Return of the Lizard King, Jacob Long [desktop ebook reader .txt] 📗

chair. “Why not? You don’t believe you own eyes?”
“No!” the dean squealed. “Jim Morrison is dead. It’s impossible.”
Jim chimed in. “You know what, man? This kind of confuses me myself, but I’ve been thinking about it. This guy knows a lot about me. He hears this voice from beyond telling him to help me out, and then something rips me out of heaven and plops me down here, in Albuquerque, New Mexico of all places. Maybe they finally got tired of me and kicked me out, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but then he wants me to read my poetry in front of a crowd like I always wanted and it just so happens that his damn wife is the poetry teacher at your university. This is becoming a real trip.”
Everyone was silent. It seemed that neither Lorraine nor I had thought of that.
I shook my head and resumed pleading. “Even if he’s not Jim Morrison, he’s a poet and he wants to read what he’s got. Isn’t that enough?”
“Did all of that really happen?” the dean asked.
“Yeah.” I breathed.
“Well, if you wanted to market him as just another poet, why bring him to me?”
Lorraine interjected. “I think it’s important that people know who it is that they’re listening to.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. Maybe Jim’s observations had turned her around.
The dean thought about the proposal for a moment. “Alright.”
Everyone shouted “Yes!” in unison. Jim reached across the desk and shook the dean’s hand fervently. “Thanks a lot, man! This is huge.”
The dean grinned happily. “Hey, if poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel. I’d hate to be in the way of that.”
Jim blinked uncertainly a few times. “Hey man, that’s beautiful. Did you just come up with that?”
The dean shook his head. “No. There was a famous king who lived a while back. He said it.”
I smiled from ear to ear.
We left the university in Lorraine’s car. I would have to pick her up later. The poetry reading was tomorrow night, so Jim still had plenty of time to work on his material. I called in sick and spent the whole day with the lizard king.

After showing Jim around the twenty-first century (he found the T.V. remote control particularly fascinating) we were sitting in my living room, just chillin’.
“You know what Jim,” I said, “You’re totally not what I expected. I’d heard a lot of things and you’re not like that.”
Jim smiled. “Well, in your historians’ defense, I haven’t had a drink all d…Hell; I haven’t had a drink in 39 years.” Jim stood and started moseying around the room. “Man. If I hadn’t died I’d be an old man now. Then how would people remember me?”
I nodded quietly, then slapped my hand to my head and shouted, “Oh, crap!”
“What?”
“I forgot to pick Lorraine up from the school!” I bolted from the couch and made for the front door. Just then, it swung open.
“Matthew William Yahzee!” Lorraine screamed.
“Lorraine! I am so sorry. I forgot.”
“You know what Matt? Shut up! I am not surprised, not even a little bit.”
Jim excused himself and shuffled up the stairs. “I’m out.”
Lorraine watched with fiery eyes as he left.
I resumed pleading for my life. “Lorraine, I am so sorry. I just got distracted with Jim.”
“That’s why I’m not surprised! I knew you would forget and I knew that’s the exact reason you would give me!” Lorraine quieted and looked up the stairs. Then she looked back at me, and in a venomous voice added, “You remember what you said you’d do if you ever met him, right? About Pamela Courson?”
“Oh, shut up!” I shouted. “You just want me to punch him in the nose!”
“Goddamn right I do!” Lorraine pushed her way past me, plopped down on the couch and started taking off her heels.
I huffed out a mass of air and muttered, “Bitch,” under my breath. With that I left to go upstairs by Jim.
He was sitting on our bed with my iPod in his ears when I walked in. When he saw me he pulled the buds out and stood up, walking over.
“How did it go?” he asked.
Wham! I punched him square in the nose! He fell down against the floor, holding it. “Agggh! Ah man; what the hell was that for?”
I said simply, “Pamela Courson.”
Jim wasn’t mad, in fact, he seemed to understand. “Oh.”
I sighed once more and turned to leave; suddenly Jim said. “You’ve got a lot of time to think in heaven, you know.”
I stopped and turned around. “Huh?”
He looked at me with a serious, piercing gaze. “I tried to talk to her…about the way I treated her. I tried to explain things.”
“Was she mad?” I asked.
Jim scoffed. “No. She was loving, and submissive, and gracious. In heaven they fabricate whatever fantasy you want, but I didn’t want a fantasy; I wanted my Pam. I wanted to talk to her.”
“Sounds awful, being locked in a room with some shell who’s just there to tell you what you want to hear.”
Jim nodded, sniffling on blood.
“Maybe that’s how I’m really supposed to help you,” I put in.
Jim scoffed. “How could you possibly help me with that?”
“Well, down here we still go to their graves to say those kinds of things.”
Jim wiped his nose with his hand. “Forget it. It wasn’t that bad. We’ll just do this poetry thing and hope I get my ticket back upstairs.”
Jim stood and staggered out of the room. The conversation made me feel bad about the fight with Lorraine, so I walked back downstairs with him. It was too late for me, she was in the shower. I could wait; but could Jim? I had to wonder.
The rest of the day I spent my time on the computer. I advertised the ridiculous showcasing of Jim Morrison at the school. A lot of bloggers, fans, and old people tweeted, and instant messaged, and facebooked that I was crook. All I had to do was explain that it was free, so if they wanted to believe they could come see for themselves for no charge. Hours passed and I finally felt like I could relax, sipping on my coffee in an office chair. Jim was finally sleeping. I was beginning to think he didn’t need to anymore. I’d neglected Lorraine again getting caught up in the advertising.

The next day I actually went to work, I couldn’t spend all of my time with Jim, no matter how short a time that may be. He was just another person, after all. I didn’t know what he did all day, until that night.
I went home to pick him up and take him to the university after work, but he wasn’t there. Lorraine had long since gotten off work and was reading a book on the couch.
“Where’s Jim?” I asked.
She shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t know. He must have just left and never came back.”
I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “Ah god! Did you say something to him?”
She looked extremely insulted. “No! I need him at the school too, you know! I already signed him up and everything.”
I groaned and stomped to the front door. “He needs to be there by eight!” With that I slammed the door and went looking for him.
For the next two and a half hours I searched, looking in all of the places I thought he might go; bars, parks, clubs, strip joints…even the top of tall buildings and in the Mojave Desert. I couldn’t find him anywhere. Finally eight o’ clock rolled around and I drove back into town to the university.
The theatre was filled with people; handmade posters were up all over the school advertising Jim Morrison. Apparently the dean had done a little more than I thought. I’d been to these poetry things before, usually there were only about twenty people but that night it was packed. They’d run out of seats and people were standing along the walls and in between the rows. A whole column seemed dedicated to flower children.
I walked around backstage and immediately spotted Lorraine. She was standing with her arms folded and tapping her foot impatiently. When she saw me approaching she said, “Did you find him?”
I threw my hands in the air, furious. “He’s not here? Where the hell is he?”
Another half hour passed. He was supposed to go on a long time ago. Lorraine was trying to explain to the dean while some other poor poet tried to read to the insane crowd. Suddenly a bunch of wasted college kids came bursting in the back door. I took one look at them and whimpered, “Oh no.”
Staggering around at the middle of the crowd, more drunk than any of the other kids, was Jim Morrison. I walked over to him as the kids went to find seats. I hoped they didn’t start a fight when they found there were none.
“You showed up late to the show because you were drinking at a frat party?”
“Hey, man,” he slurred. “we put the posters up, didn’t we? We got done with that, and then they invited me for some drinks. Sue me.”
I pointed out at the stage. “They’re gonna start eating each other out there!” Right then I lost it and grabbed him by his shirt collar, shoving him against a girder. “You fuck up! You’re doing it again! You haven’t changed a bit, not in forty goddamned years! Miami, New Haven, St. Louis, Chicago! I’ve done everything I could to set you free but I am done! Done, do you hear me?”
Jim put an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, man. Listen.”
The crowd had started chanting “We want Jim Morrison!” and throwing things on the stage.
“They didn’t come here to see Jim Morrison. They want to see The Lizard King; they want to take a piece of him. They came here to watch me die…again.”
With that Jim left me and staggered out onto the stage. The crowd noticed him immediately and the cheering that ensued was deafening. Jim raised his arms in recognition and then pushed the other poet off the stool. The kid spit out his thanks and ran to the wings. Jim tried to sit on the stool but it took a few tries. I had to cover my eyes, I couldn’t watch.
Jim adjusted the microphone and said, “Alright everyone, quiet down, that’s enough.”
The crowd continued to shout.
“Alright, okay. Come on, calm down…Shut up!”
The crowd finally quieted.
“Damn kids.” Jim cleared his throat. “Alright. I call this Strawberry Heaven.”


From the very tip of her hair she is perfect
A beacon of light in the well of my soul
I know I can’t tear my eyes away
From her flawless skin and her soft hips at play
Won’t you stay here with me?
You know that I love you, and I know you want me
Strawberry Heaven atop emerald eyes
When she smiles I quiver, and I sulk when she cries
Yeah she’s a sweetheart,