Chapter Seven - Tom McParland

           I am Jim. They call me James or Jimmy, but my name is Jim. I come from places unknown. A town from middle America somewhere and how I ended up on this God-forsaken east coast I haven’t the slightest clue. The people on this side of the world walk in the shadow of experience. They don’t know what it is to live, to be alive. Thousands of them with their suits and ties, their uniforms of conformity. I am not one to follow, nor one to lead either. I am the Shaman, the spiritual guide to a heightened sense of self.
           So here I sit on this bus, this “blue bus.” No, the color isn’t actually blue but from the expressions on the sea of faces I see before me I certainly don’t see any signs of real life. All of them are “blue” in one sense or another. They stare at me thinking, their minds turn on me as the engine rolls over in this giant beast. The bus begins to move, out the station, and along the vast highway. Signs of different colors fly past displaying, warnings, markings, and destinations. “Driver where you takin’ us.”
           The destination of my choosing is Los Angeles, but this bus ends its journey at San Fran. I’m headed for the City of Angles to meet my fellow band mates at the Whisky A-Go-Go. The Whisky is a small dive of a joint on the Sunset Strip; my band mates and I, who call us The Doors, are scheduled to play there. We are called the Doors because “there are things known and things unknown, in between there are the Doors.” The Doors of perception, the doors of reason, it is not our duty to give name to the gateway. We merely open it so that others may walk through.
           Like I told you earlier, I come from places unknown. While my compatriots of musical order and chaos come from places known. Or at least they think they do. Robbie, Ray, and John on guitar, keyboard, and drums respectively bring together pure, melodic sounds to my words. We are meeting a record producer who agreed to see us perform. Ray suggested that we see the record man. I’m not so thrilled. All these producers are the same they only want one thing, money. Producers are the snakes “…the snake he’s long…seven miles…ride the snake…baby…to the lake…the ancient lake-yeah.” These reptiles of the music world constrict and poison the feelings of the artists with fangs of greed. I suppose this poison is a necessary one, so that the blind masses to take my journey of exploration and imagination. It is a path that everyone can travel alone but for some reason or another they choose the Doors as their spirit guide.
           The spirits upon this bus reek of gloom and doom. I hear scattered conversations carried on by these hopeless souls. One girl, talks of her soldier boyfriend who was off fighting the war in the far away land. He is one of many. Sent there with a prejudice and a gun. This boy is one of thousands of the faceless, sheep shroud in green wool. Nameless and unknown to the inhabitants of that dark jungle. “Unborn-living…living-dead…Bullet strikes the helmet’s head…and…it’s all over…for the…Unknown Soldier…yeah.” This soldier’s girl speaks of a loss that can never be recovered. She has yet to realize why had to die in those distant woods. I wonder if he even knows. Did he perish because of a fear, a dream, and an ideology? Who knows. When will these fools think for themselves? If a lunatic on the street tells you to murder, do you? What if that lunatic wears fatigues and medals? What’s the difference? That’s the problem, my friends, with living and not being alive. You’re susceptible to the poison of power. Beware; the poison of control for once it takes hold there is no anti-venom.
           As the bus ventures further into the vast nothingness of America’s heartland, storm clouds materialize overhead. Darkness ensues our craft and the heavens begin to cry. The crowd spots a hitchhiker by the side of the road. They beg the driver to pick him up; I disagree. Who knows what kind of madman is lurking in these highways. They stare at me with cold eyes as if I was a child. Somehow the argument that “We can’t leave a man alone in the rain,” takes precedent over our own safety. Brakes screech to a halt, the bus door opens with sub-conscious hesitation; the strange character boards. He is now engulfed in our presence. He does not give a name. He only says that he is traveling to California to become a rock-star. The man silently takes the adjacent seat in front of me. At least now I can keep my eye on him. I spy his duffel bag, embroidered are the initials “C.M.” “Riders on the storm…riders on the storm…take a long holiday…let your children play...if you give this man a ride…sweet family will die…riders on the storm.”
           The man assumes a mischievous smile as we drive further into the desert. He remains speechless despite several attempts by other passengers to converse with him. There is something about the desert that draws him. In that sense he is not unlike me. I love the desert; it has certain mysticism about it. I’m not quite sure why it fascinates me so. Possibly it’s because this emptiness of sand was once an ocean teaming with life. Or maybe it’s that the desert never stays stagnant it is always changing. Much like the world around me.
           We have now left the desert far behind us. The bus begins to enter its stop in San Fran. I see loved ones, friends, and family members awaiting our arrival. An older woman, in her early forties, catches my eye. She has a vague familiarity about her.
           Her voice cries out “Jimmy, Jimmy, It’s so good to see you.”
           “How was the summer at your grandmothers?”
           “Fine,” I said
           “Good.”
           “Hey the Doors are playing at the Whiskey. Can I go se them when we get to L.A. tomorrow?” I asked.
           “Absolutely not, you’re only fifteen!” she said.
           “Now grab your bags and let’s go.”

Last update: Sunday, December 16, 2001 at 3:46:26 PM.