Monday, January 26, 2004
WORLDS IN COLLISION PART 2
Wes ran awkwardly. His boots were made for walking, not running. He slipped and skittered along the narrow maintenance walkway, windmillling his arms and flailing his elbows as he accelerated and disappeared around a bend.
“He’s going to fall and get run over,” I said. “Then they’ll stop the traffic for real and we’ll never make the show.”
“He’ll be fine,” JJ said. “You worry too much.”
“Actually, I don’t even care if we make it,” I said. “The new album is terrible and I hear the shows have been out of control. No good at all.”
“Let’s go,” JJ said. “Look like it’s clear all the way through.”
AT THE SHOW
“Don’t look now,” I said. “But, over there, it’s Sarah Miles and some guy in an Andy Warhol fright wig.”
JJ grimaced and shook his head. “That’s Sylvia Miles, and…. Never mind.”
“Let’s sit over there,” JJ said. He was pointing at one of the tables in front that ran right up to the stage.
“I was sort of hoping to be in the back, out of the line of fire,” I said.
“Come on,” JJ said.
By the second song, The Patti Smith Group was in full demonic mode. The Poet herself spinning around the stage, chanting nonsense syllables at the top of her lungs. As the band cranked up she took a tentative step from the stage to our table, then began to dance on it. She took dead aim and kicked a mug of beer, sending it flying across the table and onto the floor.
I had a hamburger, a plate of fries and a beer. “If she kicks over my stuff, I’m going to ask for my money back,” I said to JJ.
“I don’t think they give refunds here,” he said.
I looked up. The Poet locked eyes with me. She looked at my food. The perfect target. She gave me a little smile and began to work her way down the table, advancing on me. The band was getting louder, the song moving to a fever pitch. No matter how I tried to shield my food and drink, I couldn’t protect it all. She danced a little closer. I spread my arms around my plate and beer mug and ducked my head down, waiting to be blasted.
Just then a disturbance broke out at the door. A scrum had developed. People pushing and shoving. The band continued playing, but The Poet stopped singing and dancing, her attention drawn to the commotion.
Suddenly, Wes burst through the tangle of bouncers and moved toward center of the room. He looked up and waved, “Patti! Patti! You Hoo, Patti!”
The Poet began to retreat toward the safety of the stage. She backtracked carefully, never taking her eyes off Wes. Even though the band was still playing, the club seemed to have gotten very quiet. It was one of those time stood still frozen moments.
Wes broke the ice. He reached into his bag, grabbed the book he’d brought and flung it. It hit our table, slid across and landed on an empty chair at the foot of the stage. The Poet ducked instinctively, then looked back to where the book had landed. When she saw what it was here eyes widened. She leaned over the table and hovered, almost suspended in mid air for a millisecond. Just when it looked certain that she would fall, she snatched the book and righted herself in one quick motion.
She held it up and waved back at Wes. “Hey, thanks,” she yelled. “Thanks a lot.”
The big smile on Wes’s face disappeared, to be replaced by a stricken look of pure panic. He’d just realized that he’d given his prize possession away. He started moving to the stage. “But, but,” he yelled. It was obvious that he intended to go up and explain the situation, but the bouncers were upon him once again. Wes swung his long skinny arms, and squirmed mightily, but this time they didn’t let go until he was safely hustled away and removed from the premises.
“Well, that was something,” I said to JJ.
“What’s the big deal?” he said.
“The yoo hoo,” I said. “That was a nice touch.”
“What are you talking about?” asked JJ.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s already like I imagined the whole thing.”
“Really,” JJ said later. “You have to admit that was fun.”
“I do admit that,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s the kind of fun I like to have.”
AFTERMATH
After that fiasco I decided I’d have to start looking elsewhere to fill whatever void in my life had led me to such nights. I began a gradual weaning process that continues to this day. It has been a slow process, however. I thought I’d been totally cured when I turned down a chance to go to a Sex Pistols reunion concert last summer without thinking twice. But the night before last, I found myself playing a Strokes cd, and sneaking looks at the Things, trying to see if they were picking up on it. The struggle continues.
Patti Smith eventually did fall, a few months later, from a stage in Florida.
JJ and I drifted apart. He married and raised a family of earnest liberals. His daughter writes letters to the editor on the importance of voting and good government. His son saves cats.
Wes dropped out of sight. I assumed he was dead, or arrested. I didn’t think about him that much. Then, about ten years later, I saw him selling knock-off Indian jewelry at a roadside flea market. His brown hair had turned a steel gray, but he still wore it down to his waist. There was a flash of recognition, then nothing. He looked at me. He looked right through me. I kept walking.
Wes ran awkwardly. His boots were made for walking, not running. He slipped and skittered along the narrow maintenance walkway, windmillling his arms and flailing his elbows as he accelerated and disappeared around a bend.
“He’s going to fall and get run over,” I said. “Then they’ll stop the traffic for real and we’ll never make the show.”
“He’ll be fine,” JJ said. “You worry too much.”
“Actually, I don’t even care if we make it,” I said. “The new album is terrible and I hear the shows have been out of control. No good at all.”
“Let’s go,” JJ said. “Look like it’s clear all the way through.”
AT THE SHOW
“Don’t look now,” I said. “But, over there, it’s Sarah Miles and some guy in an Andy Warhol fright wig.”
JJ grimaced and shook his head. “That’s Sylvia Miles, and…. Never mind.”
“Let’s sit over there,” JJ said. He was pointing at one of the tables in front that ran right up to the stage.
“I was sort of hoping to be in the back, out of the line of fire,” I said.
“Come on,” JJ said.
By the second song, The Patti Smith Group was in full demonic mode. The Poet herself spinning around the stage, chanting nonsense syllables at the top of her lungs. As the band cranked up she took a tentative step from the stage to our table, then began to dance on it. She took dead aim and kicked a mug of beer, sending it flying across the table and onto the floor.
I had a hamburger, a plate of fries and a beer. “If she kicks over my stuff, I’m going to ask for my money back,” I said to JJ.
“I don’t think they give refunds here,” he said.
I looked up. The Poet locked eyes with me. She looked at my food. The perfect target. She gave me a little smile and began to work her way down the table, advancing on me. The band was getting louder, the song moving to a fever pitch. No matter how I tried to shield my food and drink, I couldn’t protect it all. She danced a little closer. I spread my arms around my plate and beer mug and ducked my head down, waiting to be blasted.
Just then a disturbance broke out at the door. A scrum had developed. People pushing and shoving. The band continued playing, but The Poet stopped singing and dancing, her attention drawn to the commotion.
Suddenly, Wes burst through the tangle of bouncers and moved toward center of the room. He looked up and waved, “Patti! Patti! You Hoo, Patti!”
The Poet began to retreat toward the safety of the stage. She backtracked carefully, never taking her eyes off Wes. Even though the band was still playing, the club seemed to have gotten very quiet. It was one of those time stood still frozen moments.
Wes broke the ice. He reached into his bag, grabbed the book he’d brought and flung it. It hit our table, slid across and landed on an empty chair at the foot of the stage. The Poet ducked instinctively, then looked back to where the book had landed. When she saw what it was here eyes widened. She leaned over the table and hovered, almost suspended in mid air for a millisecond. Just when it looked certain that she would fall, she snatched the book and righted herself in one quick motion.
She held it up and waved back at Wes. “Hey, thanks,” she yelled. “Thanks a lot.”
The big smile on Wes’s face disappeared, to be replaced by a stricken look of pure panic. He’d just realized that he’d given his prize possession away. He started moving to the stage. “But, but,” he yelled. It was obvious that he intended to go up and explain the situation, but the bouncers were upon him once again. Wes swung his long skinny arms, and squirmed mightily, but this time they didn’t let go until he was safely hustled away and removed from the premises.
“Well, that was something,” I said to JJ.
“What’s the big deal?” he said.
“The yoo hoo,” I said. “That was a nice touch.”
“What are you talking about?” asked JJ.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s already like I imagined the whole thing.”
“Really,” JJ said later. “You have to admit that was fun.”
“I do admit that,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s the kind of fun I like to have.”
AFTERMATH
After that fiasco I decided I’d have to start looking elsewhere to fill whatever void in my life had led me to such nights. I began a gradual weaning process that continues to this day. It has been a slow process, however. I thought I’d been totally cured when I turned down a chance to go to a Sex Pistols reunion concert last summer without thinking twice. But the night before last, I found myself playing a Strokes cd, and sneaking looks at the Things, trying to see if they were picking up on it. The struggle continues.
Patti Smith eventually did fall, a few months later, from a stage in Florida.
JJ and I drifted apart. He married and raised a family of earnest liberals. His daughter writes letters to the editor on the importance of voting and good government. His son saves cats.
Wes dropped out of sight. I assumed he was dead, or arrested. I didn’t think about him that much. Then, about ten years later, I saw him selling knock-off Indian jewelry at a roadside flea market. His brown hair had turned a steel gray, but he still wore it down to his waist. There was a flash of recognition, then nothing. He looked at me. He looked right through me. I kept walking.
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