I watched the movie 2 Days In Paris recently, check it out it’s very funny. There is a scene at Jim Morrison’s grave and a revelation about the heroine’s mother. It reminded me of the short story I wrote for the story slam at Brighton Fringe. It probably won’t get another airing so I’ve posted it here. I hope  Doors fans enjoy it – and no offence intended. It’s called The Door. 

The Door by Erinna Mettler

 

He sauntered into my life in 1986, through the saloon doors of the King’s Head like a cowboy on acid. Silence reigned as the regulars took in his leather trousers and huge mirrored sunglasses.

‘Hello I love you,’ he purred, his accent Pontefract California ‘won’t you tell me your name?’

I couldn’t help but smile.

‘What can I get you?’  I asked.

‘Whiskey,’ he said pulling a fiver from his back pocket, ‘and a packet of cheese and onion.’

His name was Gary but they called him Liz (after The Lizard King).  He was Jim Morrison in a Doors tribute act.

‘Where’s the rest of the band?’

‘I’m solo.’

‘So, you’re just a door then?’

 

He told me my arms were wicked and my legs were long. He had a lop-sided smile and no place to go so I took him home. When he finally took his shades off his eyes were violet. Touch me babe he said. He kissed me and said he could feel his mojo rising and I could feel it too. In fact his mojo rose very well and it stayed risen, for hours, so I let Liz stay – just for one night – but one night turned into nights and nights into weeks and, well, lust merged with love.

 

I worked at the pub by night and studied during the day. Liz had dropped out of art school and there wasn’t much call for a solo Jim Morrison in Ponte so he mainly lounged around the flat all day eating my food and drinking whisky. He painted enormous pictures of native Americans and read Aldous Huxley. As you might have gathered he was a bit Jim Morrison obsessed. Most of what he said had been previously uttered by Jimbo. I thought it was cute, funny even and I didn’t always get the references, sometimes I thought he was being original. I should have known. He said that one day, when the world woke up, he’d be famous but for now he seemed content with the dole.

 

It wasn’t exactly idyllic. One day as I was cleaning I found a pair of frilly knickers down the back of the sofa. ‘Who’s are these?’

Liz stopped strumming his guitar and took the pants from my hand gave them a sniff and said, ‘Sorry Babe, shoulda tidied up.’

I wasn’t happy but Liz just smirked, ‘it’s hard being here alone all day,’ he said,’ an outsider in a lonely city. People are strange when you’re a stranger. Women are wicked when you’re alone.’

‘If they’re so wicked why do you feel the need to shag them?’

Apparently. I was too hung up on monogamy. Apparently, he wouldn’t mind if I saw someone else. He stroked my cheek and then his mojo started to rise again and well, lust merged with love.

‘Love me two times baby,’ he said, and the second time he really did ‘break on through to the other side.’

 

I took Bill home with me on Friday night just to test out the open relationship thing. Liz chased him up the garden path in his undies shouting KILL KILL KILL!

After that we agreed to be true.

I had my suspicions, a whiff of perfume in the bedroom, a lipstick smeared cigarette in the ashtray. He was exploring his feminine side, apparently.

 

Then Liz got a booking. A week-long Doors convention in Rhyll. I wanted to go with him but he said he’d be nervous with me in the audience; the spirit of Jimbo wouldn’t be able to take full possession. Two days after he left I saw him in town with one of the strippers from the Pussy-cat Club. I think her name was Pamela. It was raining. It had rained all day. She stopped to put up an umbrella. I said Hello as I rushed past. Liz just stared ahead through his shades.

‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘No-one Baby’ I heard him say, ‘no-one.’

He came home that night shamefaced offering flowers and lambrusco.

‘Sorry Babe,’ he said, ‘you’re my old lady. I’m never gonna stray again. I’m gonna love you till the heavens stop the rain.’

It was still raining. I could hear it beating a rhythm on the window. Don’t you listen don’t you listen don’t you listen.

He cried and held my hand.

‘Please Babe, I really need you.’

He almost had me, with his mojo and his razor wet cheekbones.

‘You can stay’ I said, ‘but no more bullshit.’

He held me tight.

‘Thank you babe. I’m not real enough without you,’ he whispered, ‘you make me real – you make me feel like lovers feel.’

I froze.

‘Morrison?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t help myself.’

Poor Liz, he was looking for the doors of perception, but all I could do was show him mine.

This is the end.

 

 

 

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