Riverworld Anthology - Tales of Riverworld Part 6

"Ten minutes to curtain, John."

John let the redfish curtain fall back into place; he had parted it a half-inch to peer out at the audience from the entrance of the backstage area. He turned to look at the skinny young woman who had come up quietly from behind him.

"Already beat you to it, love," he said stoically. She blinked rapidly in apparent confusion; he pinched a fold of the curtain. "See?"

Mary West Wind blushed and looked down at the floor, embarra.s.sed at having not caught the awful pun. John flashed her a smile to show that he didn't mind and she visibly relaxed. Mary West Wind had been a San Francisco 83.

flower child until six tabs of particularly nasty LSD had dispatched her to strawberry fields forever. Here on Graceland, she served as stagehand and permanent groupie-in-residence to both house bands. She was so sweet and innocent, however, that none of the rockers-not even Sid, even in his most repugnant moments-had the heart to seduce her, although John was completely aware that she had a crush on him in particular.

"The King asked me to ask you to find Brian," Mary said meekly. "I mean, I know where he is, but I can't... I mean, I shouldn't...."

John sighed and rubbed his eyelids between thumb and forefinger. His vision was now perfect, but he still missed his gla.s.ses. Like Keith and his rotten gold tooth. "I know, I know," he murmured. "b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n... all right, I shall go track down our errant stone."

He began walking away from the curtain; Mary deferentially stepped aside to let him pa.s.s to the short flight of stairs leading to the dressing rooms. On sudden impulse, John paused, leaned over, and gave her a quick brotherly peck on the cheek.

"Always stay the way you are, dear," he whispered in her ear. Mary giggled and blushed again as John hopped down the stairs.

Backstage was a long wooden shed, part.i.tioned into individual, closet-size dressing rooms and a larger "green room" located just behind the stage entrance. The member of the Wonder Creek Revival were gathered in the green room, waiting for their nightly gig; Duane was practising licks on his unplugged guitar, Berry, Lowell, and Pigpen were playing poker, Dennis was catching a nap on the couch in the corner, and Janis, as usual, was 84.

getting drunk. Like John himself, all were wearing simple kilts, sandals, and redfish shirts or vests.

The days of elaborate stage outfits were long gone, along with stretch limousines and overworked roadies, Dom Perignon in chilled buckets and five-course catered meals, crystal punch bowls filled with cocaine, and contract riders that stipulated that five pounds of M & Ms had to be available, with all the red ones removed first. On the other hand, also missing were the usual backstage hangers-on: overdressed radio jocks with their flunky photographers, ready to accost you while a camera flashed in your face so that a self-serving picture could be published in the next issue of Billboard; studio reps hovering in the corridor, hand-grabbing and shoulder-hugging, trying to hustle another sleazy deal; fawning winners of local record-store contests with copies of your most hated alb.u.m, babbling inanities while you tried to find your way to the lavatory; and, of course, the groupies with their mall hair and b.l.o.w.j.o.b lips, eager to f.u.c.k a rock star so they could write it all down ten years later in their memoirs, or at least to make their regular boyfriends insanely jealous.

All things considered, John was only too happy to see all that posturing and pretence removed from the scene. What was left was the music, pure and simple, like a neglected rose garden that had been cleaned of broadleaf vine and chokeweeds. Some things, though, had remained much the same....

He pa.s.sed through the green room and walked down the short, narrow corridor to the dressing rooms. Sid was hi his room, apparently pa.s.sed out on a cot, his ba.s.s guitar propped against a wall. John stuck his head through 85.

the door, stuck his fingers between his lips, and whistled sharply.

"Wakey wakey, you killer junkie!" he shouted. "It's showtime!"

Sid's eyelids fluttered. "f.u.c.k off, you f.u.c.kin' ol' hippie," he muttered from the depths of his dreamgum hallucination, but John had already strode down the hall, pa.s.sing a short side-corridor leading to the exit door. He heard voices down the hallway, but he didn't pause to look. Probably the King, raising h.e.l.l with someone else for some real or imagined transgression....

The door of Brian's room was shut. John stopped and pressed his ear against the hollow-core panel; from within, he could hear faint gasps of pleasure amid the ruthless pounding of flesh against flesh. He grinned; Brian was getting his customary preshow lay. Different girl each night; all he had to do was scout the nearby audience camp until he found a bird who didn't mind being f.u.c.ked by the man who had taught Mick Jagger how to sing. If it weren't for the fact that all Valleydwellers had been made sterile on Resurrection Day, Brian could have probably populated an entire village with his illegitimate offspring by now....

Enough was enough, though. Time to go to work. John took a deep breath, then reconsidered the urge to shout. Instead, he gently rapped his knuckles against the door, pinching his nostrils with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. "Telegram for Mr. Jones!" he called in a nasal voice.

An exasperated sigh and a feminine giggle from the other side of the door. "Coming!" Brian called gaily.

"I'm certain you are," John replied. "Five minutes."

"See you in four and a half." More m.u.f.fled laughter.

86.

"Very good, sir." John didn't have to worry about Brian making it to the stage; it was always Sid who gave everyone trouble, Next, to find Keith; from farther down the hall, he could hear the hyperactive ratta-tap-tap of drumsticks against a piece of furniture. Keith was wired and ready to perform, as usual. Now, if only he hadn't destroyed his dressing room again...

As he turned to walk down the corridor, John was startled by a hard tap on his shoulder. He jumped a half-inch off the floor, then spun around to find a ma.s.sive, hairy shape filling the hallway.

John sagged against the wall, laying a hand against his thudding chest. "Oh... Billy, it's you," he gasped. "You scared the life out of me, mate."

Billy was one of the t.i.tanthrops who worked on the island. Although the bands rarely had any problems with audience members seeking their way to the dressing rooms uninvited, Elvis had insisted upon having one of the t.i.tans enlisted as backstage security. Billy guarded the exit door that John had just pa.s.sed. No guest list was necessary; if Billy was told a name-as Brian did every night-then Billy would remember that name for weeks, even months, to come. And if someone tried to con or muscle their way into the dressing rooms, they were usually treated to a flying lesson over the stockade wall.

"Thorry to interrupth you," Billy said in his usual deep-throated lisp, "but there'th thomeone at the door who inthith upon theeing you."

Billy looked annoyed, if only because he had to bend almost double to keep from banging his huge skull against the ceiling. John sighed; rock stardom was dead in the afterlife, but it still didn't prevent zealous fans from seeking out his autograph at exactly the wrong 87.

time. "Tell them I'm about to go onstage and I'll see them after..." he began.

"He'th rather thee you now," Billy persisted. Before John could respond, he added, "He'th from the Church of the Thecond Chanth, and he thaid he knowth you from back then."

He paused, then added in a low voice, "He thaid it wath important... he thaid hith name was Jim."

John looked askance at the t.i.tan. "Jim? I don't know anyone named..."

He stopped. For a long moment, John stared at Billy, deciphering what he had said. When it struck home, his first impulse was to yell for Keith and Brian... h.e.l.l, not just them, but for Duane and Pig and Janis and Mary West Wind and anyone else who remembered the magic, anyone within earshot who remembered the Lizard King....

John sucked in his breath. "Pardon me," he said, then he ducked beneath Billy's right armpit and slowly walked back toward the intersecting hallway. Behind him, he heard the nervous rattle of drumsticks, a woman's faint cry of o.r.g.a.s.m. All around him, there was sound: the tw.a.n.g of Duane's muted guitar strings, someone laughing at an old joke, the faraway clapping of hands by an audience waiting to see rejuvenated legends of their past. John broke into a trot....

He stopped at the crossway, staring at the open door. Torchlight from outside illuminated a robed figure, standing half-seen just outside the doorway.

No call to him, though. No gesture of recognition, no familiar all-f.u.c.ked-up amble down the corridor to meet him. Only a monkish figure in severe brown robes, a hornfish helix draped around his neck, waiting just outside the dressing room. And, within the dark pit of the 88.

hood, the barest hint of a familiar face, first seen long ago in Toronto when they were sharing the bill....

"Jim?" he whispered. "Jim, is that you?"

"After the show, John." The voice was very low, but it was the same unmistakable voice. "Back here when you're through."

The figure then melted into the shadows, allowing the door to slowly swing shut again.

John stared at it until Keith goosed him with one of his drumsticks and reminded him that the crowd was waiting. For the first time since anyone in the band could remember, John was late coming on stage.

89.

"...no future for you...."The Mersey Zombies set lasted for an hour; to n.o.body's great surprise, least of all John's, it was a lame night.

John had long since learned that the intrinsic problem with the band was that, because of the all-star lineup, everyone expected to hear their favourite Beatles or Rolling Stones or Who or s.e.x Pistols songs. However, there were many differences between each band member's sensibilities that could not be easily paved over by the excuse that they were all British rockers; it was like expecting Nat King Cole and Jimi Hendrix to successfully collaborate because they were both black American musicians.

While it was perfectly possible, for instance, for Keith to hammer out the nuclear-attack percussion of "I Can See For Miles," John had trouble singing the lyrics. Although John and Brian were more than happy to perform "Ruby Tuesday"-the only song which their two former groups had ever had in common-Keith would almost fall asleep at the drums and Sid would make I'm-bored faces at the audience. John would all but give up on keeping up with Sid on "Anarchy in the U.K."; Brian made weird faces at the ba.s.sist's maniacal pogoing and guitar-thrashing, and Sid barely tolerated Brian's woodwinds during "You Can't Always Get What You Want." The only song on which all four musicians meshed together was "Helter Skelter," even though it was clear from the audience reaction that that particular number was still a.s.sociated with Charles Manson; even while the band kicked out the jams, too many faces out there looked as if four giant c.o.c.kroaches had suddenly crawled onto the stage. Manson and his killers had ruined that song for all eternity, literally.

It was only when the other three band members left the stage to allow John to sing "Imagine" as the finale that the crowd seemed to awaken from their gla.s.sy-eyed stupor, even singing along with the final refrain. This was not unusual, though; that particular song struck a chord among the Valleydwellers, who had found themselves, after all, reborn in a world without borders, countries, or Sags. At the song's conclusion, John stood up from the makeshift piano amid rousing applause; he bowed once, then gratefully strode off the stage.

A party was already in full swing in the green room: Keith was arm wrestling with Duane; Brian had joined a conversation with Janis, Berry, and Dennis; and Sid lurked silently in the corner, glaring at everyone with 90.

once-fashionable punk disdain. John walked past them, completely unnoticed; he stopped by his dressing room to lay his guitar on the bed, then stood for a few moments, gazing indecisively at a fish-skin packet of joints that rested on a table. "What the h.e.l.l," he murmured to himself, then picked a joint out of the packet before he left the room and headed back down the corridor toward the rear door.

Billy was minding his post, sitting on an enormous oak stool next to the open door. The t.i.tan stood up as John approached. "He'th thtill waiting for you," he rumbled. "I atnked if he wanted to come back to your room, but he didn't want to."

"It'th... oops, sorry... it's okay, Billy." The t.i.tanthropic lisp was rather infectious. "I'll talk to him outside." Billy nodded sagely and stood aside; John patted his hairy forearm as he stepped outside.

The wooded area behind the backstage shed was dark, illuminated only by a couple of flickering, half-spent torches that marked the way to the outhouses. He could hear the rhythmic hand-clapping of the audience as they urged the second band to come on stage. John's eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom after the bright lights of the stage, sought the shadows.

"Jim?" he called softly. "Hullo? Jim?"

The robed figure he had seen earlier detached itself from the shadows beneath an oak tree. "Here," a quiet voice said from within the raised hood.

John took a step forward, then stopped, uncertain. "If it's truly you," he replied, "then let me see your face."

There was a moment of hesitation, then the figure's hands moved from within the dark folds of the robe and 91.

lowered the cowl. After another moment, he stepped farther into the light, revealing himself to John.

It was Jim, all right, but not the Jim he remembered. His dark hair no longer reached down to his shoulders; instead, it was cut very short, almost monkishly. The face was still starkly handsome, but the familiar mannish-boy glower had completely vanished, leaving behind only a neutral, almost beatific expression. Jim, by all accounts, had died overweight and bloated, his innate sensuality stolen by liquor and drugs. Now he was rejuvenated, but as a cloaked figure standing in the half-light, as if materialised from one of the William Blake poems that had so influenced him as a UCLA art student.

"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 d.i.c.k, 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 a.s.s-tight black leather and French silk shirts, the 92.

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 c.o.c.ked 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 gra.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 93.

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 impa.s.sive, 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 f.u.c.kin' f.u.c.ked-up f.u.c.k-off, why can't you handle a simple f.u.c.kin' song like..." and "b.u.g.g.e.r off, you b.l.o.o.d.y 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 manoeuvred 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 94.

impulse, he had brought her back to his tent after the show; they had made love in a frantic, almost adolescent sort of way, yet despite her fervour she. had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had climaxed. John felt almost relieved, however; he didn't feel like talking, just as, indeed, he had felt a strange detachment from her even in middle of their s.e.xual throes. They had used each other for their own purposes; she had finally f.u.c.ked the s.e.xy-looking guy on the back sleeve of the Meet The Beatles alb.u.m, and he had found temporary surcease from the dark thoughts in his mind.

Now he lay naked atop the blankets, listening to the cool night-breeze, remembering another late night in a different lifetime.

Getting out of the car with his wife, the boxed tape of that day's studio session under his arm. The usual crowd of autograph-mongers and fans hanging around the front door of the Dakota. Walking down the sidewalk, Yoko pa.s.sing in front of him, heading into the open archway of the building. Feeling pleased with the day's work, looking forward to playing with his young son before going to bed...

A young man's voice calling from somewhere behind him: "Mr. Lennon?"

Turning, seeing a shadowed figure in combat stance barely five feet away, aiming a pistol directly at him...

Barely a moment of confusion, wanting to say something... then loud gunfire, muzzle flashes, the horrible force of five bullets slamming into him...

Turning around, body screaming in anguish, mind numbed by what had just happened, disbelieving that he had just been shot... staggering toward Yoko... Christ, he's been shot... he collapses, saying something he can't 95.

remember to his dear wife as the doorman dashes toward him...

Ambulance sirens, voices shouting, policemen all around, cold sidewalk concrete... a glimpse of a young man standing on the curb reading a paperback book... being loaded on a stretcher... nausea, weakness, the sense of pa.s.sing from time and s.p.a.ce...

"Do you know who you are?" the disembodied voice of a cop asks softly just before the end....

Well, constable, at least I think I do. I mean, it was right there on the tip of my tongue just a moment ago, right before some deranged a.s.shole shot me. I once shook hands with the Queen, and I'm pretty positive that I once played Shea Stadium, if that's what you're asking. But if you'll only give me a few minutes, I'm sure I can give you a correct answer. Umm... you wouldn't mind making it multiple choice, would you?

"Not very b.l.o.o.d.y funny," he whispered to himself.

We can't allow you to continue, Jim had said. You're much too dangerous....

Without really thinking about it, John slowly slid his legs over the side of the bed; the soles of his feet came to rest on the coa.r.s.e wooden boards of the tent-platform, and for a few moments he peered into the darkness, listening to Mary's rhythmic breathing.

We've been given a chance, don't you see? Jim's voice had almost been pleading. We've been brought here by the ancients, every one of us from time immemorial, to achieve personal salvation through our personal actions. We can yet achieve union with the G.o.dhead, John, but only if we give ourselves the chance....

He could hear the wash of the River through the darkness. Downstream, somewhere close by, dugout ca- 96.

97.

noes were stealthily making their way toward Graceland, paddled by Second Chancers who had been waiting for this hour when everyone on the island would be sound asleep.

But you and the others have revived the old ways. You brought technology to this island where only life-sustaining grailstones had once existed, and you use it to preach evil. You've brought back idol worship, debauchery, l.u.s.t of every kind... all those very things that I myself once practised before the resurrection....

John bent and picked up from the floor the kilt that Mary had torn off him; he stood up and slid it around his waist. His eyes searched various objects resting on tables and chairs around his tent-spare clothing, his grail, a carved wooden tobacco box and other handmade ornaments given to him by visiting fans, his guitar-until his gaze found a long, flat thing in the corner.