ’em think you didn’t make it over, but I’m sure they’d be willing to let you sit in on their set. Christ, at least you could do better justice to ‘Light My Fire’ than they do….”
The slightest flicker of a smile. “Perhaps… but I no longer sing.”
“Really?” John started to take another toke, but suddenly felt foolish. He bent down to stub the joint out in the grass, then tossed it away. “What a waste.” He paused, looking in the direction of the discarded joint. ‘Y’know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but you were really very, very good. I was even a little envious of your voice. And some of the things you wrote, particularly your poetry…”
“That’s not why I’ve come here, John.”
“Then why the hell have you come here, Jim?” In exasperation, John folded his arms across his chest and stared back at the disciple. “Come to stand by haughtily and laugh up your sleeve at the fool who’s still singing ‘Day Tripper’ five nights a week?”
‘I’m not laughing at you….”
“Jesus!” he shouted, suddenly fed up with the conversation thus far. “You sound like a bloody priest!”
John impulsively whirled around and began to stalk back toward the door. He was almost inside the shed— Billy, half rising from his stool, was about to get out of his way—when he impulsively turned again. “Of all the
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people in the world,” he snapped, thrusting his finger at the robed figure, “I would have expected at least you to be honest!”
Jim’s face remained impassive, but for an instant there was a brief flicker of irritation in his eyes. “I have said very little to you,” he said quietly. “So far, you’ve done most of the talking.”
They stared at each other for a few moments. Through the door, John heard a shouting match in the corridor— “you fuckin’ fucked-up fuck-off, why can’t you handle a simple fuckin’ song like…” and “Bugger off, you bloody sod…”—Keith and Sid, from the sound of it, having one of their usual post-gig tantrums. In a few minutes, they would be attempting again to flatten each other’s noses.
“Billy, go break it up, please,” he murmured without looking over his shoulder. He heard the stool scoot back as Billy maneuvered his Buick-size body down the corridor. Unless Sid unwisely attempted to kick Billy in the nuts again, the squabble was as good as settled. John hesitated, then walked back out to the edge of the glade where Jim was patiently waiting for him.
“So talk, then,” he said.
“…this is the end…”
Long after midnight, John lay in his tent, gazing up at the long wooden rod of the ceiling pole.
Mary West Wind was fast asleep next to him, most of the bedsheets curled around her nude body. Out of sheer