Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys Part 31

I guess any culture needs its popular icons, something for the rest of its populace to aspire to, knowing they'll never make it. h.e.l.l, there was probably some prima donna cave-wall painter back in the Neolithic days who started to believe it when his fans told him that his s.h.i.+t didn't stink.

I don't know how many times during the next hour or so I wanted to turn around and ask Morrison or any of the others why they'd allowed themselves to fall victim to their self-indulgences when they'd died still having so much more to give to the world...then just as quickly realized how G.o.dd.a.m.ned selfish that was. Maybe that Neil Young song hit it on the head about it being better to burn out than fade away.

People like you and me will never know, so how can we be made to understand?

Over the next hour, we picked up Keith Moon and John Entwistle (both from The Who), Gary Thain and David Byron (of Uriah Heep), Tommy Bolin (The James Gang and Deep Purple), Paul Kossoff (Free), the great blues guitarist Roy Buchanan, as well as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Billie Holiday-to whom everyone paid the greatest respect and courtesy.

The Reverend gave them each welcome and coffee, and asked each of them the same questions: How did you get here? Why are you here? Where are we taking you?

"Honey," said Billie Holiday, laying a thin and elegant hand against the Reverend's cheek, "what we got to do, we got to do. 'Taint n.o.body's business but ours, and that's just how it's gotta be. You got that look in your eyes, you know that?"

"What look is that?"

"Like you already know whatever it is you're tryin' to get one of us to say."

"Can we get out of this f.u.c.kin' cold already?" said Cobain.

I put the van in gear and drove back to the shelter.

"Sam doesn't say much," Morrison announced to the others.

"Ah, a quiet one," said Entwistle, grinning.

Keith Moon shook his head. "b.l.o.o.d.y birds of a feather." And began to beat a tattoo against his legs.

Morrison leaned forward, resting his elbows, respectively, on the back of the Reverend's seat and my own. "I gotta hand it to you two, you're not freaking out like I expected. I-whoa, pull over."

We did, and Jerry Garcia climbed in.

"Come see Uncle John's band," I muttered under my breath.

"I always hated that f.u.c.kin' song," said Garcia.

"Really?" asked Cobain. "That's, like, one of my guilty-favorite tunes of all time."

Garcia shrugged. "What's it hurt to admit it now?"

Cobain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I see what you mean."

"Hey, Nevermind was a great record," said Garcia. "You were a great songwriter, my friend. Sloppy guitarist, but a great songwriter."

"Thanks," said Cobain. "I think."

"You're welcome," said Garcia. "Maybe."

I looked over at the Reverend. "If Ms. Holiday was right, Reverend, if you got some idea what's going on, I'd sure appreciate being let in on the secret."

It was Morrison who answered. "Hasn't it crossed your mind to wonder how it is a van that's designed to hold only eight people is holding almost twice that many right now?"

I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty van reflected back at me. "I guess it's because you're all ghosts, right?"

Morrison laughed, as did everyone else. "s.h.i.+t, no, Sam! Ghosts are, like, the spirits of real people who're hanging around because they've got unfinished business."

"Like that girl up there," said Hendrix, pointing to a young woman crossing the street.

"Do we need to pick her up?" asked the Reverend.

Morrison shook his head. "No. She's got nothing to do with this."

I stared at her. "Who is she?"

"Roberta Martin," said Garcia, Hendrix, and Buchanan simultaneously.

I put the van in park and turned to face them. "Who?"

"The greatest guitar player who ever lived," said Morrison.

I shrugged. "I've never heard of her."

"No reason you should have," said Buchanan in his soft, soft voice. "She was killed by a drunk driver on her way to a gig in n.o.belsville, Indiana in 1982."

"Girl was so good it was scary," said Hendrix.

Garcia nodded. "You got that right."

"Never recorded a demo for anyone," said Buchanan. "She was only 22 when she died."

"I was only 25," said Tommy Bolin.

"Yeah," replied Hendrix, "but it was your own f.u.c.king fault. By the way, I want my ring back."

"This one?" said Bolin, holding up his hand. "My girlfriend gave it to me."

"That was the same ring I was wearing when I died," said Hendrix. "How the f.u.c.k she wound up with it, I don't know."

Bolin removed the ring and tossed it to Hendrix. "It was kina tight, anyway."

"Says you." Hendrix slipped it back on his finger, and the two men smiled at each other.

"She's a ghost," said Cobain, pointing toward Roberta Martin. "We're...s.h.i.+t, I guess you'd call us...what?"

"Ulcerations of the idealized," replied Entwistle.

"Good going," said Morrison. "We're more than a memory but less than something alive."

"I still don't understand."

"Who says that we do, hon?" asked Billie Holiday.

In the street, Roberta martin stopped and turned toward the van. Everyone inside became quiet. She smiled at us, lifted her hand, waved, and then disappeared into the sleet.

"Girl had the fire," said Hendrix, his voice suddenly sad.

"She sure did," replied Buchanan.

Cobain nodded. "A f.u.c.kin' shame."

Jerry Garcia leaned forward, pa.s.sing halfway through Janis Joplin, who shared his seat. "You know anything about physics, Sam?"

"A little, I guess."

"So you know how black holes are formed by stars that collapse inward on themselves, right?"

"Okay...?"

"And how matter can be reformed into anything as it pa.s.ses through...I mean, at least theoretically?"

I shrugged. "I guess, sure."

"Then think of us as a something that's come out of a black hole...only in this case, it's a black hole of idealization, formed by a collapsing psyche."

I opened my mouth to speak, then shook my head and looked at the Reverend.

"They're not ghosts," he said to me. "They're the idealized versions of themselves. They're not the people they were, they're the icons, what they were imagined to be by those fans who idealized and wors.h.i.+pped them."

I nodded. "The legends, not the human beings?"

"Right." He looked back at our pa.s.sengers. "Right?"

"Close enough," said Morrison. "At some point, every one of us has been idolized by someone. Be idolized by enough people, and that idol-image becomes more real to them than you ever could be. f.u.c.k, man, I had so many people calling me a 'rock G.o.d' that I started believing it myself."

"I wouldn't know, mate," said Paul Kossoff.

I looked back at the guitarist. "But you were good. Back Street Crawler was a kick-a.s.s alb.u.m."

"Thanks, mate. But after I left Free..." He shrugged. "All I was to the world-to whatever part of it still noticed me-was 'ex-Free guitarist...' And the only thing Free did that people still remember or care about was 'All Right Now'."

"But at least that's remembered," I said.

Kossoff smiled. "Yeah, there's that."

"All it takes," said Buchanan, "is one person. One person idolizes you, and you're screwed. Like it or not, from that moment on...you kinda split in two. Some part of you is always aware of the idol-half" he gave his head a little shake. "And it can mess with you."

"Amen," said Cobain.

Morrison tapped my shoulder. "You need to get moving again."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the good Reverend's shelter."

"Why there?"

"Because," said Entwistle, "the source of the ulceration that brought us here should be there by now."

"You and your b.l.o.o.d.y loopy syntax," said Keith Moon. "You always talked just like you played. Too d.a.m.ned busy for its own good."

"Coming from you," said Entwistle, "I take that as a compliment."

"You would." Then Moon smiled. "Good to see you again, Ox."

"Likewise."

I looked at the Reverend. "I'm scared."

He said nothing in return, and I knew.

Despite what Morrison had said to us, the Reverend was scared, as well.

6.

It didn't help that none of them said a word after that, just sat back there staring out at the night and looking more and more like the ghosts they claimed not to be.

They filed into the shelter silently, each finding a cot or a chair at various spots around the main floor, where they sat, watching all the doors and windows.

The dog-Lump-sat up as soon as we came inside, his ears jerking. Missy sat down to pet him when he started growling, and Beth looked at her daughter, then to me.

"Lump never growls," she said. "I don't know what's gotten into him all of a sudden."

"It's just a bad night," I said, as if that could explain everything. "Where's your son-sorry, I forgot his name."

"Kyle? He's downstairs taking a shower."

"How're you doing?"

"Hm? Oh, me...I'm okay." She patted her stomach. "The food really hit the spot."

"Well, if anybody wants seconds..."

"You're very nice."

"I try."