he had a few things to sort out

I

I moved to L.A., played drums in a band, and met Itzhak Grossman, who said he discovered The Doors.

“Morrison was a drunk,” he said. “Had issues with his mother. I came along and told him, you’re a singer. Sing. That shut him up…”

Itzhak was a fraud, like so many. Always held court in his west L.A. digs. Denied his homosexuality. Preferred the company of wealthy, bed-ridden women, who always found him “charming” and “gentlemanly.” Wore silk shirts and scarves. Drank Dom Perigon. Smoked Dunhills. Wore Rayban shades, even when it rained. Once showed me an autographed photograph of Andy Warhol. Later, he admitted to forging the signature during one of his infamous drinking binges.

“I’m looking for my fifteen minutes, too, you know,” he said. “I, of all people, deserve it.”

One day, Itzhak was found in his apartment by one of his short-time companions.

He’d hung himself using the leather laces from his ankle braces.

There was a note found on the coffee table that said simply, “I was born. Now I’m sixty. God, please have mercy on my poor soul.”

II

They came by the half dozen in the rain to remember him.

As I was paying my respects, a young man in baggy jeans and an oversized diamond earring in one ear settled next to me.

“He had a way of caressing you before breaking you,” said the young man. “That was his aesthetic.”

“Mmm,” I said.

“When I first met him, I was kind of in a state of terror and confusion…and by week’s end, I sort of started to enjoy it… I don’t know what that says about my craziness or sense of appetite.”

“Hmm…”

“Did you know him well?”

“No,” I said. “You?”

He weighed his response carefully. “We were a complicated couple… fire and fire makes more fire…always torn…between what our hearts wanted and needed…But, as they say, it’s not whether you fall down, it’s getting back up off the floor that matters…and, believe me, we saw many floors…”

The young man had to pause momentarily to bite down on his lower lip to keep himself from unraveling. “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” he said, wandering toward the exit, leaving me alone.

I looked at my watch. I was late for my anatomy lesson with a lonely, fair-haired Chealsea Girl who had a glamour of her own and perfect posture.

Walking outside, I noticed the young man sitting cross-legged under a Dogwood tree, reciting a prayer. I heard him say the words “strength” and “honor” and the phrase “you never played chess with your life,” and then he rose and disappeared around the corner.

III

It was just past noon when I arrived at my Chelsea Girl’s townhome, and after tasting her Shiraz-flavored lips, I felt something sweep out of me.

And in an instant, I became incredibly sick and almost blacked out, trying to figure out what my Chelsea Girl was getting ready to do.