Death makes angels of us all
And gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
Ryan and I were flipping and flopping back to the Lifeguard break room, discussing Jim Morrison and The Doors. "Jim was an amazing poet," he remarked with casual authority. I agreed out loud, yet held back the relevant anecdote that came to mind. If only he knew...it was right above our heads! At that very moment! My mind's eye looked with a twinkle to the high, vaulted ceiling.
Allow me to explain:
In that break room fifteen minutes earlier, we had been doing the very same thing. I had brought John Densmore's biography to work, and Ryan, an apparently huge fan, had taken notice. After a bit of erudite and "far-out" discussion, my long standing conviction that Ryan is a pothead was all but confirmed (for the record, I'm not) and it was once again time to go back to guarding the lives of some chronically boring swimmers. At least "Riders on the Storm" decided to come on the radio right there and then.
Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown
You see, Jim Morrison's poetry had risen again on the crest of a rooftop at 1 AM the day before, beating the sun by a wide summer margin. It had been printed in dark redolent Sharpie ink, gleaming like an oil slick with hidden color. The pair responsible had first huddled at the foot of the building in the shadow of a square brick pillar, sick with dread at the sounds of a mysterious driver circling in to park only 20 feet away. A car door had been opened and then slammed shut like a guillotine. In a shocking silence, no investigative footsteps had followed up the door's sequence. The vehicle of panic, still a sight unseen, departed smoothly five minutes later into the dark as mysteriously as it had come. I didn't relay this to Ryan.
I was proud of myself, but still scared of those sweeping headlights.