Back Stage Pass

My drummer was sitting in the corner, nursing his second bottle of whiskey, and mourning the loss of his left eye in an ill-advised bar fight. My bass player was dead, or asleep, I couldn't tell. I was sitting next to a girl who said she was twenty, but she could have been twelve. My wife was in Milwaukee raising two kids she claims are mine, I wouldn't know, and to tell the truth don't much care although sometimes I wish I did. I'm hungry, she said, and yawned. There's food over there somewhere, I said. You're not as interesting as I thought you would be. Life's a bitch. It's not that bad. Do you want a blow job? I thought I wasn't interesting. I guess you're interesting enough. See if you can raise him from the dead. She tried. He didn't even twitch. Maybe he is dead, I said, and threw a full can of Budweiser at his head. Fuck, he said, and rolled over. At least he isn't dead, she said. He's a fine bass player but he can't drink worth a shit. He's kind of cute. Come here, I said and she did. I put my arm around her and said let me tell you a story about the night I wrote a song with Dylan but I couldn't remember the good parts. I should just go home. You're probably right, I said, and away she reluctantly went.