always mourn
.
âIt could have been written for Jim. âAlien tears.â Thatâs really something, isnât it?â
Cut to a bar where Jim used to come and drink and write poetry. The bar owner was rinsing out Pastis glasses, nonchalant and very French. A Parisian journalist in his late forties, who stated that he and Jim often had long conversations here about existentialism and claimed that Jim asked him to translate his poems into French, sat beside Reeve, perched self-consciously, arrogant and uncomfortable. He looked like he was sitting on a carrot and sucking on a lemon all at the same time.
And they showed footage of The Doors in concert and rare clips of Jim offstage, looking like a god and looking like a retard, Fat Jim, droopy-faced and bearded, with small eyes peering out of fat, puffy lids. And Reeveâs bandflew over to Germany and they played together for the first time in more than a year. And when they finished, Jimâs cousin came out of the studio audience, shook Reeveâs hand, and said, âHello, Jim.â There were tears in the audienceâs eyes, in the bandâs eyes. Reeve looked as if he were about to break down.
When the contract was up, Reeve chose not to renew it. On his thirtieth birthday he moved back to L.A. But his band had scattered and moved on. He went on a few chat shows, hired a media consultant, but nobody really wanted to know. He moved back in with his mother. He got a job with Star Company, driving a stretch limo, picking up VIPs at the airport. When the planes were late or his order was canceled, heâd drive down to the beach and sit in the car with the door open, letting the cool air in, writing poems in his head and staring at the sea. Feeling cold made him think about his apartment in Germany, the big old ornate radiator in the corner of the room, slow to rumble into action, reluctant to heat up the room. And the ceiling so high up that when he lay on the bed it made him feel like a child. He thought about the food shops, the cheeses and the sausages piled up in pyramids, a work of art, and sweets and cakes and pasta dripping in shop windows. He thought about the café that served poetic coffee in large silver pots with thick fresh cream.
And he thought about the German woman who had been his lover. She was older than him, almost old enough to be his mother. She was an artist, with strong hands and a strong, fine face. He had found her one night in the lobby of his apartment building, arguing with the concierge, whowouldnât let her up. He smuggled her in later, both of them feeling slightly ashamed and elated, laughing in whispers as if they were in his motherâs house.
She told himâmonths later, when the concierge had come to know and accept her and would stop and have a natter with her every night in the hall and offer her a coffee if Reeve was late back from the studioâshe told him what he already knew, that she was totally into Jim Morrison. She told him that she wanted to be on the show.
And she told him a story. She had gone to the cemetery at night and broken in, scaled the wall with a pickax and a spade. She said she needed to know for sure that Jim really was dead and buried. There had always been rumors, just like there had with Elvis, maybe just like for every star who dies in the bathroom, that he hadnât really died, that heâd just disappeared and was working in a gas station or living in a trailer in the desert watching the lizards go by. When reports reached Los Angeles that Jim had had a fatal heart attack in the bathtub, his manager had flown to Paris to see what was going on. And all Jimâs wife could show him was a sealed coffin and a death certificate signedâshe was so wastedâby she couldnât remember who.
If the coffin had been empty she had planned to go and look for him; she knew that she could find him. But it wasnât empty, she said, staring at the high ceiling
.
âIt could have been written for Jim. âAlien tears.â Thatâs really something, isnât it?â
Cut to a bar where Jim used to come and drink and write poetry. The bar owner was rinsing out Pastis glasses, nonchalant and very French. A Parisian journalist in his late forties, who stated that he and Jim often had long conversations here about existentialism and claimed that Jim asked him to translate his poems into French, sat beside Reeve, perched self-consciously, arrogant and uncomfortable. He looked like he was sitting on a carrot and sucking on a lemon all at the same time.
And they showed footage of The Doors in concert and rare clips of Jim offstage, looking like a god and looking like a retard, Fat Jim, droopy-faced and bearded, with small eyes peering out of fat, puffy lids. And Reeveâs bandflew over to Germany and they played together for the first time in more than a year. And when they finished, Jimâs cousin came out of the studio audience, shook Reeveâs hand, and said, âHello, Jim.â There were tears in the audienceâs eyes, in the bandâs eyes. Reeve looked as if he were about to break down.
When the contract was up, Reeve chose not to renew it. On his thirtieth birthday he moved back to L.A. But his band had scattered and moved on. He went on a few chat shows, hired a media consultant, but nobody really wanted to know. He moved back in with his mother. He got a job with Star Company, driving a stretch limo, picking up VIPs at the airport. When the planes were late or his order was canceled, heâd drive down to the beach and sit in the car with the door open, letting the cool air in, writing poems in his head and staring at the sea. Feeling cold made him think about his apartment in Germany, the big old ornate radiator in the corner of the room, slow to rumble into action, reluctant to heat up the room. And the ceiling so high up that when he lay on the bed it made him feel like a child. He thought about the food shops, the cheeses and the sausages piled up in pyramids, a work of art, and sweets and cakes and pasta dripping in shop windows. He thought about the café that served poetic coffee in large silver pots with thick fresh cream.
And he thought about the German woman who had been his lover. She was older than him, almost old enough to be his mother. She was an artist, with strong hands and a strong, fine face. He had found her one night in the lobby of his apartment building, arguing with the concierge, whowouldnât let her up. He smuggled her in later, both of them feeling slightly ashamed and elated, laughing in whispers as if they were in his motherâs house.
She told himâmonths later, when the concierge had come to know and accept her and would stop and have a natter with her every night in the hall and offer her a coffee if Reeve was late back from the studioâshe told him what he already knew, that she was totally into Jim Morrison. She told him that she wanted to be on the show.
And she told him a story. She had gone to the cemetery at night and broken in, scaled the wall with a pickax and a spade. She said she needed to know for sure that Jim really was dead and buried. There had always been rumors, just like there had with Elvis, maybe just like for every star who dies in the bathroom, that he hadnât really died, that heâd just disappeared and was working in a gas station or living in a trailer in the desert watching the lizards go by. When reports reached Los Angeles that Jim had had a fatal heart attack in the bathtub, his manager had flown to Paris to see what was going on. And all Jimâs wife could show him was a sealed coffin and a death certificate signedâshe was so wastedâby she couldnât remember who.
If the coffin had been empty she had planned to go and look for him; she knew that she could find him. But it wasnât empty, she said, staring at the high ceiling
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