by Robin Ray
“Where’d you get that soda machine?” Tony asked, spinning his bottle top off.
“Why do you ask?” the green apple soda-sipping musician asked. “It’s just a dispenser.”
“I just didn’t think Woodstock, being so small, would have the industry to create something like that,” the young PI guessed.
“It was here when I got here,” Jim asserted. “Where it came from, I don’t have a clue. The sodas we get for free because the people who work in those farm record here for nothing. Sometimes we even volunteer to pick the fruits and whatnot. Can’t complain.”
“They’re pretty self-servient around here,” Gregory noticed. “What about utilities? Water, electricity, sewage…”
“Yeah,” Black Beard said, sipping his pop. “We have that.”
“I mean,” the detective clarified, “are those plants all here in Woodstock?”
“Man, you ask more questions than the judges at Nuremberg,” Jim joked. “Ah, I’m just twisting your tits. As far as I know, the sewers, the infrastructure, utilities, all that stuff was built by angels and workers from the Industrial Heavens. Woodstock runs solely on hydro-electric power. They tap into the water at Northern Falls, you know, the falls on Green Mountain. Pretty slick. The senior workers are engineers who live here in town; the others are basically musicians and industry types. They go through some training. I’ve even thought about it myself but that technical stuff’s not my type of thing. People like Manzarek, Jon Lord, Bob Moog, the Japanese Yamaha crew, Edgar Froese from Tangerine Dream, Bob Casale from Devo, they work there. All those guys come down here to jam sometimes, too.”
“So, Jim,” the PI asked, removing his pad and pen from his pocket, “you were telling me your whereabouts on July 15 of this year?”
“It was a typical day,” he explained. “I work at Blueberry Hill Farm just off Blueberry Hill Road on the west side.”
“I found my thrill…” Tony started singing. When he saw so one was interested, clammed up immediately.
“I take it blueberries are their main crop there?” Gregory queried the curly-haired singer.
“You’d think so, but no,” Jim attested, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe back in the day, it was. Now it’s wine grapes, specifically, Prié blanc and Coda di Volpe. They’ve also been experimenting with tomato wine so there are a couple of patches of heirloom tomatoes around.”
“Tomato wine?” the PI asked.
“Wouldn’t that be, like, a Bloody Mary?” Tony guessed.
“That’s made with vodka,” Gregory informed his young assistant.
“It looks like white wine,” Jim assured them, “because it has no tannins. It is stronger, though, like 14%.”
“What are tannins?” the junior D asked.
“Ingredients in the grape skins and seeds that give wine its astringency,” Jim answered. “More tannins give you a dryer wine.”
“Why do you want a dry wine?” Tony beseeched the bearded one.
Jim considered his answer for a second. “It’s a personal taste, really. Some people don’t like sweet wine. To them it’s like drinking liquid candy.”
“I used to work for this hoity-toity woman named Elizabeth Bathory,” Gregory interjected. “She used to say she couldn’t tell the difference between sweet wine and menstrual piss but, you know, that’s just some high class nonsense. T-bone steak, hamburger…they’ll both fill you up. Just personal taste.”
“Thanks for that image,” Jim groaned. “Now I can’t go near a woman for a year till the trauma’s gone.”
“My bad,” the D apologized. “They say I go too far sometimes.”
“I’d like to taste that tomato wine someday,” Tony hoped.
“There might me a little upstairs,” Jim said. “That’s Ray’s main poison.”
“Who’s Ray?” Gregory asked, stretching out the sudden cramping in his legs.
“Manzarek,” the singer replied. “A cat I’ve known for donkey’s years. Anyway, to get back to your question, I was at work then just came back here, practiced some stuff, and went to bed.”
“That can be verified?” the PI asked.
“Yep,” Jim answered. Getting up, he reached into a draw below the mixing desk, brought out a marble notebook and handed it to Gregory. “My poems.”
The PI leafed through a few pages as the singer returned to his reclining seat. Tony rolled his chair closer to his mentor so he could have a peek at the book.
“I don’t know much about poetry,” Gregory admitted, “but I guess it’s deep. So that’s all you did? Practiced and slept?”
“Sometimes we have little get togethers with neighbors upstairs,” Jim revealed, “you know, play charades or some other time-wasting foolishness. Jimi, Janis and Amy went out around 9 or 10 so I just sat around watching movies, dozing off…nothing, really. I wasn’t feeling that good anyway.”
“Then you went to bed?” the PI asked, continuing his perusal of the book.
The singer nodded. “Right there on the couch. Next thing I know, I’m being waken up the next morning by Jimi and Janis coming back home.”
“Where did your roommates go the night before?” Gregory asked, turning a page.
Jim shrugged. “Probably one of the bars in town, I don’t know.”
“Did you wonder where Amy was when you didn’t see her on Saturday?” the older detective asked.
“Nah, she’s a big girl,” the musician explained, stretching out the kink that had formed in his back. “Hell, I’m surprised Jimi and Janis were even here Saturday. I mean, we’re all party freaks, but everybody here is like that. What else is there to do? Work, see a therapist, get a massage, go swimming, go for a walk, strum these guitars a little? You know, I think I’ve read every book in the Woodstock Library. Not so much the romance stuff but, you know, Turgenev, Sinclair, Steinbeck, Kafka, Schopenhauer, Rand, Nietzsche before he went crazy, Greek mythology, the biographies and works of the old ‘uns – Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, basically anything without Harlequin stamped on it.”
“So now you must get real bored,” Tony posed.
“Out of my fucking skull,” Jim admitted. “How many times can I read the poems, novels, short stories, essays of Aldous Huxley? I mean, there’s good and bad to Heaven, you know? Hell, I’ve been thinking about moving up to the next level lately.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“Asceticism,” Jim answered. “You know, upward through the Heavens.”
“Shave your head and become a monk?” Gregory asked jokingly.
“Yep,” the singer answered, ignoring the intended slight. “I’ve been contemplating it. I studied a lot of the stuff Huxley got in to, like Vedanta. That’s an Indian philosophy centered around Upanishad, texts that have vegetarianism, meditation and non-violence as some of their main tenets. Hard to give up the booze, though. And the women.”
“There’s hardly any females here,” Tony noticed.
“Kid,” Jim bragged, “you’re in Rock & Roll Heaven. Since when is that an issue? Anyway, despite what you might be thinking, we get regular visitors from Runway Heaven, so it’s not so bad. They dig rock stars, we dig models. I’d say that’s a pretty fair deal.”
“What do you do as a monk,” Tony waxed insolently, “sit on top of a mountain all day giving people advice?”
“It’s actually a life of extreme poverty,” Jim corrected him. “You beg for food, have no possessions, want no possessions, practice chastity, things like that.”
“To purify the soul, right?” Gregory asked.
The singer nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Sounds like torture to me,” the young D admitted.
“At your age, it would be,” Jim agreed, “You’d have to change your mindset completely around, 180 degrees. You’re happy because you want nothing. You’ve already gotten there.”
“Except food,” Tony added.
“Right,” Black Beard nodded. “You live off the charity of other
s.”
“And then you move on up / to the east side!” Tony, the perpetual clown, sang.
“Didn’t you say you had something to do,” the frustrated singer groaned, speaking to the youngster, “like go mow a lawn or something?”
“Geez. I’m just trying to be friendly,” the dejected Latino-Korean muttered.
“I’m just bustin’ your chops, man,” Jim let on. “I’m not that serious.”
“You know,” Gregory mentioned to his host, “I’d meant to ask L’Da about transporting between the heavens, when we could do it, and so forth.”
“In due time,” Jim promised. “You know what’s weird? We’re free to move through the heavens, you know, once we petition, but people always seem to go back to where they feel the most comfortable. Each to his own, I guess. And you’re not a musician, right?”
Gregory shook his head. “Nope.”
Jim glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing 11AM.
“I have to step out for a while,” he cautioned the detectives.
“So do we,” the PI claimed. “Oh, by the way, would you have time today to take a polygraph test at the station?”
“I did one already,” Jim objected.
“Yeah, I know,” Gregory realized, adopting a tone as non-threatening as possible. “Disclosure testing, what you probably did, is usually the norm – denial of details, denial of culpability, denial of understanding and denial of effect, and there are lots of different tests, but I have a different approach. I kind of combine them.”
“Geez, Louise,” the bearded singer moaned, “how long does that take?”
“Not long,” the elder PI assured him. “Maybe an hour or so.”
“Oy,” Jim shook his head. “You’re killing me.”
Gregory handed the book of poems back to its author. “So I take that as a yes?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he assented. “What time do you want me over there?”
The PI squinted. “Try for 2PM.”
“3PM,” Jim suggested instead. “I don’t wanna rush up here from West Beach. Gonna take in a little skinny dipping while I have the chance.”
Gregory nodded, standing up. “3PM it is.”
CHAPTER 14
5:15 PM and still no Jim Douglas Morrison. The bearded singer of ‘Five to One’ was keeping his company of three waiting: Gregory pacing back and forth in front of the window, Tony spinning around on a padded, reclining office chair pretending to understand what he was reading from the law book opened in his hands, and the polygraph monitor, Eric Witherspoon, himself a past bassist in a bar band from Nebraska and former student of the angel D’Ariel. Eric, the recent consumer of four slices of 6-cheese pizzas, three stuffed cheesy breads, one piece of chocolate cake and a giant-sized cup of organic, craft brewed root beer, was comfortably sleeping with folded arms in his reclined chair. Completely forgetting he was with company, he twisted to one side, eased off his butt, and made a fart sound so loud and wet he’d better check his drawers, like, immediately. Gregory opened the window to spare himself the pleasure of the cheese-inspired wind. Just then, Jim came staggering into the office, his pants wet from who knows what, his shirt disheveled, and a road sign in his hand. Instinctively, the PI and Tony helped him sit in a chair before he collapsed on the floor.
“Before you fellas start lecturing me,” Jim managed to spit out, albeit slurred, “just know I have a history of being fashionably late.”
“What is this?” Gregory asked, pointing to the road sign as the examiner woke up.
“What?” the confused singer asked then look down and noticed the wooden item. “Who gave this to me?” he asked, stunned. Nevertheless, he read the sign:
Jupiter Barbers – Luxury Styles
“Anybody want a haircut?” he laughed. Unamused, Gregory wrestled the sign from the singer and placed in on the desk. “Come here and give me some love,” Jim beckoned the small gathering, outstretching his arms for an embrace. When no one accepted his offer, crestfallen, he folded them across his chest “You guys are chumps,” he groaned. “I want my money back.”
“Jim,” the PI uttered in a stern voice, “we waited over two hours for you and this is what you do? Come staggering in here like a frat boy?”
“I was one, you jerk,” the singer schooled him. “FSU Tallahassee. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Gregory shook his head. “You’re not up to this.” He turned to the polygraph monitor. “We’ll have to do this some other time.”
“Actually,” Witherspoon suggested, nibbling the fallen pizza crumbs from his shirt, “in goes the wine, out comes the truth. Now is perfect. What do you say, Jim?”
“You cannot petition the Lord with prayer!” the singer bellowed, his voice so loud it caused Tony to jump. “Hey,” Jim asked, looking at Witherspoon, “where’s fat boy?”
“Who?” the monitor asked.
“D’Ariel, general,” the singer explained. “The angel who oversees this stuff.”
“I’m Eric Witherspoon, the monitor for tonight” the ex-bassist said. “I’m not an angel but they didn’t feel one was necessary as this is just a follow up. Are you ready?”
A few minutes later, Black Beard was sitting in the examining chair with electrodes strapped to his arm and chest as Eric calibrated his machine. Tony sat on the desk to get a bird’s eye view of the test while Gregory sat with the monitor watching him prepare.
“Are you ready?” the PI asked the inebriated man.
Jim saluted. “Ready, Freddie.”
“What’s your name?” Gregory asked.
“James Douglas Morrison,” he answered, “but my friends call me Jim, so you can call me Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim, Little Jimmy Morrison.”
“Where were you born?” the PI inquired
“Melbourne, Australia,” the singer lied.
Gregory squinted in disbelief. “Australia?”
Jim threw up his hands. “Just kidding. Melbourne, Florida. Grade A military brat.”
Gregory sighed and turned to Witherspoon. “How’s it looking?” he whispered.
“So far, so good,” came the calibrator’s reply.
The PI returned to his questionee. “What drugs have you used?”
Black Beard shook his head. “None today.”
“I meant in your entire life,” Gregory elucidated.
Jim smiled. “You sure you have the time?”
“Just answer the question,” the PI grunted.
The rock singer started rattling off names like they were zipping by on a speedy teleprompter in front of him. “Mescaline, Cocaine, Heroin. That China White is a killer. Bites like a crocodile. Whoa! Acid, Peyote, Mushrooms, Marijuana, Mar-Ree-Wah-Nah…I forget the rest.”
“Did you get along with Amy Winehouse?” the ex-cop quizzed him.
“Most certainly, old chap,” he bowed while answering with a faux British accent.
“On the night of Friday, July 15,” Gregory asked, “Miss Winehouse was found deceased just off a trail near the Millstream in Woodstock. How did she get there?”
“Je ne sais pas,” Jim answered.
The PI huffed. “English, please.”
The singer shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have anything to do with her being there?” Gregory queried the difficult musician.
“Nope,” Jim replied.
“Are you responsible for the death of Amy Winehouse?” the PI asked him directly.
“Not to my knowledge,” Black Beard whimsically answered.
“What does that mean?” the PI asked firmly.
“No,” Jim straightened up and answered. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Amy. Winehouse.”
“Have you ever heard anyone mention the details of her death?” Gregory asked.
The singer shook his head. “No, sir.”
Exasperated, Gregory turned to Witherspoon again. “How’s he doing?”
The monitor motioned to the printout. “Calm as a well fed stomach. No activity here.”
The
PI returned to Jim. “What were you drinking today?”
“Do I reek?” the songwriter asked, sniffing his armpits.
“What were you drinking today?” Gregory reiterated.
“Whiskey,” Jim answered.
“What else?”
“That’s it. Just whiskey.”
“Is that what you drank at ASU?” the PI asked.
“FSU,” Jim corrected him. “And yes.”
Witherspoon leaned close to Gregory’s ear. “He’s clean as a whistle,” he whispered. “You want to continue?”
“No,” he told him, then turned to Jim. “I’m done.”
“How’d I do, doc?” the still inebriated ‘L.A Woman’ singer asked.
“You’re fine,” the PI informed him. “Passed with flying colors.”
“In that case,” Jim wondered, “you don’t mind if I went back to the bar? They’re keeping my seat warm.”
“What does it feel like?” Tony asked the bearded poet.
The singer turned and looked at the young PI-in-training. “What does what feel like?”
“You know,” Tony solicited, “being a star. The lights, the TVs, the interviews, the chicks, the concerts…”
“I’m in it, man,” Jim replied. “I’m not an observer, you know what I mean? What it looks like outside that bubble, I don’t have a clue.”
“Do you have any regrets?” the novice asked.
“About being a musician?” Jim took a deep breath then exhaled. “I guess we all have a destiny; some of us are lucky to find it because the stars are in the right alignment, I don’t know. Ask Nostradamus about that kind of stuff. He’d know better than me.”
“This is pretty wild, man,” Tony beamed. “Talking to a legend. You know, I bet I’ve heard your voice more than my dad’s.”
“That’s not good,” Jim lamented.
“But it’s true,” the young guitarist insisted. “They play y’all a lot on classic rock stations. You know, some people still think you’re alive, chilling like a hermit somewhere, living off the land. I guess they’re hoping you’ll come back and make some more records or something.”
