A Halloween to Forget

by Tyler Carey

My shock was doubled when my offender responded, "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Are you OK?" What? This is New York, not Tulsa. Where'd this friendly nature come from? I stopped storming towards the Lower East Side, and turned around. Before me stood a gangly, skinny hippie in a pair of jeans and a south-western poncho. The collar of a tie-dye t-shirt was visible at the deep neckline of the poncho.

"I'm…I'm fine," I replied. A hippie who used the word "sir"? To me?

"I'm actually a little lost," the hippie said.

"Really?" I said. "You're blending right in, I thought."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," I said. "Where're you headed?"

"I'm looking for the NYU dorms," he said.

"Which one?" I asked. I hadn't been in the NYU dorms in years, so I doubted I could help him, but I figured it was worth a shot.

"Uh…it's the one hosting a party called…uh…well…"

"Called what, dummy?" I was getting a little tired of his wishy-washiness. Heading to a party at a dorm, not knowing which one, dragging a whole suitcase of crap around…what's with kids these days? When did I become my father?

He chuckled to himself. "You wouldn't get it."

"Get what? The name of the party? Try me."

"It's called 'trip or treat'. Ya get it?"

"'Trip or treat'? Yeah, I get it. How old do you think I am?"

"Forty."

"Forty?!? I'm twenty-eight! How old are you?"

"Eighteen. Look, I hear ya that maybe you're old enough to know what 'tripping' is, but obviously you missed out on all the jam band and hippie stuff that's popular, these days." It will forever be the curse of the young that they believe they created every bit of rebellion that they've inherited from countless generations.

"Don't treat me like an old man. I could be your older brother."

"Sure," he said, snorting a laugh. "Whatever. Later," he said, as he walked away, dragging his luggage.

I sat down on a park bench in Washington Square, watching the buskers by the fountain. Had I aged so much in just a few short years since college? Would I be so out of place if I went to a college party, these days? When did I stop being a kid, and start being one of the hopeless 9-5 commuting assholes? I looked over at the hippie walking away, under the autumn trees, going off to his party, and I thought back to a Halloween, not so long ago…

The campus itself sponsored a party that was on-par with most other college campus parties - a gymnasium full of streamers, a disc-jockey, and a big bowl of punch at the end of the hall that was just begging to be spiked. At my school, though, at that time, the students were more interested in spiking the punch with a vial of liquid LSD than a bottle of gin. I don't believe that ever actually happened, but that was the common rumor that time of year, inspired by Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. What was basically a low-rent sober sock-hop was always transformed by the students themselves. As we were mostly hippies, initiative was not generally a strong suit.

I had long black hair, then. Heck, I had hair. I also had a sloppy black cookie duster moustache. I played keyboards in a Grateful Dead cover band, and we looked and acted the part of the band as much as possible. We were just about to embark upon a new step in our psychedelic carbon-copying, by playing a set at the campus Halloween party. We would be the night's closing act. Well, there was really just a DJ for two hours, and then us, but who was counting...

The plan was to play the exact setlist, even down to rough guesstimates of song lengths, from the Dead's October 31, 1971 show. It being 1996, we played the 25th anniversary bit to the hilt. We put up trippy concert posters all over campus and town, advertising the gimmicky show. Everybody did their best to put together a costume based on their corresponding band member's dress of the day. Our lead guitarist bought a fake black beard and wig at a costume shop, to dress up like Jerry Garcia, and much of the rest of the band got ponchos and blondish brown wigs to mimic Bobby, Phil, and Bill. I didn't have to dress up much at all, already looking quite a lot like the dead's biker keyboardist, Bruce "Pigpen" McKernan. I could play a lot better, though - that was about the only difference. Wally, our bassist, pointed out that according to his library of books about the Grateful Dead, Pigpen was on hiatus at the time of the October 1971 show. Thankfully, the rest of the guys vetoed Wally's fanatic belief that I should not, therefore, play the show. We figured that even the diehard deadheads would be horribly smashed or high by the time we went on at 11 o'clock, anyway...

I was just about to leave work for the day, to get home, get wasted, and get ready for the evening show, when the dean called me into her office.

"Jack, how would you like to earn some extra money?" she asked.

"Uh...yeah, like...uh...how much?" I asked.

"A hundred dollars," she said, with a smile.

Christ, a hundred bucks! My average paycheck at that time was more like fifty. Think of the beer and weed I could buy with a hundred! I had a brief vision of being carried on a bronze throne across the quad by topless models, singing my adulations. "What do I have to do?" I asked.

"Mrs. Rothko, the mother of one of our students, needs a ride back to her home in Connecticut. She had car trouble." The dean wanted me to be a cabbie for some brat's mom? "You want me to drive some kid's mom back home? Tonight? But, it's Halloween. Why not ask her kid to do it?"

"Mrs. Rothko is the widow of a famous, wealthy investor. Our Rothko Sports Complex is named after him. It's a...um...service that we might not extend to any other parent, but we need you to drive her home."

"Um...How far away does she live?"

"About an hour." It was five o'clock. If I hustled the old broad down to Hartford, or wherever the hell she lived, I'd be back with plenty of time to get wasted before the concert. I had high ideals and priorities in those days...

"I'm on it," I said. "So, where is she?"

I found Mrs. Rothko outside, smoking a cigarette, standing next to a valise that was on wheels. She had on a pair of sunglasses, and a blue shimmery turban-style hat, which looked like something out of Sunset Boulevard. The sun was setting in the Berkshires, and I could barely make out her chiseled features in the waning light. "Are you Jack?" she asked, puffing smoke in my general direction.

"Yes, I am. Are you Mrs. Rothko?" I asked.

"Call me Madeleine," she said, extending a hand. I shook it, being careful not to crush her delicate fingers with my gigantic paw. I was built all wrong to be a keyboardist.

"I'll go get my car...uh...Madeleine. Where are we headed?"

"Greenwich."

"Greenwich, Connecticut? Why that's over two hours away from here."

She nodded. "Yes it is."

"I...I..uh...I've got to be back for a concert...to play in a concert, tonight. Maybe I should ask the Dean to find somebody else to do this."

"Oh, are you in glee club?" Mrs. Rothko asked.

"No, I'm...it's...it's a Grateful Dead cover band."

She chuckled to herself. "Charming, Jack. Which one are you?"

"Which what?" I asked.

"Which…um…Dead person?" she asked with a grin.

"The smelly one," I said.

"What time's your concert?"

"Ten-ish," I lied.

"Tell you what. If we hustle, I'll give you an extra hundred bucks over whatever the Dean's paying you."

"Well, that changes things. I'll be right back."

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"May I smoke in your car?"

"Heck, for two hundred bucks you can take a dump in it for all I care." I laughed; she didn't.

"So," I said, trying to break the silence, "What do you do for a living, Madeleine?"

Mrs. Rothko looked over at me. "Are you bored, Jack?"

I shrugged. "No. Why?"

"Why do you care what I do for a living?" she asked. "Do you need a story to keep you occupied on the drive?"

"No, I…I just figured it'd…I dunno. We're stuck in this car for another hour, so…I dunno."

Mrs. Rothko lit another cigarette. "If the dean wanted me to have a traveling companion that would serve as good conversation, she would have had one of the professors drive me home. She'd do that, you know." She blew some smoke out as she talked. "I pull that much weight."

I nodded. Wow. "Yes, Ms. Daisy," I said.

She looked over at me again and laughed. It was a braying, smoky laugh. "Now that," she said, "that's funny. That's character. I like you, Jack."

I figured I'd try again. "What's your son or daughter's name, Madeleine? I hear that they're a fellow student of mine, but I sure as heck don't know 'em."

"Oh, you probably never met the little bastard. Dwayne. Dwayne Rothko. He…His father, may God piss on his soul, and I paid a shitload of cash to get him into this dump - you know that we built the gym, right? - and from what I hear, he never goes to a goddamn class." She cracked the window, and blew some smoke outside. "Figures. Ah well, I guess I'll just have to write another check when graduation time comes around."

"That'd probably do the trick," I said, nodding.

"The really funny thing," Madeleine continued, "is that despite his lack of interest in academics, he's really taken a shine to one of his professors."

"You mean like a schoolboy crush or something?"

Madeleine laughed her throaty, smoky laugh. "Lord, I hope not. The professor's a man." She threw her lit butt out the window, no doubt causing a forest fire and a wider path of malaise and destruction in her wake. That seemed to be Madeleine's way. "No, the professor," she continued, "is one of those charming young socialist academic types who seem to have a great sway over young, malleable minds."

"Do you know which professor he is?"

"Yeah, I asked the president to fire him, while I was on campus today. Professor Scott."

"Roosevelt Scott?" I asked, surprised.

Madeleine looked at me through her almost closed eyes. "You're not one of his cabal, are you?"

I laughed. "No, no. I don't know if I'd go so far as to suggest he should be fired for his Socrates-like grasp on the young…"

"Are you a classics major?" she asked.

"Minor," I said. "But, anyway, no, one of my roommates, Wally, is a big fan of Roosevelt's. He's actually supposed to talk during our setbreak tonight."

"He's going to give a lecture…at a rock and roll show?" she asked.

"Yeah, he's done it once or twice before. Wally always invites him to stand up and talk about whatever crisis is afflicting the earth, or about some poor and downtrodden people. I think Wally thinks it adds an air of legitimacy to our hippie schtick."

"You know, Jack," Madeleine said, "I saw the Grateful Dead about a half dozen times in the late sixties and early seventies, and I never saw a windbag up there talking about the third world."

"I know." I nodded. "Wait a minute," I said, "You seemed all, I don't know, removed when I talked about being in a Dead cover band, earlier. You were a fan when you were a kid?"

Madeleine nodded. "Yes. When I was a kid. I don't begrudge you your good time now, but…well, you'll grow out of it. Everyone does."

"How do you know that?" I asked. "Who says I won't take off as a musician and be riding in the back of a Lear jet three years from now?"

"Cover bands don't make the charts, Jack. Do you really want to be a rock star?"

"I don't have any other big plans."

"You should."

"Madeleine, I don't know jack shit about computers, and it seems that the only sector that's taking off right now is technology. I'm going to graduate this coming May, and there aren't really that many opportunities for a history major with a minor in classics."

"Have you thought of grad school?" Madeleine asked.

"I have. It's a lot of money to sit in classrooms for another few years, though," I said.

"Have you thought of business? You know, sales or an internship? My late husband started in a mailroom, and built his fortune from there."

"I don't think I have that kind of initiative, ma'am."

"Excuse me!" Madeleine shrieked. "Did you just call me ma'am?"

"Uh…I'm sorry…I…I don't know where that came from…Madeleine."

She started to cry. "Do you think I'm some sort of old broad…some old widow who deserves your pity?"

"No! No, no. I…I honestly don't know where that came from," I said.

Madeleine sniffed back some tears. "Do you think me unattractive, Jack?"

"Not at all," I said, trying to politely appraise her, without seeming lecherous. "You…you're a beautiful woman! How old are you? Forty?"

She punched me. Not some damsel-in-distress slap on the cheek, but a haymaker that would have made Muhammad Ali proud. It was then that I learned that asking a woman of fifty-something if she was forty didn't register as a compliment. "Do you want to fuck me, Jack?"

"Huh?"

"Am I that hideous that you wouldn't entertain the notion of making love to me?"

"Uh…no…it's just that…well, all I was supposed to do was drive you home…I tried to make some conversation and…now I fucked things up…"

Madeleine sniffed back a tear and laughed to herself. "Yeah, you would make a crappy gigolo."

"Well," I said, "that's one thing we can scratch off my list of potential careers…"

"Why don't you pull over? I have to get myself together."

"Okay." We were headed down Route 8, through the backwoods of Northwestern Connecticut. Soon, we'd hit Torrington, and then we'd still have almost another hour until we reached Greenwich. I got out to stretch my legs, while Madeleine looked herself over in her compact, and sniffled her remaining tears away.

I don't know why the Dean had blatantly lied to me about how long this little trip would be. We were parked on the side of the highway, along a twisty stretch that was dotted only with copses of evergreens, and the occasional maple, which had lost its leaves over the past few weeks. I was tempted to roll a pinner joint and smoke it. I did a lot of dumb shit, then. Considering the idea of smoking a joint while driving a dignitary from my college home was only one of the many lapses of judgment I had. One of my bigger lapses of judgment was about to happen.

"Jack?" I heard Madeleine ask from the passenger seat. "Can you come here, Jack?"

I walked around to her side of the car. "Yeah?"

She had opened her door, and was sitting in the most seductive pose a woman could strike in the passenger seat of a beat-up Nissan sedan. She had a Trojan condom sitting on top her closed purse. "Get in the back seat, Jack."

Madeleine playfully slapped my shoulder. "I told you," she said, "You're no gigolo."

"Am I a decent lover?" I asked.

She nodded. "I like that you call me 'Maddy'. I had a boyfriend when I was your age who called me 'Maddy'." She smiled.

"He wrote a song for me…called 'Maddy, I'm Mad About You'. It was this ballad, like something the Byrds would have played… It was…nice." She sighed. "But, that was a long time ago."

"Oh," I said, "It couldn't have been that long ago…" I pulled myself closer to her. It was cold in the autumn night.

"Let's not go there again. Okay, Jack?" She chuckled to herself, again.

"So," I said, "I was…um…okay?"

"You've been with a woman before, right Jack?"

"Yeah."

"Not too many, I'm assuming?"

I probably blushed a little bit. "A…few…"

"Jack," Madeleine said, "one thing that you'll learn as you get a little bit older is that there really aren't 'good' or 'bad' lovers; there are just folks who've had more or less practice."

"So, I was okay?"

Madeleine sighed. "You were fine." She smiled at me, and kissed my forehead. "We better get on the road."

I looked at my watch. "Holy shit! It's almost eight!" I hiked up my pants, and slid out of the back seat of the car. "I'll never get you to Greenwich, and get back in time. Awww, Christ…"

Madeleine sat back down in the passenger seat. "Well, don't sweat that. I'm going to your concert."

"What?"

"What the hey," she said, "I haven't been to a Grateful Dead show in years."

"Really?"

"Sure. I'll get a room at one of those rustic little motor lodges in town, and head home tomorrow."

"I'll drive you!" I quickly volunteered. "Tomorrow's Friday. I don't have any classes."

"We'll see," Madeleine said. "You've already driven me around and around, today. I wouldn't want to put you out."

"It's be no trouble! No trouble at all! Nope," I said, "not at all."

I turned on the radio, but Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson" was on. I quickly shut it off, and tried to pretend like that hadn't happened.

Madeleine laughed and smiled.

I parked outside my apartment. I lived in a little complex of hovels literally right next to the campus, with Wayne, Brian, Ray, and Luke, my fellow bandmates. Our apartment was a dump. A little two-story town house with a living room and galley kitchen, as well as two bedrooms on the first floor. The rest of the bedrooms and the bathroom were upstairs. None of the rooms had been cleaned since we moved in two years, earlier. A miasma of bong water, stale beer, cheap incense, and cigarettes permeated everything - our clothes, the air, our food. I had always been proud of our little pad, until I brought Madeleine home. Sure, I'd brought a few girls over before, but most of them still lived in the dorms, so our apartment must have seemed like Trump Tower, compared to the four-people-per-room digs that they had. Madeleine, though…Madeleine was a woman of fine breeding, used to fine things. Heck, our whole place could probably fit inside her living room.

The guys were sitting on the couch, watching a porno. All of them, that is, except for Luke, our guitarist. "Ahem," I said, as I walked in, with Madeleine in tow.

"Hey, what's up?" asked Brian. He was baked.

"I…uh…are we going to get ready for the gig, soon?" I asked.

"Yeah, we're just finishing this," Wayne said.

"Can you turn that off?" I asked.

"Why?" asked Brian.

Ray clicked the stop button on the remote. "Dude," he whispered far too loudly, "He brought his mom with him. Have a little respect."

"I'm sorry," I said to Madeleine.

"That's okay," she said. "You know, you probably have a lot of work to do to get ready for the concert. I'll just head over there, and wait in the audience. Okay?"

"Uh, sure," I said. "I'm sorry."

"No, not at all."

"Say," Wayne said, "Roosevelt said he'd be here in a few minutes. He's going to help us carry our gear."

"What a nice guy," Brian said.

"Oh, I'm looking forward to seeing him, tonight!" Madeleine said, with an exceedingly phony smile.

"I'm sure you are," I said. I gave her a peck on the cheek. "See you later."

"It's at the dining commons, right?"

"Oh," I said. "That's right. Lemme give you a lift. It's got to be a half mile from here."

"No," she said. "That's okay. I could use the walk. You've been so good to me, tonight." Madeleine gave me a knowing wink and a light, velvety kiss on the lips. I nearly melted. "See you later."

"Wow, man," Brian said, as the door closed, "Your mom sure is nice. Coming to your gigs and all…my mom says my music career is a waste. I wish I had your mom." All of the guys looked at Brian like he was an idiot. It's only in reflection that I realize that he was an idiot.

"I think Jack may have just had his mom," Wayne said, followed by that annoying nasal laugh/wheeze of his.

"Where's Luke?" I asked.

"Oh," Ray said, "He took some acid around seven, and he hasn't come out of his room, yet."

"He what?"

"Yeah, he's just had Jimi Hendrix playing really softly in there since he peaked around eight. I'm starting to think that he might not be able to play, tonight."

"No shit! That was really stupid of him!" I said.

"Easy, man," Brian said. "Give the guy a break. He's just having a good time."

"Well, we're being paid to play at our campus, tonight, and we're kind of shit-out-of-luck without a lead guitarist," I said.

"Oh," Wayne said, "I got that figured out. You'll just play the lead guitar line with your right hand on the keyboards." "What?!? I don't know those licks that well."

"Aw come on," Brian said, "You expect me to play lead? I can barely play the barre chords for the rhythm part." He burped. "My mom's right…my music career isn't going anywhere…I suck. I wish I had your mom," he said to me.

By 10:30, Roosevelt still hadn't shown up. We decided to just put everything in the back of Ray's station wagon and head over, ourselves. We pulled up to the dining commons loading dock, and found Jake, one of the chefs, sitting there, smoking a joint. "What's up, brothers?" he asked. Jake was about fifty-five, and a burn-out. He was our kind of people. "You need a hand?"

"Sure thing, Jake," Ray said. Jake hopped off his chair and picked up a huge cabinet speaker.

"Your timing's perfect," Jake said. "The D.J.'s still cranking. We can start setting you up on the back of the stage while he's doing his thing."

"Cool," I said. "What are you doing here, anyway, Jake? You're here for breakfast awfully early, aren't you?"

Jake laughed. "They've got me doing security for the dance. Ain't that a hoot?" Jake flicked the cherry off his joint, and stuffed the roach in the bib pocket on his overalls.

Inside, the DJ was playing some trance music, while a light show flickered across the crowd. Most folks were in Halloween costumes - there were folks dressed as politicians (Richard Nixon was a perennial favorite), the Village People, Playboy bunnies (mostly guys), your assorted creature features (Dracula, the Wolfman, the Mummy), Mardi Gras effigies, and so on. Occasionally, you'd see something really clever (for instance, a guy dressed as Hillary Clinton, or a homemade Chewbacca costume), but by and large, it was just like any other bad Halloween party you'd ever been to. By going in the back, we'd apparently missed the Wiccan protesters outside the dining commons, voicing their discontent with Samhain being co-opted into a day of candy and pranks. I'd actually wanted to see them the most - the posters they'd hung all over campus advertising their protests had peaked my interest.

We got a disappointing surprise when we finally made it to the edge of the stage. There was Roosevelt. On stage. That lousy bum had left us high and dry, after offering to help us with our gear, and there he was, in the spotlight, rapping on about injustice while the techno played in the background. "I'm serious, folks, this November, we've got to change the status quo! Clinton is a Republican in Democrat's clothing. Have you heard the details of NAFTA? This will drive free trade out of the U.S., in the false echoes of helping the third world. The only folks who will get rich off of this will be white American businessmen. And we know what they want! Don't we?" A handful of folks who were not in costume, standing by the edge of the stage cheered. Nobody else seemed to be paying any attention.

"Hey, asshole!" I screamed over the din of the speakers. "Thanks for helping us carry our shit!"

Roosevelt apparently hadn't heard me clearly. He just nodded and gave me a thumbs up.

I shook my head, and got to work putting together my gear. The rest of the guys did the same - all except for Wayne, who just stood there, nodding his head along with everything that Roosevelt said. Ah, a true believer… I was starting to see what Madeleine had been talking about. I scanned the crowd for her, but didn't see her anywhere. She was probably leaning against the wall out front, smoking cigarettes, and laughing at the Wiccans. I chuckled to myself, as I checked the MIDI bank on my keyboard, to make sure that I had everything cued up for the gig. I taped a copy of the setlist to the side of my keyboard, and reviewed it. Lastly, I placed a copy of my Grateful Dead - Anthology I book on the floor next to where I would be sitting. I knew all of the songs backwards and forwards, but the book, which contained the keyboard arrangements and lyrics to many of the Dead's songs, served as my safety blanket. I'd heard that Bob Dylan, and even…gasp…Billy Joel did this. While I'd never own up to learning any tricks from Mr. Joel, this was a good one to adopt.

The DJ came up to us. He was a short kid with bad hair from Los Angeles who went by DJ R2D1. His real name was Jerome. "You mates bloody ready to play? How much more of this bollocks do you want me to spin?" His fake cockney accent was painful.

"We'll be all set in about five minutes," Ray said.

"It's gonna take me at least ten minutes to tune my guitar," Brian added.

"You can't tune your guitar while all this shit is playing," Wayne said. "Five minutes is fine."

"Are you telling me how to tune a guitar?" Brian asked. "You're a bassist, Wayne! What the fuck do you know about guitars?"

Wayne carefully placed his bass on the tubular aluminum stand he brought to gigs. "Look at my instrument for a second, Brian. It's called a bass guitar. It's got strings that you tune…just like a guitar guitar…"

Brian shook his head. "You don't need to act like a prick, man."

"Look!" I said. "Will you guys just chill the fuck out? Go hang out in the back with Jake or something, okay? Just mellow out."

Brian shook his head and stormed off. Ray sat down at his kit, and looked longingly at the drums. He looked up at the DJ. He looked back at his drums. Ray was probably the only guy in the band who had a real love for music - he was the only one who felt it in his blood. I always thought that he'd be the one, of all of us, to make it. Unfortunately, he died in a car wreck a few years later.

Roosevelt was no longer doing his recitation of the Village Voice letters page, and was instead talking animatedly with Wayne about the guerrillas in Chiapas. I sat at my keyboard, looking out across the audience, and only then realized that I really didn't know anyone there. Sure, there were people with whom I took classes, or maybe split a bottle of wine with every once in a while, but there really weren't any people who I felt I'd be in touch with after my rapidly approaching graduation. Of course, I'm looking at it all from seven years on, now, but I remember only a few years later, going to Ray's funeral, and how nobody really talked to each other. We weren't part of that world of pissing matches and comparing kids or jobs, yet. Most of us, it seemed, hadn't really done much of anything, by that point in time. It was readily apparent, though, even back at that Halloween, that very few of us were on a trajectory to go anywhere.

The DJ began packing up his gear. The hall was silent, except for the chatter of the audience, and Wayne and Roosevelt's far too loud discussion of the injustices under which Mumia Abu-Jamal suffered. I started tinkling away at the keys on my keyboard, awaiting Brian's return. A smattering of applause came from a corner of the audience, nearest my spot on stage. I looked down to see Madeleine squeezed in amongst some hippie-chicks. They were watching me attentively. That is exactly why I became a musician.

I figured I'd wing it, and play a little while I waited for everybody else to get their shit together. I played some simple chords, and coughed into my back-up mike. "This is a song by Bob Dylan," I said. Half the audience left right then.

They're selling postcards of the hanging,
They're painting the passports brown,
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors,
The circus is in town,

Here comes the blind commissioner,
They've got him in a trance,
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker,
The other is in his pants,

And the riot squad is restless,
They need somewhere to go,
As Lady and I look out tonight,
From Desolation Row,

I smiled at Madeleine.

"You know," a voice off to my left said, "I remember seeing Bobby Dylan play at a benefit concert for farmers, back in 1986." It was Roosevelt. I was being upstaged by Roosevelt. That prick. He was trying to steal my thunder so that he could rant about politics. I kept singing, and he just talked right over me. I tried to shoot him daggers, but he was too busy looking at his feet, trying to seem deep and ruminating. "1986 seems like such a long time ago," he said.

"It wasn't that long ago," I said, while I kept playing.

Roosevelt turned my direction. "Huh?"

"You heard me, asshole. Don't get all high and fucking mighty, acting like your some wise old sage. How old are you? Twenty-seven? You're not much older than us."

His little faction in the front row gasped and looked at me in shock, as I kept tickling the ivories, and simultaneously crucified their leader.

"Well, Jack," Roosevelt said, "That may be true, but I'm speaking from experience."

"Experience, my ass," I said, "What's your big experience in life? Five, six years does not an experienced man, make. I've got a long road to go, and so do you."

Wayne whispered to me from the side of the stage. "Jack! What are you doing?!?"

"You tell 'em, Jack!" Madeleine said from the audience.

I started singing again, but Roosevelt interrupted me. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Take our good friend Jack, here. A hippie, a pot-smoking liberal. And here he is, denouncing common sense. Just like a Clintonian Democrat."

I stopped singing. "Oh, fuck you, Roosevelt. Not everything's about politics. Did I ask you to get up on stage and interrupt me? This is about respect."

"I'm just telling the truth," Roosevelt said. "If you can't handle the truth…"

A screech erupted from the foot of the stage. "Would you shut the fuck up?" Madeleine had climbed up on stage, and was swinging at Roosevelt. "Would you stop seeding all of these minds with your lies and bullshit?" Roosevelt was dodging punches, and took off, running towards the back of the dining commons. Madeleine followed after, in tow. Jake came out of the back and, doing security as well as he could, just stood there laughing. Roosevelt and Madeleine ran right past him. I stopped playing, and quietly followed after. Very few members of the audience seemed to care that I had stopped playing. They were more interested in the Greek tragedy taking place on stage.

I walked back through the kitchen and to the loading dock, where I found Brian, completely blotto, smoking a joint the size of a handgun. Suddenly the priority of my problems shifted. "Holy shit! Are you going to be able to play? You look wrecked!"

"Whaaat?" he asked. His eyes were almost gray, they were so cloudy.

"Fuck! No we don't have any guitarists to play? Aw, jeez!"

I heard someone walk up behind me. It was Ray. "Uh, dude, the audience is getting restless. I know that you obviously got some shit going down right now, but we gotta…oh, shit, Brian?"

"Whaaat?" he asked again.

"Fuck, dude," Ray said. "We've got a bassist that hates you, me playing drums, and you on keyboards. Some band, huh?"

I shook my head. "Hold on a sec. Let me just find Madeleine, and then let's just try to do the best we can."

Ray was just staring at Brian, trying not to laugh. "I think we're going to have to scrap the whole Grateful Dead Halloween tribute."

"Yeah," I said. "I think so. You guys put your heads together about what it is you want to play."

I walked off behind the dining commons. I thought I heard a conversation coming from the parking lot. Maybe Madeleine had followed Roosevelt there and was bawling him out. I followed the mumbling to a Ford Explorer that was parked at the back of the lot. It was Roosevelt's. Even then, I found great irony in the fact that a man who loved the Earth so much drove a car that got maybe ten miles to the gallon. It sounded like they were inside, talking. One of the windows was open. No doubt, Madeleine was smoking. I walked quietly alongside the side of the SUV, hoping to overhear what they were talking about.

She was smoking alright. It was one of those after sex smokes. The two of them were half-dressed. They didn't notice me. I ducked down alongside the vehicle.

"I can't believe how much you pissed me off, before," I heard Madeleine say.

Roosevelt laughed. "Yeah, I really got your goat, huh? Was it because I interrupted that kid?"

"Who? Jack? Oh, I don't care about him." Man, that got me mad. "It was just your politics. You seem so sure of yourself."

"And that threatens you?" I heard Roosevelt ask.

"Mmmmm…maybe," Madeleine purred. A cigarette butt went flying out the window; it almost hit me. Then, I heard her start to kiss him. Then, I heard him moaning in delight.

I took a cigarette out of the soft pack in my back jeans pocket, and stood up. "Excuse me," I said. "I hate to catch you while your mouth's full, but do you have a light? No? Oh wait, I think I got one. Sorry to bug you." I smiled, and walked away, while both of them screamed in surprise.

Brian was still almost catatonic on the loading dock, as I returned to the dining commons. I took off my poncho, and laid it over him. I took the joint out of his hand and brought it in with me. With Jake doing security, I figured we'd probably be able to smoke it on stage.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Wayne asked, as I walked towards the stage.

"Outside, hanging out with your idol and the woman I slept with this afternoon. The two of them are getting it on in his SUV, if you want to go talk with him."

"What?" Wayne asked.

"Look, obviously that guy's got some characteristic that causes you and everybody else to worship him. I don't get it, but I ain't about to argue with you about it. Do you want to play some music or not?"

"Where's Brian?" Wayne asked.

"Oh, he's not gonna be playing tonight," Ray said.

"Some band," Wayne said. "What the hell are we gonna play?"

"Folks were digging that Dylan tune that Jack was laying down, before. Think we could give that a whirl?"

Wayne shrugged. "Sure. What key, Jack?"

"G."

We picked up right where I'd left off. Some of the audience even seemed to dig it.

Well, I received your letter yesterday,
About the time the doorknob broke,
When you asked me how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?

All these people that you mentioned,
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame,
I had to rearrange their faces,
And give them all another name,

Right now, I cannot read too well,
Don't send me no more letters, no,
Not unless, you mail them from,
Desolation Row

Now, as I walk downtown from Washington Square to the Bowery, to visit the watering hole that I've visited every night for the past four years, and my father visited before me, and his father before him, I realize that I am severely lacking in the ideals and energy that fueled me in those days. At times, I do look back, and think about how much fuller of a person I was then. I had opinions, and hopes for myself and for this country. Then, I saw nothing lacking in spending my afternoon protesting an oil company's overseas policies at the local Shell station. Now, I'm lucky if I feel strongly enough to vote on Election Day. Those ideals were great.

But they don't pay my bar tab.

Then again, the 9-5 doesn't really do the trick, either...