BIRTHDAY BOY


Part II.

Ten years later, on the night of October 8, I found myself driving north on California's Pacific Coast Highway. Although I desperately needed a drink, I resisted. Didn't want to break my pact with Sonia and didn't want to drink myself into oblivion. Wanted to remain awake and get through this nerve-wracking 40th birthday as fast as I possibly could—ridiculous.

When you're a kid you can't wait for Christmas morning. Speed up, speed up, speed up. When you get older, you dread time's passing—slow down, slow down, slow down. Stupid. Arrogant. Time moves at its own pace.

I drove too fast between Santa Monica and Malibu, slowed down for Malibu itself, stepped on the gas, heading north, watching the dashboard clock, listening to a tape of the Eagles singing, "Take It Easy."

That helped. "Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy." I liked that. Calmed me down a bit. Tim didn't hang in there. I will. Thirty-nine will pass, 40 will arrive, everything will be okay. Five minutes to twelve. I rewound the tape and played "Take It Easy" for the fifth time.

Sonia loves you. Her son loves you. You've been working hard and well. You haven't gotten drunk in five years. People like your writing, respect you, celebrate you in public, ask your opinion, give you awards. Hang in, hang on, don't hang it up. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. Pass Go. Don't stop for a drink. And don't panic.

God bless Tim, poor baby. Died at 28. His mother drilled it into him, "So beautiful, so talented, what a shame. You'll die young, like a poet. I feel it in my heart. Poets die young."

Well, hello. Can't disappoint Mummy Dearest, can we?

Jesus.

He was worth so much more than I, the most creative, exciting, beautiful person I ever met. Talented, imaginative, the embodiment of music itself. Too much alcohol. Too much heroin. Staggered up the stairs, missed the door to his own apartment, lurched to the next flight, was carried back by the man who had given him the heroin, tumbled into his living room, crashed to the floor, whispered, "Bye-bye, baby." They left him on his bed to "sleep it off." Coma, slow cessation, fade to black. Gone.

So many friends and acquaintances. Timmy. Jimi. Janis. Jim Morrison. Tim Hardin, Cass Elliot. They just kept falling.

Why them? They were the greats of our time. Why not me?

Take it easy, man. Open the window. Feel the wind, smell the sea breeze, look at the stars and the night, look at that glorious moonlight spread across the ocean. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. Not yet.

Purpose. Is there a purpose inherent in survival? Maybe. Doesn't matter. Seek it, even if you can't find it. So what if you don't discover it. Create it. Yes, the whole thing's meaningless. A dance, a show, a leela. So what if you gotta generate all the meaning yourself. Do it. Don't give up and don't give in. Keep on truckin'.

Why?

I don't know. Better than pitching horse shoes.

* * *

Salmon, rice, snowpeas, salad. Water in crystal glasses. Candlelight, white tablecloth, soft violin music, Sonia's brown eyes bright and loving.
She raised her glass. "How do you feel?"

"Good. I feel good. A lot of confusion's gone. Writing's going well. The music's good. Doesn't matter about losing a little hair on top. Nice beard, eh?"

We chuckled and raised our glasses.

"Happy 50th," Sonia smiled.

"Thank you, love. Happy 50th!"