The Place

'The Place' was one of those local, cleverly named college town bars that don't have much to look at inside. It survived by reputation, generation to generation, brother to brother, senior to freshman, and in the off college season relied on atmosphere and local characters for survival. It was your old fashioned type of establishment with a mahogany bar, a few booths and tables, and a mirror behind the bar to make the room seem larger. There was an adjoining room with a stage for local and touring bands to play. When it wasn't in use, the room was dark and closed off, the darkness spilling over into the bar. One afternoon I was sitting in the bar, I was still getting over Deidre, because doors don't close as easily as we’d like, and chapters of our lives don't end as neatly as chapters in a book. I don't remember if I was in a good mood, bad mood, I was just trying to feel something. There were only a couple other people in there, I was playing Doors song after Doors song on the jukebox. There was a guy sitting two stools down from me, he looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. The music made the place seem hopping, we were bopping around on our stools, hands and fingers tapping out the time to the music. We were both singing along. Although we were both digging the music, we hadn't said anything to each other, but if you hang out in bars long enough you’ll drink enough to talk to everybody.
“You know,” I said, to the room “I probably know the songs better than Morrison, I’ve been singing them longer.”
"You like The Doors?"
"Yeah, Morrison was great," I said. He nodded his head agreeing with my ridiculously simple assessment. "You know," I said, "I should start a band that covers Doors songs, and everybody would think they're originals, especially some of the more obscure ones. I mean I saw Blood, Sweat, and Tears a few weeks ago at Summerfest, and David Clayton-Thomas was the only original guy from the band. The band he had didn't look at all interested in the music, except to pickup a paycheck. I know some other bands from the sixties are touring again, but with Morrison dead we'll never see The Doors."
"I saw them live a couple of times back in the sixties." He said.
"Really!" I asked excitedly, "what was it like?"
"You saw Morrison up there on stage, and he was just singing those songs," He said, holding up his cigarette, punctuating each statement by stabbing it in the air. "But somehow you knew just by looking at him he was singing about existence. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I think so," I said, thinking about it for a minute, "most people don't even seem to remember them much anymore."
"It's the kinda feeling I wish I could get into my writing." He said.
"You're a writer?" I made a mental note, you never knew what form your big break would take.
"Yeah. Just a little local journalism, nothing to write home about, as it were." He said, then he looked at me "You really like The Doors?”
“Yeah! I think I can link The Doors to any modern band.”
“I bet you could!” He said, “Ray Manzarek is playing down in Chicago tomorrow night, wanna go with me?"
"Really?" I asked. "Cool, yeah, I'll go!"
"I'll meet you here tomorrow about three, all right?" He asked.
"All right! I'll be here at three!"
"Well, I gotta be going, nice talking to you." He said as he got up.
"Hey," I said, "what's your name?"
"Jim," He replied. "Weird huh?"
"Yeah, I guess." I said, puzzled why he thought it was weird.

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Chapter VI: Meeting Ray