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"Jerry Garcia's missing a finger. That's why he can play positions
that nobody else even thinks about," Dudley says and tosses
down another Kamikaze. The band has been on break and the absence
of ear-splitting noise has provoked Dudley to start talking
again. For Brewskie, the missing finger is an intriguing notion
and he lifts his eyes toward the smoke-stained plaster near
the ceiling.
"Kind of
like having some emptiness built into his music--like zen," he says.
The band is returning from its break. The keyboard player is doing
something really weird with the sound system--talking from the deepest
part of his voice into over-kill reverb, saying, "Get up. Get up
on your feet. Get ready for the FUNK," and he sounds like the Devil
himself.
"I don't
like that. I wish he'd stop," says Hialeah, putting her hands over
her ears.
Jerry Garcia
walks in through the back wall. He is almost substantial. He carries
his guitar. Looking holy and sanctified, he casts his fire-filled
eyes around the bar and begins to play. From the empty space where
his finger used to be, spring samurai warriors. They carry trays
of sushi which is still alive and squirming ever so gently. The
samurai wear silk baseball jackets with "NISSAN" embroidered into
their backs. They begin to mingle in the crowd asking all the girls
for their phone numbers.
Garcia gets
uncomfortable with the whole tawdry spectacle and changes the key.
Tennessee--hound dogs, moonshine liquor, and guns. Emperor Tojo
lays a gray plastic pistol case on the table between Brewskie and
Hialeah. She doesn't seem to realize that the efficient looking,
shock absorbing case is meant for carrying a pistol but Brewskie
does. Garcia is completely gone now, leaving only the ghost of the
space where his finger used to be. -- From the "Lost Weekend."
For the whole story, click here.
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