Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife (38 page)

Doc Holliday waved a proprietary hand across the landscape. The Jurassic swamp was now far behind them, the sun was up, and the dinosaurs and weird scenes in the old mansion were diminishing in substance like the black gossamer of a fading nightmare. “Behold the Great River, my boy. Some will tell you that this is the genuine River Styx, the Central Transit of the True Hereafter. And who knows? Maybe they’re right. You’ve never happened to find yourself on the Great River before, have you?”

Doc had decided that Jim needed to rest up after his trek through the swamp, and he had taken the helm of the boat while Jim lazed on the seat cushions in the stern of the launch, drinking and reflecting on how Doc cut something of an incongruous maritime figure, even in the context of this putative River Styx. His filthy, swamp-stained duster coat had been discarded, and he stood behind the wooden wheel in his slouch hat, ruffled shirt, and brocade vest, the skirt of his long gunman’s frock coat whipping in the morning slipstream, as though he’d been displaced from another movie entirely. The elegant motor launch, with its varnished timbers and brass hardware, made a brisk twenty knots, its bow slicing a perfect V wave in the untroubled surface of the water as Doc carefully maintained a course a little to the left of the river’s exact center. Jim took a drink, silently conceding that the legendary pistoleer could maintain a polished dandy’s assurance and a stoned killer’s certainty, no matter what the situation. He shook his head in answer to Doc’s question.

“I can’t remember being on the river, but then again, I still don’t remember too much about too much. For all I know, I could have been running up and down this stretch of Styx like a full-time pirate.”

Jim was growing a little irritated with the mess that was his memory. It had been bad enough when he’d been traveling alone, avoiding man-eating plants or fending off alien proctologists. Now that he seemed, for the present, to be running with Doc Holliday, he was forced to play novice to Doc’s all-knowing mentor. It made for an irksome inequality in their relationship.

“They don’t have too many pirates in this stretch of Styx. They mainly stay downstream, in the delta beyond the swamps, where the pickings are riper. This bit of the Great River is mainly for relaxing and admiring.”

At least Jim was starting to feel alcohol-relaxed, which made Doc’s geography lesson a little more palatable. He’d discovered that Doc had an entire marine cocktail cabinet in the form of a roomy ice chest stuffed with chilled beverages. With a tall green condensation-wet liter of Chinese Tiger beer augmenting his original bourbon, Jim was also doing his fair share of admiring. As Richard Nixon might have said, it certainly was a Great River, a great blue-graygreen, planet-scale artery of slow-flowing water, worthy of landscape paintings in styles from Rousseau to Turner. It flowed broad and smooth, with darker, moss-green rainforest overhanging each spacious bank, combining all the best features of the Mississippi, the Amazon, the Mekong, and the Zambezi. Somewhere inland, in the deep jungle, distant drums beat with a hollow and languorous baritone sensuality. Not drums of warfare or conflict, not the kind of drums that brought a man out in a cold sweat when they stopped, these were the drums of a slow ecstatic ritual in the name of some benignly sexual earth goddess who could make her followers understand that the Afterlife, far from being a shadowy projection of the mortality that had gone before, was actually a stripping of limitations, a removal of blinders and restraints.

The distant drums may have provided the sound, but what was left of Jim’s poetic instincts told him that the river itself pulsed like a mighty hidden heart, from which all surrounding life emanated. It was the energy source of the monkeys who howled in the forest canopies and the thousands of parrots that would suddenly take to the air in brilliant multicolored clouds. It was the yellow light in the eyes of the black panther that slipped along a hunting trail, just
yards in from the riverbank; it was what moved the cranes and kingfishers that darted in the shallows while hippos wallowed in the deeper waters. That so much vibrant life could exist in a place beyond death had Jim totally convinced that the Great River was more than just the creation of some master illusionist. If it hadn’t been for recent events, Jim would have found the situation primally idyllic. Unfortunately, drink as he might, he couldn’t altogether shake the impact of all the recent nightshade images. They might fade with the coming of the sun, but they refused to depart completely.

“It was kinda weird back there, Doc. One strange gold mine, that old house.”

Doc didn’t turn or take his eyes off the river. “I long ago gave up making judgments about what’s weird and what isn’t.”

“It seems like it’s going to be the way I end up, though.”

“Beer-fat and sexually twisted ain’t what you call ending up. It’s nothing but one more piss stop on that lonesome highway.”

Jim took a swig of beer and chased it with a little whiskey. “That’s how I ended up on the lifeside. Fat and crazy in Paris. Except I was shooting dope instead of having some broad carve the mark of Zorro on my back with a sword. Of course, I died that time around.”

“So you’ve done that one already. You won’t be dying again. Only one per customer. That’s the rule of the universe. Unless you count the reincarnies.”

“Now time just keeps going out of joint on me.”

Doc’s shrugged, indicating that worse things could come to pass. “Do you miss it?”

“Paris or being fat?”

“Shooting dope.”

Jim shook his head. “Come to think of it, not in the least. I guess, if you die of something, it maybe cures the craving.”

“There’s still plenty of heroin here in these afterdays. A lot of those coming across in recent times seem unable to resist the temptation to reconstitute themselves as junkies. I can’t tell whether it’s a new kind of self-abasement or just old habits dying hard.”

Jim smiled wryly. “I did try it a couple of times after I got here.”

Doc turned and looked at him. “One of the things you do remember?”

“Not the where or when, but certainly the doing.”

“Not the same?”

“Some of the same seduction, but it didn’t have that way about it.”

“That way about it? That’s a goddamned tame description, even for a self-proclaimed ex-poet.”

Jim cringed slightly. “It didn’t have that big jolt; that moment when Sister Morphine makes her promise of absolute and perfect peace, and it becomes the central core of all one’s motivation. I guess, without the risk of death, a lot of the appeal goes out of it.”

Doc nodded. Now Jim was at least trying to be articulate. “So you went back to drinking?”

Jim looked at the bottle in his hand. “I guess I did.”

Doc laughed and beckoned to Jim. “Why don’t you stop drinking and take the helm for a spell so I can do some kicking back and gazing at the scenery?”

With a certain unsteadiness on Jim’s part, the two men switched positions and roles. Doc issued instructions as he settled himself in the stern. “Just keep her steady and don’t try anything fancy. All the caveats about drunk driving also apply to boats.”

Jim straightened his shoulders and gripped the wheel, attempting to act the part of the responsible helmsman. Doc rummaged in the ice chest. “All we had in my day was laudanum and opium.”

“Wasn’t that enough?”

“I kinda thought so, and so did a lot of other folks, from what I observed. In the golden days, it got so there was an opium den behind just about every laundry and chop suey joint from one end of the Santa Fe Trail to the other. And the shit they had back then, my boy, you wouldn’t have believed it. We had Shanghai black tar so powerful that even Curly Bill Broscius and Wes Hardin were seeing visions of the Golden Buddha. Although Curly Bill, who was a fool at the best of times, would usually have to go and try to shoot out the goddamned moon, braying like an ass and claiming the Buddha made him do it.”

“Is it true that Wes Hardin shot a man for snoring?”

“That’s how the story goes. But I wasn’t there, so I could hardly say for sure. I do know that Mr. Hardin was so all-out sociopathic that he’d kill his fellow man without even the courtesy of an excuse. A less oft-told tale is the one about how he carved a whore to dog meat for laughing at the size of his less-than-magnificent penis. She was a Hungarian harlot who called herself Magda, generous of mouth and thigh, but a little short on diplomacy when it came to what she found funny. That such a notorious desperado should be
hung like a hamster was just too much for her, and I fear her amusement cost her dear.”

“You were there for that one?”

“Indeed I was, Jim Morrison, indeed I was. And an unpleasantly bloody business it was, too. I found myself tempted to call the son of a bitch out on the matter. I liked Magda, but sadly I didn’t like the odds. Mr. John Wesley Hardin was pure, true, and deadly, and he had an arrangement with a backshooter who went by the name of Nathan Charlie Christmas to give him an extra edge if confronted by the likes of me. I feared he would have bested me, so poor Magda went unavenged. Such is too often the way with whores, particularly on the frontier. I believe Mr. Clint Eastwood made a film about a similar incident.”

“The Mammal with No Name told stories like that.”

“He most probably would. His name was Billy Blue Perkins and he had a mean and violent reputation, all through New Mexico and well across the border, for being a nasty homicidal drunk. I never met the man lifeside that I recall, but I saw a wanted poster for him once after he and his jolly saucy crew had raped and killed some nuns at a wedding party. Funny thing, he kinda looked similar to how he looks now. Kinda weasely of face, if you know what I mean.”

“He’s real remorseful now. Seems to want to be eaten by a pterodactyl.”

Doc tilted his head knowingly and looked mildly contemptuous. “Not remorseful enough to let himself go all the way and be eaten, though.”

Jim had to think about this for a few minutes. Doc was emerging as a high absolutist when it came to matters of guilt and morality. “Either regret nothing or go all the way and take the beating?”

Doc nodded. “That’s always been my opinion, sir. For what small measure it may be worth.”

Jim wasn’t sure how much he agreed with Doc, but he was already a little too drunk to ponder the point. Instead, he changed the subject. “So who’s this Semple McPherson I’m going to find myself shacked up with in my relative future?”

Doc raised an amused eyebrow. “Curious?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Maybe.”

“You know her?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re not going to tell me?”

“I think it’s something you need to find out for yourself.”

“It’s seems I’m predestined to meet her, though.”

“Who the fuck knows? I’d be the last one to claim that it’s all written and unchangeable. Your timeline seems so fucked up I wouldn’t bet bookmaker odds on anything.”

Jim frowned. He was about to start worrying like a terrier at the paradoxical bone of the distortions of time and fate; but then a pleasure boat, a veritable palace in white and gold, hove into view, way ahead upriver, but coming toward them. Jim adjusted the wheel to give the larger boat a wider birth. Doc nodded his approval at the maneuver. “Stay out of her wake, boy. I don’t want to get so rocked I spill my drink.”

He coughed three or four times. Jim couldn’t figure why Doc clung to his rotting lungs. “Are you ever going to do something about that TB?”

Doc shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s like a trademark.”

As the pleasure boat came closer, Jim marveled at its strange and luxuriously complex design, somewhere between a sculpted iceberg and a floating wedding cake, and far larger than he had first imagined when he’d seen it in the distance. It loomed over the launch like a small ocean liner, but like no ocean liner Jim had ever seen. Parts of it had the appearance of being constructed from custom-fabricated, translucent gemstone crystals, purposely and chemically grown but seemingly too huge to be plausible, especially with their heavy overlay of gold filigree and their surreal engineering. From out of nowhere, the phrase “crystal ship” jumped into Jim’s mind, and reverberated in the wreckage of his memory. Where the hell had he heard that before? He glanced around to Doc. “That thing scarcely seems possible. Like it shouldn’t exist, even here.”

Doc nodded gravely. “I’ll allow you don’t see too many of those. In fact, I wasn’t even aware he did boats. He usually sticks to dry land projects.”