The doctor asked me what sort of work I perform. I think he was just making small talk so he could ogle Judith. I told him that I make hospital deliveries for Rado Labs. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us. My job is to convey radioactive materials to hospitals in the greater Chicago area. When you get riddled with cancer and all hope is gone, Rado can give you a single radium injection that gives you three months of health. Enough time to get your affairs in order and then…well, brother, then it’s all she wrote. You just bought the farm! Our sojourn on this fair planet is brief. Heh, heh, heh.”

But what I said was true, I was under pressure. Those motherfuckers at work are always expanding my area because the other drivers can’t cut the mustard. They go to old Mr. Reliable but how much can one man stand? I had made two late deliveries that week. From their point of view, you’ve got a cancer patient on the table and the surgeon and techs all in lead aprons and the conveyer and conveyance are unavoidably tied up in Chicago traffic! After I explained the situation, the ER doctor said, “Mr. Marzuki, I mistook you for an eminent physician, not a deliveryman.”

I just shrugged. “Well, Doc,” I says, “it’s a long story of coulda beens. You see, I had a misspent youth and did a lot of drugs and drinking. I was out there ripping and running. One time I took twenty hits of LSD and went into McDonald’s when the ghost of Jim Morrison came up to me, pointed his finger in my face, and said, ‘Louis, never take drugs again! Take it from one who knows.’ I told the Lizard King I would quit—gave him my word! We conversed for about an hour, talked about the Twelve Step Program and so on and then I said, ‘Jim, tell me something; what’s it like on the other side?’

“James Douglas Morrison thought this over for a moment and said, ‘It’s really great, Louie. You wouldn’t believe. I mean, it’s totally far out. Completely radical. Très bien, man. Très bien. But this is no time for you to break on though to the other side, Lou. Work your program, man.’”

The doctor said, “Was Mr. Morrison bloated, bearded, and twenty-seven, just as he died?”

I said, “No, he was at the zenith of health, thin, but dressed in sixties garb.”

Both Jude and the doctor were blown away by this little vignette, as it not only confirmed their hope for a better world after this one, but also demonstrated my special status with a legend of rock music.

The doctor looks at me and says, “That’s amazing! Bizarre, but it has the harrowing ring of utter truth. What else did he say?”