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Monday, October 1

Weird Scenes Outside the Gold Mine

"Weird Scenes Outside the Gold Mine"
Short Fiction - Humor
by Rod Drake

So, we're Americans in Paris, in this really weird old hotel that looks like it was designed by Tim Burton on blotter, and Amanda was pouting as usual, acting more difficult than normal because she knows she can get away with it, when walking down the funky little hallway came, I kid you not, Jim Morrison. Bearded and gray, but behind low-slung sunglasses, the mad Morrison eyes were a dead giveaway, dead being the operative word.

Jim Morrison had died here in 1973, over 30 years ago, or so the story the media had bought and printed without much proof, including a view of the corpse, or any credible eyewitnesses, and days, if not weeks, after the fact. Plus who trusts the French to give Americans the straight scoop or even the time of day?

Morrison eyeballed Amanda, which I couldn’t blame him for, and paused about a foot after passing by us, then turned around and followed us to our room. Leaning casually on our door jam as I fumbled with the foreign lock, he asked, “Hey kids, want to Break on Through to the Other Side?”

Amanda looked at him curiously, appreciating the visual attention he had and was still paying her, but most likely nothing else about him. But there was his indefinable strangeness, which was compelling in an odd way.

Actually, that strangeness, the unspoken dangerous edge, the unpredictability of Morrison, had survived and was still strong, hovering around him like pheromones on a Chinese fire drill. It must have drawn Amanda like a moth to a flame, or maybe more accurately, like a hippie chick to the original bad boy rock star. The Lizard King himself, now somewhere in his 60s, I imagine.

We went inside, sat down on the floor of the quaint little living room, each of us taking a swig from a green bottle with an antique label that read “Absinthe” on it that Morrison pulled out of his weathered pea coat. We laughed, listened to a story or two from Morrison and his lost glory days with Joplin and the Jefferson Airplane, took another drink of the funky-tasting, psychoactive liqueur favored by poets, madmen and the suicidal, and that was the last thing that I remember until waking up the next morning.

I guess it was the next morning. I was lying up on the roof of the American Embassy, in my underwear, French pigeons waddling around me with disapproving French pigeon looks, a slight drizzle just starting to fall from the gloomy French sky. I was alone. Images of last night flashed through my mind like brilliant and brief lightning strikes. One of them was of Morrison and Amanda walking, dancing actually, on the handrail at the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight. Another image was of Amanda running through the closed Louvre Museum in her underwear, guards chasing her with flashlights. She was a diversion to give Morrison the opportunity to remove a Gauguin from the wall, then climb out a window with me handing him the painting before making my own escape. I hoped that they, and other bizarre visions of activities from last night, were just hallucinations, or I’m in all kinds of trouble.

I was decorated with a long red velvet scarf that probably belonged to you-know-who from his Whisky A Go Go days, and a note was pinned to it on a piece of the old sheet music. The note said, in Amanda’s crisp penmanship, “M and I went for baguettes. To Le Mans. See you again some day.” Morrison had apparently added a whole, curvy string of “Ha Has” in blood-red ink all around the edges of the note.

I never saw either one of them again. And no one ever believed my story.

Rod Drake denies this story actually happened to him. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

1 reactions:

Kelly Parra said...

Thanks, Rod! Another great one!