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Death.
    She winks at me
and gets some sort of expression on her face. Either a provocative look or gaspains. With her,
how could you tell and why would you want to?
    Morrison's happy
as a cocained cobra. Me, I feel like putting my head in the glove compartment and slam­ming the
lid.
    Gail shifts, eases
out the clutch and we take off smooth. No jumps or false starts. When I was driving you got the
feeling you were riding a five-dollar epilep­tic Mexican whore.
    The car runs down
the street. I think even the car is relieved now that somebody competent is behind the
wheel;
    "Jesus!" yells
Morrison suddenly, scaring the shit out of everybody. "Fire!"
    Everybody turns
and looks at him, frightened.
    "Fire!" That's me
shouting, for a few seconds even feeling the flame on my back. I'm staring at the back seat. The
idiot! I'm sliding down the other side, trip wise, mellowing out on Cream Ale. So why am I
screaming fire?
    Morrison holds up
his wine-soaked joint. "We need the secret of fire."
    "I just wet
myself" I said, looking down at my lap.
    Gail laughs. "No
you didn't. You had a bottle of something between your legs and when you moved over on the seat
it spilled. I saw it."
    "Oh," I
say.
    "You got matches?"
That was Morrison talking to the chick in back.
    Sandy starts
digging through a rabbit-fur purse she's got slung over one shoulder. Really digging deep. Must
be twenty pill bottles in there. She comes out with a silver cigarette lighter. "Will this
do?"
    "All right! All
right!" Morrison takes the lighter and fires up the joint. Has a hard time getting it lit. But
does. The sweet, tasty smell of dope fills the car.
    The chick who's
driving turns off Van Nuys onto Victory Boulevard and we start going toward Laurel Canyon. Smoke
begins filling the car. Morrison lights another joint, puffing like crazy to get it
going.
    A joint gets
passed and I take a hit, a big one.
    I'm drifting out
of my acid state, going into that speed-like energy glow that you get on the down side. I look
back at Jim. That maniac is lighting up a third joint. Enough smoke in the car to stone a troop
ship. Morrison's got to be getting a real burning glow by now, a real acid roller-coaster rip, if
he doesn't drown it completely with wine and smoke.
    I end up with two
joints in my hand, hyperventilat­ing like crazy. I pass one to Gail. She smokes weird, puffing on
it like an amateur, surrounding herself in a cloud of smoke. Doesn't matter. There's enough smoke
in the car to get the upholstery stoned.
    I suck in a wind
tunnel full of smoke, look back to see how Jim is doing. He and the chick are trying to occupy
the same space in the back seat.
    Whispering secrets
to each other's tonsils with their tongues.
    There is a big
bump under Sandy's T-shirt. That bump is Morrison's hand. The squeeze that pleases.
    I sigh. Stare back
out the front window. Not going to get the good time this time around. I look over at Gail the
Whale for a second and turn away quick before I go blind.
    I wind up with two
joints, put them both in my mouth and take a hit that destroys my chances of ever becoming an
opera singer. Inside of my throat feels like a scratched record. Maybe I'll get lucky and pass
out.
    I feel something
creeping up my leg. Feels like a ta­rantula wearing overshoes trying to give me a knee
massage.
    I look down and a
hand that's probably been a tradi­tion with sailors since 1946 is creeping up toward my better
half.
    Poorly hidden
behind the smoke from two joints, I feel like crying. Take the joy sticks out, cough half a lung
out.
    "Where are we...
uuuuuh... going?" I ask, afraid to take her hand off of my leg. Touching her intention­ally would
be like kissing a mad dog.
    As the hand slides
up toward my lap, I keep creeping up the back of the seat until my head is touching the roof of
the car.
    My voice keeps
cracking. I'm as nervous as a virgin trying to give a hickey to a rattlesnake.
    "Hey!"
    It's the