âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Jim Morrison (VI) (Part 2) •

A road trip through New York while Jim Morrison quotes Ginsberg and talks philosophy? Yes, please.

P.S. It's super long.

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Jim slams the door of the blue Ford Mustang behind you before ambling over to the driver's side. Despite the chaos flooding around him - the babble behind the backstage door you'd slipped through, the pounding footsteps from the stadium's main entrance, the blank stares of groupies, druggies, and clingers-on - he's in no rush.

He hums as he starts the car, pushes it into gear, and glides away. You are yet to tell him where your home is. He is yet to ask you. There's not been time - not as you'd followed him through the backstage labyrinth, the twists and turns of which he'd bounded around, whooping with the last of his stage adrenaline, holding your wrist as tight as a bracelet. Not as he'd dodged fretting stagehands, sneaky reporters, dodgy alcohol pushers, exasperated cops, and his even more exasperated manager.

Still, now, you don't tell him. Not yet. You want to know where he's taking you first.

As Jim turns out of the lot, swarms of fans are tearing up the street. Sweet melodies of intermingling singing and laughter float to you through the open window. Your head throbs threateningly. Jim had swiped some codeine from someone's stash during the post-show chaos, and the two pills you took are finally kicking in. You know you'll need to ice it for hours later, but as you glance at him - luscious hair whipping in the wind - you know it's worth it.

"How's your head?" he asks, glancing at you while flicking the radio on. The familiar organ solo from 'Light My Fire' floods the car, but Jim immediately turns the tuning knob. Static. Then a soft, unfamiliar piano instrumental replaces the haunting organ. Sniffing, Jim sits back, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

"Better," you say, looking out into the New York streets. "I can barely feel anything." This is almost true, besides a sudden oncoming fatigue. No doubt the drugs and adrenaline comedown are colliding, dragging you under.

Jim looks at you, a calculating expression flitting across his warm, pensive eyes. You lean your head against the plush headrest, eyes closing as he merges onto the near-empty Van Wyck Expressway.

Through the thin veil of your eyelids, the bright, hopeful lights of New York flash by. The sound of pearl-strung evenings out in the heart of the city flies in through the window, mingling with the funky guitar instrumental now playing through the tinny car speakers. Breathing deeply, you smell heated tarmac, fried chicken, coffee, thinly covering a lingering, unpleasant odour of garbage.

Suddenly, the car swerves to the left. Your body lurches with it, eyes opening in time to see that you're in the path of an oncoming truck, which honks in a scattered, panicked pattern. The closing-in headlights reflect like lighthouses off the bonnet. The road's barrier speeds closer to the front bumper. The driver's pale, surprised face, looming above.

And Jim, grinning, grips the wheel. Hard left.

The tyres squeal terrifyingly beneath you. Jim says something in a low growl, almost lost beneath burning rubber. "Wake up."

"Jesus!" you shout. At that second, Jim yank back on to the right side of the road, slowing down. The truck roars past, horn blaring. Jim only laughs - full, wild, echoing. Like a child at play.

The whole ordeal lasts seconds. Yet, your heart pounds, head thumps, breaths escape you in heavy gasps. The truck recedes into the ether in the wing mirror. Then, calm, silent night, broken only by Jim's deep laugh and the quite radio.