Return of the Lizard King - Jacob Long (classic books for 12 year olds txt) 📗

It was night when I first heard the voice. I couldn’t sleep and was just lying there in bed when the woman spoke to me, like an angel in the night. My first inclination was to look over at my wife and move my ear closer to see if I could hear her mutter again. But the voice resounded and her lips didn’t move.
“Open his eyes.” It said
A part of me was afraid. “What?” I asked to the darkness.
“Set him free…”
“What? That’s not a help!”
My wife stirred in her sleep and rolled over, eyes squinting in the meager light to study my face. “What are you talking about? You talking to me?”
“No, I was—“I stopped short. Would she—could she possibly understand?
No time to ponder it. All at once there was the drumming; rhythmic, otherworldly drumming. Four beats per measure, and then bass, strings, and keyboard joined in. I knew the tune well. How could I not? It was derived from the Native American tribal dance of my ancestors. Like a puppet, I slipped from under the sheets to investigate the noise. I can’t even remember the feeling of the cold hardwood under my feet. Maybe that’s because they weren’t touching the floor as I drifted like a wraith, drawn by the beat.
As I approached the living room of my little apartment the music became louder, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest along with the drums. The energy of the moment took over. I started bobbing my head and my right foot dominated the other. An astral red glow radiated from the living room and shadows danced against the walls; leaping and throwing their hands in the air. But there was no sound. No footfalls on the carpet as the vaporous beings landed.
Not walking now, but dancing, I trotted to the doorway. There I gazed upon an awesome sight. Indians, just like myself, danced in traditional garb around a strange, bright red light. The light was almost blinding, and I couldn’t discern the source of it, but in my heart I felt that it was nothing of this world.
As I stood rooted to the floor I came to yet another startling revelation. Among the dancing Navaho, another figure shook, and leapt and danced. This strange man wore a more modern wardrobe. His hair was long, dark, and wavy and he was wearing a Native American-style vest over a black, long-sleeved button-up. Tight leather draped down his legs to a pair of brown loafers.
The music still pounding in my ears, conquering my every thought, I joined the procession, dancing as well as I could remember from my younger days. I’d long since given up being a religious man, but even in a dream I had to admit there was something…spiritual…about the experience. I became lost in a trance and soon light and time held no meaning. Before I even understood what was happening, the music began to die away, and with it, my daze. The piercing light dimmed to nothing and the Indian ancestors walked away, fading into the walls, but still he remained.
Normal darkness returned to the room and I clicked the living room light on. Still standing there, as real as anything else in the room, was Jim Morrison. The Lizard King appeared as confused as I was; eyes scanning every inch of his new surroundings with listless eyes. They finally focused on me, staring blankly with an unintelligent look on my face.
He sighed, plopped himself down on my couch, and said “This isn’t one of my usual fantasies.”
“Fantasies?” I asked.
“Yeah. This is still heaven, isn’t it?”
I shook my head numbly. “No, this is Albuquerque.”
Morrison raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe me. “Ah, of course it is.”
“Am I supposed to open your eyes?” I asked.
Jim didn’t seem to understand. “What?”
I pointed up at my bedroom. “The voice I heard told me to ‘open his eyes’ and then you showed up.”
He was silent for a time, considering. “Well it couldn’t have been talking about me. My eyes don’t need any opening.”
“You’ve gotta be here for a reason!”
“Look, I’d love to help, but I don’t know what it’s talking about!”
I couldn’t let him shrug me off. “You’re a ghost; maybe you have some unfinished business? You always wanted to be accepted as a poet.”
Morrison shot me an absurd look. “Do you…know me? How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-four,” I answered, “but I know a lot about you.”
“Oh, wow.” Morrison stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Then…what do we do?”
“Well uh…” I had to think, “We could get you signed up as a guest speaker at the university. Lorraine says they’re always looking for famous poets to read for the kids.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure they’d love to hear all about how you have a dude who’s been dead for forty years.”
“They’ll have to believe it!” I shouted. After a moment I scoffed and paced around the room, slowly. “Wow, I’m sick of doubt. I’m sick of people staring at me with dour faces from the T.V. tower.”
Morrison seemed to find glee in the fact that I could recite his poetry from memory. He closed his eyes and a large grin grew on his face. “Alright, punk. Let’s do this.”
Morrison didn’t want to sleep, despite the hour. He said he’d slept enough. I gave him paper and went back up to bed, but I had to be honest with myself; I couldn’t sleep either. After only a short while I slunk back downstairs and rejoined him. We spoke mostly about what he was writing. It all sounded fantastic to me. In the morning I would take Jim with me and try to get acceptance into the university…

My wife, Lorraine, awoke with her alarm. One large yawn and stretch and she was ready for work. Much better than I was doing, slumped over the kitchen table with my head in my arms. Jim was still writing fervently. Lorraine floated down the stairs and crossed the kitchen rather deliriously to the fridge, where she pulled a jug of coffee mate out and moseyed back over to the coffee pot. She got all the way to pouring coffee into a cup before noticing Jim Morrison’s presence in the room.
She flinched and yelped at the realization but maintained control of the cup. Jim jumped at her surprise.
“Uh h—hello.” Lorraine tried to maintain her composure.
“Sup.” Morrison replied.
“Wh—who are you?”
“Oh uh, sorry.” Jim set his pen down and stood. He wiped his hands on his pants and then offered one for a handshake. “I’m Jim.”
Lorraine shook it, giggling nervously. “Alright.” She turned to me and started shaking me awake.
I awoke with a small snort and raised my head from the table. “Uh, yeah?”
Eyes darting nervously from me to Jim, she asked, “Um, honey, who’s this?”
I took a second to assess the situation before responding. “You can see him?”
“Well he’s not exactly a ghost!”
I stood from the chair, shaking my head. “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. Jim, this is my wife, Lorraine. Lorraine, this is Jim Morrison.”
More nervous giggles. “Right. I have to go to work.”
As she left, Morrison looked at me and shrugged. I never should have expected her to understand.
“How old is your wife, man?” Jim asked.
I answered immediately. “She’s thirty-one.”
Jim laughed in mirth. “Ha ha, my man!” He held his hand in the air for a high-five.
I ignored it and jumped to the task of convincing my wife to let a dead man read poetry at her school. “Hey uh, Lorraine.” I chased her across the kitchen. “Do you think you could get Jim in to read for your class?”
She just couldn’t get over the absurdity of the situation, giggling her nervous little giggles. “Okay, right. I’ll just tell my boss a dead rock-star wants to make an appearance.”
“Come on, Lorraine. Can’t you just roll with this, for me?”
“You have to go to work too, you know.”
“I can’t go to work today! This is important!”
She held her hands up in surrender. “Alright. I’ll give it a shot. But he won’t believe me.”
“We can bring him along. He’ll have to believe it!”
Taking a page from my book, she responded, “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I can see him standing there stealing our cookies and I don’t believe it.”
Jim immediately tore his hand out of the cookie jar and jammed it back in his pocket.
I glanced at him briefly and went back to the conversation. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get dressed and then me and Jim will be ready to go anytime.” Without waiting, I bolted up the stairs and threw something respectable on as quickly as possible. Lorraine joined me later to change into her work clothes.
“Left him alone with the cookie jar?” I quipped.
“Screw the cookies,” she said. “Do you really believe that guy is Jim Morrison?”
I sighed. “Lorraine, I practically lived and breathed this guy the whole time I was a teenager. I know what Jim Morrison looks and acts like.”
Lorraine pulled a blue blouse out of the wardrobe. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll roll with this, like you say, but I still have no faith in this working.”
A short time later we were in our SUV. Lorraine was driving and I was in the passenger seat. Jim was pouting in the backseat after Lorraine made him put his seatbelt on.
No matter what Lorraine thought, I had faith in this plan. From what I remember about her telling me about the dean at her school, he’s a “miserable old fart.” Hopefully a teenager in the sixties kind of old.
We walked up to the dean’s door and Lorraine sighed. “Here goes.” She raised her fist and tapped on the fogged window.
“Come in.” the dean grumbled.
Lorraine opened the door and the three of us filed in.
“Mr. Walker, I have a poet that would like to read at one of our night sessions in the theatre.”
Walker jumped to his feet and circled his desk, offering his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s not him.” Lorraine pointed out.
Finally Jim squeezed his way into the room. His face was downturned as he dusted himself off and his hair had fallen over his eyes. When he finished dusting off his imaginary accumulation he flicked his hair back and smiled. “Hey man! I’m Jim Morrison.”
The best possible reaction I could have asked for. His mouth hung open.
Jim proceeded to shake his hand. “Looks like you recognize me. Good. This would have been really difficult otherwise.” Jim shook his head and sat down in one of the chairs across from the dean’s.
The dean was still speechless. He turned to Lorraine for answers. “Wha…wha--?“
Lorraine just shrugged.
“Divine intervention, dean.” I put in.
The dean scoffed, shaking his head. He walked back over to his desk and sat down, staring hard at Jim. “No. No way. I don’t believe it.”
I jumped right in, plopping into the other