FUGUE # 13, Spring/Summer 1996
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Something sailed over my head and fell in a heap on the floor. It was Sid's blue velour shirt. Then came the clank of his concho belt, sailing after his shirt, and then his empty Levis. I turned and saw Buck with his arms wrapped around Sid. Sid's thin bare arms and legs flailed. Out in the darkened half-circle of lounge sat the spectators, rigid with silence, while on the lighted stage Sid was writhing in Buck's armlock, jabbering, pouring out his frantic fulminations and obscenities in a hot river of voice without sense or connection. The club owner bustled up. "Get him out of here. All of you clear out. Call it a night." "Wrap a blanket around him," said Buck, tightening his grip as Sid fought and tried to bite him, "and we'll take him up to the emergency room." From then on it was like looking into one of those revolving mirrored balls that spin overhead and reflect the light in brilliant fragments. Somebody brought a blanket, yes. The lights in the lounge had been turned up. "Nothing to worry about," the club owner was assuring folks. "This band is from the lower forty-eight, and one of them's just got a little substance problem." Calvin must have gone to bring our rented van around, because he was back on stage and helping Buck propel Sid toward the door. Sid turned his head and saw me, "Scavenging bitch," he said, and bared his teeth at me. Calvin pulled a corner of the blanket over his face, and out they staggered, two guys holding up the blanket-wrapped third, and I realized I was still standing behind my keyboard in my red fringed suede, as much a spectacle as though I were naked myself. Sharon-what's-her-face was tugging at my hand. "Let's try to catch a ride home," she urged. And that was that? whispers Jamie as distinctly as though she were as present in this haunted attic bedroom as she was that other night. No, hell no, that wasn't that. At the time of Janis Joplin's death, she had quieted down 24