Rough night, police called on Hendrix and PacMan, possession of …
I don’t even know yet that the police couldn’t care less where I was…
So here I am mumbling, stumbling and tumbling through that graveyard by CVS, like a homicidal drifter always looking over their shoulder trying to stay clear from the street, walking from the Village to the Park at two in the morning, I quickly glance to the right, to the road, always to see if someone will pick me up, friends or cops, and the whole time I’m cursing the PacMan for being here one night and already Hendrix’s life is probably ruined.
I gotta think FAST, you know? I’m on the run, a fugitive of the law, I’m DARTING between tombstones, sweating, crouching behind the grave of Henry White (Rest in Peace, I promised him while I was hiding that if I got away from this scot-free I would visit him the next day). The whole time I’m waiting for a platoon of cop cars, a helicopter, a local news team, all of them going to hell and back searching for me. I peer over the top of the tombstone and look around, to the street straight ahead, and a long hard look at those trees to make sure a SWAT team isn’t hiding in this very spot! It’s clear, so I wipe the dirt and ashes of old folks off my knees and I continue my journey, I feel like the High Plains Drifter. I would find out the next day that I was really Don Quixote, with all these fears being hallucinations, those dead people were probably laughing at me as I cowered in fear with my back and head against their name, Ha! Jokes on me, they’re dead, they don’t have to worry about the police.
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